Frowenfeld said he was glad they had done so, whereupon Aurora rose lightly, saying: 

“I go an’ sen’ her.”  She started away, but turned back to add:  “You know, ‘Sieur Frowenfel’, she say she cann’ truz nobody bud y’u.”  She ended with a low, melodious laugh, bending her joyous eyes upon the apothecary with her head dropped to one side in a way to move a heart of flint.

She turned and passed through a door, and by the same way Palmyre entered.  The philosophe came forward noiselessly and with a subdued expression, different from any Frowenfeld had ever before seen.  At the first sight of her a thrill of disrelish ran through him of which he was instantly ashamed; as she came nearer he met her with a deferential bow and the silent tender of a chair.  She sat down, and, after a moment’s pause, handed him a sealed letter.

He turned it over twice, recognized the handwriting, felt the disrelish return, and said: 

“This is addressed to yourself.”

She bowed.

“Do you know who wrote it?” he asked.

She bowed again.

“Oui, Miche.”

“You wish me to open it?  I cannot read French.”

She seemed to have some explanation to offer, but could not command the necessary English; however, with the aid of Frowenfeld’s limited guessing powers, she made him understand that the bearer of the letter to her had brought word from the writer that it was written in English purposely that M. Frowenfeld—­the only person he was willing should see it—­might read it.  Frowenfeld broke the seal and ran his eye over the writing, but remained silent.

The woman stirred, as if to say “Well?” But he hesitated.

“Palmyre,” he suddenly said, with a slight, dissuasive smile, “it would be a profanation for me to read this.”

She bowed to signify that she caught his meaning, then raised her elbows with an expression of dubiety, and said: 

“’E hask you—­”

“Yes,” murmured the apothecary.  He shook his head as if to protest to himself, and read in a low but audible voice: 

“Star of my soul, I approach to die.  It is not for me possible to live without Palmyre.  Long time have I so done, but now, cut off from to see thee, by imprisonment, as it may be called, love is starving to death.  Oh, have pity on the faithful heart which, since ten years, change not, but forget heaven and earth for you.  Now in the peril of the life, hidden away, that absence from the sight of you make his seclusion the more worse than death.  Halas!  I pine!  Not other ten years of despair can I commence.  Accept this love.  If so I will live for you, but if to the contraire, I must die for you.  Is there anything at all what I will not give or even do if Palmyre will be my wife?  Ah, no, far otherwise, there is nothing!” ...

Frowenfeld looked over the top of the letter.  Palmyre sat with her eyes cast down, slowly shaking her head.  He returned his glance to the page, coloring somewhat with annoyance at being made a proposing medium.