Lafayette was taking out volunteers to help the United States in their war of independence. I told him I would go with him, and crossed hastily into Spain, whence he was going to sail to America.
I left a note to my uncle, and wrote to Edmée that, as far as I was concerned, she was free, and that, while I would not thwart a wish of hers, it was impossible for me to witness a rival's triumph.
Before we sailed came the following reply from Edmée:
"You have done well, Bernard. Go where honour and love of truth call you. Return when your mission is accomplished; you will find me neither married nor in a convent."
I cannot describe the American war. I stayed till peace was declared, and then chafing at my long absence from France, for I was away six years--and more in love with Edmée than ever, at last set sail and in due time landed at Brest.
I had not sent any letter to announce my coming, and when I reached the Château of Sainte-Sévère I almost feared to cross the threshold. Then I rushed forward and entered the drawing room. The chevalier was asleep and did not wake. Edmée, bending over her tapestry, did not hear my steps.
For a few seconds I stood looking at her, then I fell at her feet without being able to say a word. She uttered no cry, no exclamation of surprise, but took my head in her two arms, and held it for sometime pressed to her bosom. The good chevalier, who had waked with a start, stared at us in astonishment; then he said:
"Well, well! what is the meaning of this?"
He could not see my face, hidden as it was in Edmée's breast. She pushed me towards him, and the old man clasped me in his feeble arms with a burst of generous affection.
Never shall I forget the welcome they gave me. An immense change had taken place in me during those years of the war. I had learnt to bring my instincts and desires into harmony with my affections, my reason, and I had greatly developed my power of acquiring learning.