Thereupon he lay down on a tara, a kind of sofa made of light laths, the work of negroes of the Gambia shore. Then he took from his pocket a letter, and began to read it, first kissing the corner with the signature.
VI
It was without doubt a love-letter, written by some fair one—an elegant Parisienne, perhaps, or possibly a romantic senora—to this handsome spahi d’Afrique, who seems of the very mould for playing leading rôles as the lover in melodrama.
This letter will perchance furnish us with the clue to some highly dramatic adventure, which will serve as prelude to our tale.
VII
The letter, which the spahi had touched with his lips, bore the postmark of a village hidden away in the Cevennes. It was written by a poor old hand, trembling and unpractised. Its lines overlapped, and it was not free from mistakes.
The letter said:—
My dear son,—The present is to give you news of our health, which is pretty good just now; we thank the good God for it. But your father says he feels himself growing old, and as his eyes are failing a good deal, it is your old mother who is taking up the pen to talk to you about ourselves. You will forgive me, knowing that I cannot write any better.
My dear son, I have to tell you that we have been in great trouble for some time. Since you left us three years ago, nothing has gone well with us. Good fortune, as well as happiness, left us when you did. It has been a bad year on account of a heavy hailstorm which fell on the field and destroyed nearly everything except at the side of the road. Our cow went sick, and it cost us a lot of money to have her attended to. Your father’s wages are sometimes short, since he came back to this country of young men, who work faster than he. Besides this we have had to have part of our roof repaired, as it threatened to fall in with the heavy rains. I know that soldiers haven’t much to spare, but your father says that if you can send us what you promised without stinting yourself, it will be very useful to us.
The Mérys, who have plenty of money, could easily lend us some, but we don’t like asking them, especially as we do not want them to think us poor people. We often see your cousin, Jeanne Méry; she grows prettier every day. Her chief joy is to come and see us, and to talk about you. She says she would ask nothing better than to be your wife, my dear Jean. But her father will not hear of the marriage, because he says we are poor, and also that you have been a bit of a scapegrace in your day. I think, however, that if you were to get your quartermaster’s stripes, and if we could see you coming home in your fine uniform, he would perhaps end by consenting after all. I could die happy if I saw you married to her. You would build a house near ours, which would no longer be fine enough for you. We often make plans about it together with Peyral in the evenings.