"Good Heaven!" exclaimed the young man, raising himself on his arm; "who are you? What is this? I should know that kiss; but I do not—I cannot believe in such happiness. Tell me, tell me who you are!"
She put her soft cheek, wet with tears, close to his, and whispered, "Dear, dear Edward! Who am I? Who but your own Lucette,—your own wife? And did you know my kiss? Never, never forget it, Edward." And she kissed him again and again, as if she would fix the soft pressure of her lips upon his memory forever.
"Never! never!" he said, putting his arm round her. "But am I in a dream? I cannot believe that this is a waking truth."
"Lie down," said Lucette, "and do not be agitated, dear husband; otherwise I must leave you. It is no dream, though it seems almost as much so to me as to you. I thought you would forgive me for waking you; and I could not be so near you, and you ill and wounded, without one word of affection before we go on. I am afraid it was cruel and wrong, when you were sleeping so calmly. But tell me yourself that you are better,—that you are getting well. The good sister who told me all about your wound said you would soon be able to ride out. They are all anxious about you here; but who can be so anxious as I am?"
"But tell me more, dear Lucette," said Edward, disobeying her, and still holding her to his heart. "How came you in Savoy? how came you here? how did you find your way hither?"
"I came on with the family of Monsieur de Rohan," answered Lucette. "He judged it best we should all quit France for a season and go to Turin or Venice, while he endeavored to deliver Rochelle; and when we arrived here the first thing the nuns told us was of the young foreign cavalier who lay wounded under their care. When I heard your name, I seemed for a moment to have no feeling in my heart, no thought in my brain; but I soon recovered. I got the good sister who attends upon you to tell me all; and, by prayers and entreaties and the gold cross I used to wear, I induced her to bring me here, telling her that you are my husband,—my own wedded husband. But I promised her, Edward, not to agitate you or talk to you too much, and only to stay five minutes."
"Oh, stay, Lucette! stay!" said Edward, forgetting all consequences. "Dearest girl, do not leave me! Lord Montagu will be back to-morrow. Must you go on to Turin?"
"Remember your promise to the cardinal, Edward," she answered. "I must remember mine to good Sister Agatha. If I break my promises to others, you will not believe mine to you,—although I fear I have already somewhat failed, and agitated you more than I intended."
"Five minutes have not passed yet," said the youth, feeling that she was about to rise from her knees, where she had hitherto remained. "Oh, no! it is but an instant since you came, dearest! Another kiss, dear Lucette. Could I have had them before, I should have been well ere this." He took another, and not only one; and, between, he told her he was really better, and would soon be well, and that he would try some means to see her soon, and at the end of two years would seek her as his wife, whoever might oppose; and she on her part promised that he should not seek in vain, but should find her ever ready to go with him to the ends of the earth.
But the five minutes were certainly outstayed; and Lucette's heart was reproaching her, and Edward was thinking how he could ever part with her, when the door opened again, and Sister Agatha came in to remind the poor girl of her promise.