“M’sieur le Capitaine, have you any news of them—­of Louise and Louison?” she inquired.  “You and my father were so busy talking I could not ask you before.”

“I know this only:  they are in captivity somewhere, I cannot tell where.”

“You look worried, M’sieur le Capitaine; you have not the happy face, the merry look, any longer.  In June you were a boy, in August—­voila! it is a man!  Perhaps you are preparing for the ministry.”

She assumed a solemn look, glancing up at me as if in mockery of my sober face.  She was a slim, fine brunette, who, as I knew, had long been a confidante of Louison.

“Alas! ma’m’selle, I am worried.  I have no longer any peace.”

“Do you miss them?” she inquired, a knowing look in her handsome eyes.  “Do not think me impertinent.”

“More than I miss my mother,” I said.

“I have a letter,” said she, smiling.  “I do not know—­I thought I should show it to you, but—­but not to-day.”

“Is it from them?”

“It is from Louison—­from Tiptoes.”

“And—­and it speaks of me?”

“Ah, m’sieur,” said she, arching her brows, “it has indeed much to say of you.”

“And—­and may I not see it?” I asked eagerly.  “Ma’m’selle, I tell you I—­I must see it.”

“Why?” She stirred the mane of her horse with a red riding-whip.

“Why not?” I inquired, my heart beating fast.

“If I knew—­if I were justified—­you know I am her friend.  I know all her secrets.”

“Will you not be my friend also?” I interrupted.

“A friend of Louison, he is mine,” said she.

“Ah, ma’m’selle, then I confess to you—­it is because I love her.”

“I knew it; I am no fool,” was her answer.  “But I had to hear it from you.  It is a remarkable thing to do, but they are in such peril.  I think you ought to know.”

She took the letter from her bosom, passing it to my hand.  A faint odor of violets came with it.  It read:—­

“My dear Therese:  I wish I could see you, if only for an hour.  I have so much to say.  I have written your father of our prison home.  I am going to write you of my troubles.  You know what we were talking about the last time I saw you—­myself and that handsome fellow.  Mon Dieu!  I shall not name him.  It is not necessary.  Well, you were right, my dear.  I was a fool; I laughed at your warning; I did not know the meaning of that delicious pain.  But oh, my dear friend, it has become a terrible thing since I know I may never see him again.  My heart is breaking with it.  Mere de Dieu!  I can no longer laugh or jest or pretend to be happy.  What shall I say?  That I had rather die than live without him?  No; that is not enough.  I had rather be an old maid and live only with the thought of him than marry another, if he were a king.  I remember those words of yours, ‘I know he loves you.’