I could scarcely believe my eyes. I approached a window, and, by the light of early dawn, read these words:—
“I have no friends, Réné. Be one to me. I am very unhappy!”
I pressed, with one hand, the billet to my heart, and, with the other extended towards her chamber, I swore to accept and prove myself worthy of the friendship so mysteriously offered.
Then, perceiving that all was quiet in her room, I went down stairs, took my gun, and, throwing one parting glance at her window, passed into the street.
The curtain drew back, giving me a glimpse of her face. She nodded, throwing me a sad smile, and the curtain was replaced before the window.
Small as the time was that I had for observation, I could not help thinking that her eyes were reddened with weeping.
There was nothing wonderful in that. Had she not told me, in her letter, that she was very unhappy?
There was a mystery, which, no doubt, thought I, time will clear up.
I walked rapidly down the street, in the direction of the Place, knowing that, if I did not make a vigorous effort, I should never be able to tear myself away from the vicinity of the house.
The men of Clermont, D’Islettes, and St. Menehould—in fact, all who followed the same route—were collected in one group. They drank one last toast, shook hands for the last time, and separated.