"A French refugee lady and her daughter, Monseigneur, who live near Breda."
"Ah! What is their name?"
"De Vaudrey, Monseigneur."
"Are they relatives of yours?"
"No, Monseigneur."
"A mere matter of friendship, eh?" The prince's eyes twinkled. "Now, my boy, confess: you are in love."
"No, indeed, Monseigneur."
"Well, the symptoms are not unusual. You ought to know best, of course; but in any case you had better get the matter off your mind. This weary siege cannot last more than a few days longer; we hear that the enemy are on the point of surrender; we shall go into winter quarters immediately, I suppose, and I shall be able to dispense with your services until the spring. Pack off to Breda and see your—friends, holding yourself in readiness, of course, to come back to me when summoned."
Harry was too much pleased at the opportunity of assuring himself that all was well to think it necessary to make any protestation about his motives. Thanking the prince, he finished off one or two small duties and went to arrange with Sherebiah for their journey. Before he left he came across Fanshawe in camp, and, without disclosing his reasons, told him where he was going.
"Then will you do something for me?" asked Fanshawe eagerly. "Will you carry a letter for me? I love that girl, Harry. I can't get over it. I made a mistake last time. I ought to have known that our English ways would not answer with French ladies. I spoke to Adèle herself; I ought to have spoken to her mother. If you will take it, I will write a letter to Madame de Vaudrey asking permission to pay my addresses to her daughter; that may give me a chance; don't you think so, Harry?"