"A reply," said I, "a message or a letter," though I had not dared
to let myself even think of that.
He whipped a tiny packet from his coat. "'Tis a sparrow's pecking--no
great matter here, eh?"--he weighed it up and down on his fingers--"a
little piping wren's par pitie."
I reached out for it. "I should read it," said he. "There must be
no more of this. But new orders came AFTER I'd got her dainty a
m'sieu'! Yes, I must read it," said he--"but maybe not at first," he
added, "not at first, if you'll give word of honour not to tear it."
"On my sacred honour," said I, reaching out still.
He looked it all over again provokingly, and then lifted it to his
nose, for it had a delicate perfume. Then he gave a little grunt of
wonder and pleasure, and handed it over.
I broke the seal, and my eyes ran swiftly through the lines, traced
in a firm, delicate hand. I could see through it all the fine, sound
nature, by its healthy simplicity mastering anxiety, care, and fear.
"Robert," she wrote, "by God's help my brother will live, to repent
with you, I trust, of Friday night's ill work. He was near gone, yet
we have held him back from that rough-rider, Death.
"You will thank God, will you not, that my brother did not die?
Indeed, I feel you have. I do not blame you; I know--I need not tell
you how--the heart of the affair; and even my mother can see through
the wretched thing. My father says little, and he has not spoken
harshly; for which I gave thanksgiving this morning in the chapel
of the Ursulines. Yet you are in a dungeon, covered with wounds of
my brother's making, both of you victims of others' villainy, and
you are yet to bear worse things, for they are to try you for your
life. But never shall I believe that they will find you guilty of
dishonour. I have watched you these three years; I do not, nor ever
will, doubt you, dear friend of my heart.
"You would not believe it, Robert, and you may think it fanciful,
but as I got up from my prayers at the chapel I looked towards a
window, and it being a little open, for it is a sunny day, there sat
a bird on the sill, a little brown bird that peeped and nodded. I
was so won by it that I came softly over to it. It did not fly away,
but hopped a little here and there. I stretched out my hand gently
on the stone, and putting its head now this side, now that, at last
it tripped into it, and chirped most sweetly. After I had kissed it
I placed it back on the window-sill, that it might fly away again.
Yet no, it would not go, but stayed there, tipping its gold-brown
head at me as though it would invite me to guess why it came. Again
I reached out my hand, and once more it tripped into it. I stood
wondering and holding it to my bosom, when I heard a voice behind me
say, 'The bird would be with thee, my child. God hath many signs.' I
turned and saw the good Mere St. George looking at me, she of whom
I was always afraid, so distant is she. I did not speak, but only
looked at her, and she nodded kindly at me and passed on.
"And, Robert, as I write to you here in the Intendant's palace (what
a great wonderful place it is! I fear I do not hate it and its
luxury as I ought!), the bird is beside me in a cage upon the table,
with a little window open, so that it may come out if it will. My
brother lies in the bed asleep; I can touch him if I but put out my
hand, and I am alone save for one person. You sent two messengers:
can you not guess the one that will be with me? Poor Mathilde, she
sits and gazes at me till I almost fall weeping. But she seldom
speaks, she is so quiet--as if she knew that she must keep a secret.
For, Robert, though I know you did not tell her, she knows--she
knows that you love me, and she has given me a little wooden cross
which she said will make us happy.
"My mother did not drive her away, as I half feared she would, and
at last she said that I might house her with one of our peasants.
Meanwhile she is with me here. She is not so mad but that she has
wisdom too, and she shall have my care and friendship.
"I bid thee to God's care, Robert. I need not tell thee to be not
dismayed. Thou hast two jails, and one wherein I lock thee safe is
warm and full of light. If the hours drag by, think of all thou
wouldst do if thou wert free to go to thine own country--yet alas
that thought!--and of what thou wouldst say if thou couldst speak
to thy ALIXE.
"Postscript.--I trust that they have cared for thy wounds, and that
thou hast light and food and wine. Voban hath promised to discover
this for me. The soldier Gabord, at the citadel, he hath a good
heart. Though thou canst expect no help from him, yet he will not be
rougher than his orders. He did me a good service once, and he likes
me, and I him. And so fare thee well, Robert. I will not languish;
I will act, and not be weary. Dost thou really love me?"
V