I felt foolish for a moment. I had careful plans for Mme. St.
Jovite. She would have vanished utterly on our return; so, I
fancy, none would have been the wiser. But in that brief sally I
had killed the madame; she could serve me no more. I have been
careful in my account of this matter to tell all just as it
happened, to put upon it neither more nor less of romantic color
than we saw. Had I the skill and license of a novelist, I could
have made much of my little mystery; but there are many now living
who remember all these things, and then, I am a soldier, and too
old for a new business. So I make as much of them as there was and
no more.
In private theatricals, an evening at the Harbor, I had won
applause with the rig, wig, and dialect of my trip to Wrentham
Square. So, when I proposed a plan to my friend the general,
urging the peril of a raw hand with a trust of so much importance,
he had no doubt of my ability.
I borrowed a long coat, having put off my dress, and, when all was
ready, went with a lantern to get the ladies. Louise recognized me
first.
"Grace au ciel! le capitaine!" said she, running to meet me.
I dropped my lantern as we came face to face, and have ever been
glad of that little accident, for there in the dark my arms went
around her, and our lips met for a silent kiss full of history and
of holy confidence. Then she put her hand upon my face with a
gentle caressing touch, and turned her own away.
"I am very, very glad to see you," I said.
"Dieu!" said her sister, coming near, "we should be glad to see
you, if it were possible."