“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?”