“This lovely Savigny is so lonely!  For instance, sometimes in the morning I choose to be a little coquettish.  I dress myself, I make myself beautiful with my hair in curls and put on a pretty gown; I walk through all the paths, and suddenly I realize that I have taken all this trouble for the swans and ducks, my dog Kiss, and the cows, who do not even turn to look at me when I pass.  Thereupon, in my wrath, I hurry home, put on a thick gown and busy myself on the farm, in the servants’ quarters, everywhere.  And really, I am beginning to believe that ennui has perfected me, and that I shall make an excellent housekeeper.

“Luckily the hunting season will soon be here, and I rely upon that for a little amusement.  In the first place, Georges and father, both enthusiastic sportsmen, will come oftener.  And then you will be here, you know.  For you will reply at once that you will come, won’t you?  Monsieur Risler said not long ago that you were not well.  The air of Savigny will do you worlds of good.

“Everybody here expects you.  And I am dying with impatience.

“Claire.”

Her letter written, Claire Fromont donned a large straw hat for the first days of August were warm and glorious—­and went herself to drop it in the little box from which the postman collected the mail from the chateau every morning.

It was on the edge of the park, at a turn in the road.  She paused a moment to look at the trees by the roadside, at the neighboring meadows sleeping in the bright sunlight.  Over yonder the reapers were gathering the last sheaves.  Farther on they were ploughing.  But all the melancholy of the silent toil had vanished, so far as the girl was concerned, so delighted was she at the thought of seeing her friend once more.

No breeze came from the hills in the distance, no voice from the trees, to warn her by a presentiment, to prevent her from sending that fatal letter.  And immediately upon her return she gave her attention to the preparation of a pretty bedroom for Sidonie adjoining her own.

The letter did its errand faithfully.  From the little green, vine-embowered gate of the chateau it found its way to Paris, and arrived that same evening, with its Savigny postmark and impregnated with the odor of the country, at the fifth-floor apartment on the Rue de Braque.

What an event that was!  They read it again and again; and for a whole week, until Sidonie’s departure, it lay on the mantel-shelf beside Madame Chebe’s treasures, the clock under a glass globe and the Empire cups.  To Sidonie it was like a wonderful romance filled with tales of enchantment and promises, which she read without opening it, merely by gazing at the white envelope whereon Claire Fromont’s monogram was engraved in relief.