The reply came from Aubertin. “My poor friends,” said he, solemnly, “this is one of those fearful things that you have not seen in your short lives, but it has been more than once my lot to witness it. The ships that carry letters from distant countries vary greatly in speed, and are subject to detaining accidents. Yes, this is the third time I have seen a letter come written by a hand known to be cold. The baroness is a little excited to-day, I don’t know from what cause. With your approbation, Madame Raynal, I will read this letter before I let her see it.”
“Read it, if you please.”
“Shall I read it out?”
“Certainly. There may be some wish expressed in it; oh, I hope there is!”
Camille, from delicacy, retired to some little distance, and the doctor read the letter in a low and solemn voice.
“MY DEAR MOTHER,—I hope all are well at Beaurepaire, as I am, or I hope soon to be. I received a wound in our last skirmish; not a very severe one; but it put an end to my writing for some time.”
“Poor fellow! it was his death wound. Why, when was this written?—why,” and the doctor paused, and seemed stupefied: “why, my dears, has my memory gone, or”—and again he looked eagerly at the letter—“what was the date of the battle in which he was killed? for this letter is dated the 15th of May. Is it a dream? no! this was written since the date of his death.”
“No, doctor,” said Rose, “you deceive yourself.”
“Why, what was the date of the Moniteur, then?” asked Aubertin, in great agitation.
“Considerably later than this,” said Camille.