"Monsieur," said Angelique, taking my hands kindly in hers, "she greets you as people of the world greet those whom they are anxious to forget."
"With a fearful and cold welcome, Angelique?"
"True, mon ami, it is so."
"Then I pray you to pardon this intrusion," said I, hurriedly; "in seeking the British lines I have lost my way, and my life is beset by other dangers than the winter storm. Tell me where the Lahn lies, and I shall go; but pity me, Jacqueline, for Heaven and my own heart alone know how well I loved you."
There was a gratified smile on her lovely lip; a smile—and at such a time—it went a long way to cure me of my folly.
"O, mon pauvre Basil! and so it is really you?" said she, regarding me with a certain vague interest sparkling in her fine dark eyes; "but here, at this time of night," she continued with alarm—"and the count—I expect him every moment! You know that I am married, do you not? Get him away—away from here. Oh, Angelique, where are your brains? Aid us, or he is lost, and I too, perhaps!"
"Lost, indeed!" I repeated, bitterly.
"Guillaume de Boisguiller, whom you found in that horrid English prison-ship, told you all about my marriage, did he not?" said Jacqueline, earnestly.
"Yes, madame."
"And you did not die of a broken heart?"