Dear Sir:—I write to you in the utmost distress and confusion of mind. I hardly know how to break to you the news it is my painful duty to reveal, lest some blame should attach itself to me or mine, where I assure you none is deserved. Your daughter Rose has left us—run away; in fact, I believe, eloped. I have reason to think she was married yesterday; but to whom I have not yet discovered. I beg to assure you, Captain Danton, that neither I nor any one in my house had the remotest idea of her intention; and we are all in the greatest consternation since the discovery has been made. I would not for worlds such a thing had happened under my roof, and I earnestly trust you will not hold me to blame.
Six days ago, on the afternoon of the 11th, your daughter arrived here. We were all delighted to see her, Virginie in particular; for, hearing of her approaching marriage with M. La Touche, we were afraid she might not come. We all noticed a change in her—her manner different from what it used to be—a languor, an apathy to all things—a general listlessness that nothing could arouse her from. She, who used to be so full of life and spirits, was now the quietest in the house, and seemed to like nothing so well as being by herself and dreaming the hours away. On the evening of the third day this lassitude left her. She grew restless and nervous—almost feverishly so. Next morning this feverish restlessness grew worse. She refused to leave the house in the afternoon to accompany my daughter on a shopping expedition. Her plea was toothache, and Virginie went alone. The early afternoon post brought her what I believe she was waiting for—a letter. She ran up with it to her own room, which she did not leave until dusk. I was standing in the entrance-hall when she came down, dressed for a walk, and wearing a veil over her face. I asked her where she was going. She answered for a walk, it might help her toothache. An hour afterward Virginie returned. Her first question was for Rose. I informed her she was gone out.
"Then," exclaimed Virginie, "it must have been Rose that I met in the next street, walking with a gentleman. I thought the dress and figure were hers, but I could not see her face for a thick veil. The gentleman was tall and dark, and very handsome."
Half an hour later, Rose came back. We teased her a little about the gentleman; but she put it off quite indifferently, saying he was an acquaintance she had encountered in the street, and that she had promised to go with him next morning to call on a lady-friend of hers, a Mrs. Major Forsyth. We thought no more about it; and next morning, when the gentleman called in a carriage, Rose was quite ready, and went away with him. It was then about eleven o'clock, and she did not return until five in the afternoon. Her face was flushed, her manner excited, and she broke away from Virginie and ran up to her room. All the evening her manner was most unaccountably altered, her spirits extravagantly high, and colour like fever in her face. She and Virginie shared the same room, and when they went upstairs for the night, she would not go to bed.
"You can go," she said to Virginie; "I have a long letter to write, and you must not talk to me, dear."
Virginie went to bed. She is a very sound sleeper, and rarely wakes, when she lies down, until morning. She fell asleep, and never awoke all night. It was morning when she opened her eyes. She was alone. Rose was neither in the bed nor in the room.
Virginie thought nothing of it. She got up, dressed, came down to breakfast, expecting to find Rose before her. Rose was not before her—she was not in the house. We waited breakfast until ten, anxiously looking for her; but she never came. None of the servants had seen her, but that she had gone out very early was evident; for the house-door was unlocked and unbolted, when the kitchen-girl came down at six in the morning. We waited all the forenoon, but she never came. Our anxiety trebly increased when we made the discovery that she had taken her trunk with her. How she had got it out of the house was the profoundest mystery. We questioned the servants; but they all denied stoutly. Whether to believe them or not I cannot tell, but I doubt the housemaid.
The early afternoon post brought Virginie a note. I inclose it. It tells you all I can tell. I write immediately, distressed by what has occurred, more than I can say. I earnestly trust the poor child has not thrown herself away. I hope with all my heart it may not be so bad as at first sight if seems. Believe me my dear sir, truly sorry for what has occurred, and I trust you will acquit me of blame.
With the deepest sympathy, I remain,
Yours, sincerely,
Mathilde Leblanc.