to listen to me with indulgence and interest.  His gracious majesty could not, it seems to me, suffer a noble family, that had devoted all their possessions to the service of king and country, in many wars, to die out so miserably, if once he knew of it.  Meantime, for want of other employment, I have taken to acting, and have made a little money thereby—­part of which I shall send to you, as soon as I can find a good opportunity.  It would have been better perhaps if I had enlisted as a soldier; but I could not give up my liberty, and however poverty-stricken a man may be, his pride revolts at the idea of putting himself under the orders of those whom his noble ancestors used to command.  The only adventure worth relating that has befallen me since I left you was a duel that I fought at Poitiers, with a certain young duke, who is held to be invincible; but, thanks to your good instructions, I was able to get the better of him easily.  I ran him through the right arm, and could just as well have run him through the body, and left him dead upon the field, for his defence was weak and insufficient—­by no means equal to his attack, which was daring and brilliant, though very reckless—­and several times he was entirely at my mercy, as he grew heated and angry.  He has not been so thoroughly trained to preserve his sang-froid, whatever may happen, as I, and I now appreciate, for the first time, your wonderful patience and perseverance in making me a master of the noble art of fencing, and how valuable my proficiency in it will be to me.  Your scholar does you honour, my brave Pierre, and I won great praise and applause for my really too easy victory.  In spite of the constant novelty and excitement of my new way of life, my thoughts often return to dwell upon my poor old chateau, crumbling gradually into ruin over the tombs of my ancestors.  From afar it does not seem so desolate and forlorn, and there are times when I fancy myself there once more, gazing up at the venerable family portraits, wandering through the deserted rooms, and I find a sort of melancholy pleasure in it.  How I wish that I could look into your honest, sunburnt face, lighted up with the glad smile that always greeted me—­and I am not ashamed to confess that I long to hear Beelzebub’s contented purring, Miraut’s joyful bark, and the loud whinnying of my poor old Bayard, who never failed to recognise my step.  Are they all still alive—­the good, faithful, affectionate creatures—­and do they seem to remember me?  Have you been able to keep yourself and them from starvation thus far?  Try to hold out until my return, my good Pierre, so as to share my fate—­be it bright or dark, happy or sad—­that we may finish our days together in the place where we have suffered so much, yet which is so dear to us all.  If I am to be the last of the de Sigognacs, I can only say, the will of God be done.  There is still a vacant place left for me in the vault where my forefathers lie.

“Baron de Sigognac.”