Oh, my dear Therese, what a comfort they are to me now!  I repeat them often.  If I could only say, ‘I know’!  Alas!  I can but say, ’I do not know,’ nay, even, ‘I do not believe.’  If I had not been a fool I should have made him tell me, for I had him over his ears in love with me one day, or I am no judge of a man.  But, you know, they are so fickle!  And then the Yankee girls are pretty and so clever.  Well, they shall not have him if I can help it.  When I return there shall be war, if necessary, between France and America.  And, Therese, you know I have weapons, and you have done me the honor to say I know how to use them.  I have told Louise, and—­what do you think?—­the poor thing cried an hour—­for pity of me!  As ever, she makes my trouble her own.  I have been selfish always, but I know the cure.  It is love—­toujours l’amour.  Now I think only of him, and he recalls you and your sweet words.  God make you a true prophet!  With love to you and the marquis, I kiss each line, praying for happiness for you and for him.  Believe me as ever,

  “Your affectionate
    “LOUISON.

“P.S.  I feel better now I have told you.  I wonder what his Lordship will say.  Poor thing! he will read this; he will think me a fool.  Eh bien, I have no better thought of him.  He can put me under lock and key, but he shall not imprison my secrets; and, if they bore him, he should not read my letters.  L.”

I read it thrice, and held it for a moment to my lips.  Every word stung me with the sweet pain that afflicted its author.  I could feel my cheeks burning.

“Ma’m’selle, pardon me; it is not I she refers to.  She does not say whom.”

“Surely,” said Therese, flirting her whip and lifting her shoulders.  “M’sieur Le Capitaine is never a stupid man.  You—­you should say something very nice now.”

“If it is I—­thank God!  Her misery is my delight, her liberation my one purpose.”

“And my congratulations,” said she, giving me her hand.  “She has wit and beauty, a true heart, a great fortune, and—­good luck in having your love.”

I raised my hat, blushing to the roots of my hair.

“It is a pretty compliment,” I said.  “And—­and I have no gift of speech to thank you.  I am not a match for you except in my love of kindness and—­and of Louison.  You have made me happier than I have been before.”

“If I have made you alert, ingenious, determined, I am content,” was her answer.  “I know you have courage.”

“And will to use it.”

“Good luck and adieu!” said she, with a fine flourish of her whip; those people had always a pretty politeness of manner.

“Adieu,” I said, lifting my hat as I rode off, with a prick of the spur, for the road was long and I had lost quite half an hour.

My elation gave way to sober thought presently.  I began to think of Louise—­that quiet, frank, noble, beautiful, great-hearted girl, who might be suffering what trouble I knew not, and all silently, there in her prison home.  A sadness grew in me, and then suddenly I saw the shadow of great trouble.  I loved them both; I knew not which I loved the better.  Yet this interview had almost committed me to Louison.