One evening, a lady, deeply veiled, came to the house where the two friends lodged, and, asking to see Mr. Langlade, was admitted.
Charles was seated in an armchair near the large open fireplace; he turned as the stranger entered, and, when she raised her veil, exclaimed, “Madame Péan!”
“Yes,” she said, coming forward; “I heard you were in Quebec, where I myself have been detained by severe illness, and I have come to you with a message from Mercèdes Montcalm.”
“She is well, I trust?” said Charles, in a low voice.
“Yes, she is,” answered Madame Péan, “and the day after to-morrow she takes the veil. I have done the best I could to dissuade her, offering to take her back with me to France in the spring, but she will not listen to me; her place, she says, is by her father’s grave, in the convent garden, and the Bishop and Mother Superior have consented to shorten her novitiate. One thing troubles her, the loss of the child committed to her care by you. When I heard you were in Quebec I told her, and she entreated me to come to you without delay, to hear what had become of the child.”
“He is dead,” said Charles; “his mother’s tribe stole him, lest he should be made a prisoner, and he was killed. Tell her this, or not, as you deem best.”
“If you will, you can tell her yourself,” said Madame. “She bids farewell to her friends to-night; if you come to the convent, you can have speech with her for the last time.”
“I will come,” said Charles, his pale face flushing.
“She thought you would,” said Madame; “she has not many friends to whom to bid farewell, and the General loved you.”
“Not better than I loved him,” said Charles, rousing himself. “Tell Mademoiselle Mercèdes I will be at the convent to-night after vespers; and thank you a thousand times for coming to me. I would not have missed seeing her once more, for all the world,” and he held out his hand to Madame Péan.