He rose and took my arm affectionately and conducted me to the big drawing-room. Two of the ladies were singing as one played the guitar. I looked in vain for the Misses de Lambert. The others were all there, but they had gone. I felt a singular depression at their absence and went to my room shortly to get my rest, for I had to be off early in the morning. Before going to bed, however, I sat down to think and do some writing. But I could not for the life of me put away the thought of the young ladies. They looked alike, and yet I felt sure they were very different. Somehow I could not recall in what particular they differed. I sat a time thinking over it. Suddenly I heard low voices, those of women speaking in French; I could not tell from where they came.
"I do wish she would die, the hateful thing!" said one. (It must be understood these words are more violent in English than they seem in French.)
"The colonel is severe to-night," said another.
"The colonel—a fine baroness indeed—vieille tyran! I cannot love her. Lord! I once tried to love a monkey and had better luck. The colonel keeps all the men to herself. Whom have I seen for a year? Dieu! women, grandpapas, greasy guides! Not a young man since we left Paris."
"My dear Louison!" said the other, "there are many things better than men."
"Au nom de Dieu! But I should like to know what they are. I have never seen them."
"But often men are false and evil," said the other, in a sweet, low voice.
"Nonsense!" said the first, impatiently. "I had rather elope with a one-legged hostler than always live in these woods."
"Louison! You ought to cross yourself and repeat a Hail Mary."
"Thanks! I have tried prayer. It is n't what I need. I am no nun like you. My dear sister, don't you ever long for the love of a man—a big, handsome, hearty fellow who could take you up in his arms and squeeze the life out of you?"