“You see, my children—­things appear marvelous, which at bottom are quite simple—­though for a long time we understand nothing about them.”

“As our father relates this, we must believe it, and not be astonished—­eh, sister?”

“Yes, truly—­since it will all be explained one day.”

“For example,” said Dagobert, after a moment’s reflection, “you two are so much alike, that any one, who was not in the habit of seeing you daily, might easily take one for the other.  Well! if they did not know that you are, so to speak,’doubles,’ they might think an imp was at work instead of such good little angels as you are.”

“You are right, Dagobert; in this way many things may be explained, even as our father says.”  And Rose continued to read: 

“Not without pride, my gentle Eva, have I learned that Djalma has French blood in his veins.  His father married, some years ago, a young girl, whose family, of French origin, had long been settled at Batavia in the island of Java.  This similarity of circumstances between my old friend and myself—­for your family also, my Eva, is of French origin, and long settled in a foreign land—­has only served to augment my sympathy for him.  Unfortunately, he has long had to mourn the loss of the wife whom he adored.

“See, my beloved Eva! my hand trembles as I write these words.  I am weak—­I am foolish—­but, alas! my heart sinks within me.  If such a misfortune were to happen to me—­Oh, my God!—­what would become of our child without thee—­without his father—­in that barbarous country?  But no! the very fear is madness; and yet what a horrible torture is uncertainty!  Where may you now be?  What are you doing?  What has become of you?  Pardon these black thoughts, which are sometimes too much for me.  They are the cause of my worst moments—­for, when free from them, I can at least say to myself:  I am proscribed, I am every way unfortunate—­but, at the other end of the world, two hearts still beat for me with affection—­yours, my Eva, and our child’s!”

Rose could hardly finish this passage; for some seconds her voice was broken by sobs.  There was indeed a fatal coincidence between the fears of General Simon and the sad reality; and what could be more touching than these outpourings of the heart, written by the light of a watch fire, on the eve of battle, by a soldier who thus sought to soothe the pangs of a separation, which he felt bitterly, but knew not would be eternal?

“Poor general! he is unaware of our misfortune,” said Dagobert, after a moment’s silence; “but neither has he heard that he has two children, instead of one.  That will be at least some consolation.  But come, Blanche; do go on reading:  I fear that this dwelling on grief fatigues your sister, and she is too much affected by it.  Besides, after all, it is only just, that you should take your share of its pleasure and its sorrow.”

Blanche took the letter, and Rose, having dried her eyes, laid in her turn her sweet head on the shoulder of her sister, who thus continued: