“I have strangely misconceived the meaning of the letter, or this has been a day of folly!” said Ludlow, endeavoring to swallow his discontent.  “But, no; I have your own words to refute that averted eye and cold look; and, by the faith of a sailor!  Alida, I will believe your deliberate and well-reflected thoughts, before these capricious fancies, which are unworthy of your nature.  Here are the very words; I shall not easily part with the flattering hopes they convey!”

La belle Barberie now regarded the young man in open amazement.  Her color changed; for of the indiscretion of writing, she knew she was not guiltless,—­but of having written in terms to justify the confidence of the other, she felt no consciousness.  The customs of the age, the profession of her suitor, and the hour, induced her to look steadily in to his face, to see whether the man stood before her in all the decency of his reason.  But Ludlow had the reputation of being exempt from a vice that was then but too common among seamen, and there was nothing in his ingenuous and really handsome features, to cause her to distrust his present discretion.  She touched a bell, and signed to her companion to be seated.

“Francois,” said his mistress, when the old valet but half awake, entered the apartment, “fais moi le plaisir de m’apporter de cette eau de la fontaine du bosquet, et du vin—­le Capitaine Ludlow a soif; et rapelle-toi, bon Francois, il ne faut pas deranger mon oncle a cette heure; il doit etre bien fatigue de son voyage.”

When her respectful and respectable servitor had received his commission and departed, Alida took a seat herself, in the confidence of having deprived the visit of Ludlow of its clandestine character, and at the same time having employed the valet on an errand that would leave her sufficient leisure, to investigate the inexplicable meaning of her companion.

“You have my word, Captain Ludlow, that this unseasonable appearance in the pavilion, is indiscreet, not to call it cruel,” she said, so soon as they were again alone; “but that you have it, in any manner, to justify your imprudence, I must continue to doubt until confronted by proof.”

“I had thought to have made a very different use of this,” returned Ludlow, drawing a letter,—­we admit it with some reluctance in one so simple and so manly,—­from his bosom:  “and even now, I take shame in producing it, though at your own orders.

“Some magic has wrought a marvel, or the scrawl has no such importance,” observed Alida, taking a billet that she now began to repent having ever written.  “The language of politeness and female reserve must admit of strange perversions, or all who read are not the best interpreters.”

La belle Barberie ceased speaking, for the instant her eye fell on the paper, an absorbing and intense curiosity got the better of her resentment.  We shall give the contents of the letter, precisely in the words which caused so much amazement, and possibly some little uneasiness, to the fair creature who was perusing it.