'Now that I am beyond the reach of your many attractions, a sentiment of remorse compels me to inform you that the love I profess to bear you—have you got all that down, my young moustache?'
'Yes, M. le Comte—proceed.'
'The love I have professed to bear you is alike absurd and futile. Mademoiselle, you have lavished all the young affection of your pure and noble heart upon a vile, a false, and worthless object; for I tell you, with shame and contrition, that I am already the husband of a pretty citoyenne of Zaberne—'
'But this is an infamous falsehood, Comte!'
'Proceed, I command you,' replied De Bitche, levelling his pistol across the table, and throwing a furious glance at the French cannon, the shot from which were coming over the valley with a sound between a boom and a scream.
'That I desire you will cease to think more of me, and pardon the presumption of one who is every way unworthy of you; who begs to return your letter, and to subscribe himself, Mademoiselle, your most devoted servant——Done at Zaberne—'
'But this is Phalsbourg?'
Again the black muzzle of the pistol threatened me.
'The 15th day of June—God and our Lady take you into holy keeping. And now, M. Blane—your signature in its usual fashion.'
'Rascal!' thought I; 'so this is the plan of your little campaign?'