“You know that I cannot go.”
“Very well, then; I’ll forget that I suggested it. But you can’t write to Edmond here at the gate.”
“You think that I could write to him?”
“I know that you could, for I’ll send the letter myself.”
She breathed quickly, debating it. Some of the men whom she had seen in the café when the spy was struck down were coming up the street. She entered the house when she saw them, and he followed her quickly.
“I have no right to come,” she protested. “Edmond would never forgive me.”
“Oh, now—that’s nonsense. Why should he not forgive you? I will tell him all about it myself—when the proper time comes. Meanwhile, he is at Ulm, and will not give his parole. Persuade him to, and you may have him back in Strasburg in a week’s time. But I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s dangerous, and might lead to the unexpected. He’s living like a prince where he is, and there aren’t any bullets. There will be plenty if he comes back to Strasburg.”
“I do not understand,” she said helplessly. “What is the parole he must give, and why?”
He pointed to an arm-chair, and drew it up to the table for her.