“Niece—you my aunt? Cor-r-r-r-par-r-r-bleu. Exchange for another regiment—no!”
“Your soldier’s life is over now, Marie.”
“Not till my life is—”
“Niece!”
“Oh.”
“Read the letter, Marie—I, your father Sulpice, bid you read the letter.”
She took the old letter, which she had never much, thought of—for, whereas, somebody belonging to it had deserted her—she had found scores of fathers. She took the letter. Read it through. Let it fall. Covered her face with her hands. And the little daughter of the regiment quite wept again.
“Come, niece, come away. I have a pass, elegant, I presume, to my castle—my Castle of Berkenfelt.”
“Surely, marquise, I—I—dare say you will be happy, Marie.”
“Come, niece, come.” Then turning to the steward,