at Boulogne last year! No, no, I mistake — the sea is
perfidious: your eyes are as deep as the azure yonder —
look! — over our heads!”
“Well, since you can read so well in my eyes, tell me what I
am thinking about, Montalais.”
“In the first place, you don’t think Monsieur Raoul; you
think My dear Raoul.”
“Oh! —- ”
“Never blush for such a trifle as that! `My dear Raoul,’ we
will say — `You implore me to write to you at Paris, where
you are detained by your attendance on M. le Prince. As you
must be very dull there, to seek for amusement in the
remembrance of a provinciale —- ‘”
Louise rose up suddenly. “No, Montalais,” said she, with a
smile; “I don’t think a word of that. Look, this is what I
think;” and she seized the pen boldly and traced, with a
firm hand, the following words: —
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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later
“I should have been very unhappy if your entreaties to
obtain a remembrance of me had been less warm. Everything
here reminds me of our early days, which so quickly passed
away, which so delightfully flew by, that no others will
ever replace the charm of them in my heart.”
Montalais, who watched the flying pen, and read, the wrong
way upwards, as fast as her friend wrote, here interrupted
by clapping her hands. “Capital!” cried she; “there is
frankness — there is heart — there is style! Show these
Parisians, my dear, that Blois is the city for fine
language!”
“He knows very well that Blois was a Paradise to me,”
replied the girl.
“That is exactly what you mean to say; and you speak like an
angel.”
“I will finish, Montalais,” and she continued as follows:
“You often think of me, you say, Monsieur Raoul: I thank
you; but that does not surprise me, when I recollect how
often our hearts have beaten close to each other.”
“Oh! oh!” said Montalais. “Beware; my lamb! You are
scattering your wool, and there are wolves about.”
Louise was about to reply, when the gallop of a horse
resounded under the porch of the castle.
“What is that?” said Montalais, approaching the window. “A
handsome cavalier, by my faith!”
“Oh! — Raoul!” exclaimed Louise, who had made the same
movement as her friend, and, becoming pale as death, sunk
back beside her unfinished letter.
“Now, he is a clever lover, upon my word!” cried Montalais;
“he arrives just at the proper moment.”
“Come in, come in, I implore you!” murmured Louise.
“Bah! he does not know me. Let me see what he has come here
for.”
CHAPTER 2
The Messenger.
Mademoiselle de Montalais was right; the young cavalier was
goodly to look upon.
He was a young man of from twenty-four to twenty-five years
of age, tall and slender, wearing gracefully the picturesque
military costume of the period. His large boots contained a
foot which Mademoiselle de Montalais might not have disowned
if she had been transformed into a man. With one of his
delicate but nervous hands he checked his horse in the
middle of the court, and with the other raised his hat,
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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later
whose long plumes shaded his at once serious and ingenuous
countenance.
The guards, roused by the steps of the horse, awoke and were
on foot in a minute. The young man waited till one of them
was close to his saddle-bow: then stooping towards him, in a
clear, distinct voice, which was perfectly audible at the
window where the two girls were concealed, “A message for
his royal highness,” he said.
“Ah, ah!” cried the soldier. “Officer, a messenger!”
But this brave guard knew very well that no officer would
appear, seeing that the only one who could have appeared
dwelt at the other side of the castle, in an apartment
looking into the gardens. So he hastened to add: “The
officer, monsieur, is on his rounds, but in his absence, M.
de Saint-Remy, the maitre d’hotel shall be informed.”
“M. de Saint-Remy?” repeated the cavalier, slightly
blushing.
“Do you know him?”
“Why, yes; but request him, if you please, that my visit be