"Hold your peace and let me write."
Léodgard seated himself at his desk and hastily wrote these lines:
"You wish to see me, madame la marquise; you love me, so you say! Although I have difficulty in placing faith in a love which nearly cost me my life, I am too gallant and too brave to decline this new rendezvous, even if I were destined again to find a sword awaiting me instead of a smile.—Until to-morrow, then, at eight in the evening, in the Grand Pré-aux-Clercs."
Léodgard signed this letter and handed it to Bahuchet, who, overjoyed to have obtained a written reply, took a hasty leave, fearing that the count might be tempted to recall the letter he had given him.
When Léodgard was alone, he fell once more into a moody reverie; absorbed by his memories and his new projects, he seemed to have forgotten the present, to have forgotten where he was. In fact, he did not hear Blanche, who returned to the room and stood in front of him for several minutes, amazed that he said nothing to her.
"Papa—I am here—don't you see me?" she murmured at last.
At the sound of Blanche's voice, Léodgard started, almost as if in terror; he gazed at his daughter, but did not smile at her as usual; it seemed that the sight of the child embarrassed him. And little Blanche, accustomed as she was to be kissed and caressed by her father, looked at him with a surprised expression, and said, after a pause:
"Why don't you kiss me to-night, papa? Have I been naughty?"
"No, no; you are not naughty, Blanche; but I was thinking; my mind was on other things."
"Papa, mamma told me to ask you if you would like to have her come here after me to-night; she would like to ever so much; do you want her to?"