'Three days,' said Hepburn, folding a letter which he had just concluded; 'only three days you think, M. le Vicomte?'
'Peste! that is a long time for Parisians to talk of one thing, believe me, Camp-Marechal,' said our captain the Marquis; 'but here is my friend Mr. Blane.'
'I know of none so worthy to carry my despatch to Paris as you Mr. Blane,' said Sir John; 'and you will convey it to the feet of king Louis, with the standard which you captured so valiantly at Bitche. Be prepared to leave this in an hour!'
'Paris—ah! Mon Dieu, how I envy you!' said de Toneins and several others.
I bowed, and retired to make my brief preparations for a journey that was not without great danger, as the way for miles to our rear, through Alsace and Lorraine, lay through the country of the enemy.
The moment it became known in Hepburn's camp that I was to ride for Paris, letters for all the fair dames of that intriguing capital were poured upon me, until I flatly refused to take more. Dundrennan, the Chevalier Livingstone, and I know not how many others, gave me billets for Mademoiselle Ninon de l'Enclos. The Marquis of Gordon gave me one for Clara d'Amboise; Arpajou gave me one for Madame de Bouillon; Turenne gave me another for the lovely Mademoiselle de Chevreuse; and, among many others, the young Marquis de Toneins, though wounded, and in love with the divorced Duchess of Charost, gave me a little pink-scented billet, which I was to deliver personally to Mademoiselle de l'Orme. In short, there was a perplexing obliquity of morality, and oblivion of all marriage and family ties in this precious post-bag of mine, that was quite Parisian, and suited to the French taste of the age; for every one seemed to be in love with his friend's wife; and thus laden, with Hepburn's despatch concealed in the lining of my cuirass, I bade adieu to my gallant comrades, who resumed their march towards the Rhine, while I turned the head of Dagobert regretfully towards Paris the beautiful—Paris, the city of perdition.
'Take care of Mademoiselle de l'Orme,' was the parting advice of the Marquis of Gordon; 'lest she wile you to love her.'
'And what then, Marquis?' said I, gaily.
'She will break your heart, and fling it to the devil, as she has broken and flung those of others.'
'Farewell—I shall be wary, believe me.'