He dressed swiftly, but with attention to details, shaved with care when old Bernard, almost weeping, brought him the water and the tidings that no priest could so far be found; and, with only twenty-five minutes left, sat down to write his last letter to Valentine.
He had no little to say, but he wrote steadily and without difficulty, pausing only once or twice. When he had finished he took out from a pocket-case in his breast a little square of folded paper, somewhat worn, wrote on it three words and slipped it inside his letter. Then he folded, addressed and sealed the whole, kissed his wife’s name upon the superscription, and put it in the case. There was already another letter there.
And now, since he had taken from its place over his heart the amulet he always wore there, to give it back to the hand whence he had it, for the short time that heart had to beat it should beat against the symbol that was rather of loyalty than of love—but which love had nevertheless fashioned and given him. He took from the back of the chair the scarf he had so treasured, and put the end with the golden fleur-de-lys to his lips. For a moment, at the touch of what her fingers had wrought, a wave of anguish engulfed him. He gripped his hands hard behind his head, as it fell forward on the folds of the scarf across the table. O, not to have to leave her . . . even to see her once more, only once!
It was short, that agony. Gaston de Trélan had faced it many times these last few days. He rose, fastening the scarf across his breast instead of as usual round his waist. Her arms would be about him thus, to the end. Only four minutes more. No priest had come. So he knelt down by the table, and tried to collect his thoughts.
The door opened slowly. Gaston stood up; the young hussar, much the paler of the two, came in.
“I am ready,” said the Duc. “But before we go I have a favour to ask of you. This case, Monsieur, contains a letter to my wife, with another to the same address. Could it be given to her? She is to be found at Mme Tessier’s in the Rue de Seine.”
“I give you my word that she shall have it,” said the officer. “I will take it myself—if I cannot find a better messenger.”
“Thank you, Monsieur,” said Gaston, replacing the case inside his uniform. “If it will not inconvenience you, however, I will keep the letter on me till the last possible moment, and give it to you—later on. And I have a fancy not to be parted from my Cross of Maria Theresa before I need; therefore, if it would not be putting you to too much trouble, I would ask you to take it off when the business is over. This scarf I should wish to be buried with. I am still, you know, Monsieur le Capitaine,” he threw back his head a little, “the General commanding for His Majesty King Louis XVIII. in Finistère, a position that is not cancelled by my capture under a safe-conduct.—I beg your pardon, for you neither had part in, nor approve of that,” he added, seeing the young man wince. “The scarf, then, I should desire to remain on me, the order to go to the Duchesse if you would be so good.”
“She shall have it . . . if you think that a Republican’s word is ever to be trusted again.”