d tell
her that I am ready to sacrifice my life at a word from her?"

"There, now, you are going into the opposite extreme; but no, you must
not die; you must live--live to triumph over our enemies, and wear a
beautiful uniform, with which you will turn all the women's heads."

"Oh, my dear Brigaud, there is but one I wish to please."

"Well, you shall please her first, and the others afterward."

"When must I go?"

"This instant."

"You will give me half an hour?"

"Not a second."

"But I have not breakfasted."

"You shall come and breakfast with me."

"I have only two or three thousand francs here, and that is not enough."

"You will find a year's pay in your carriage."

"And clothes?"

"Your trunks are full. Had I not your measure? You will not be
discontented with my tailor."

"But at least, abbe, tell me when I may return."

"In six weeks to a day, the Duchesse de Maine will expect you at
Sceaux."

"But at least you will permit me to write a couple of lines."

"Well, I will not be too exacting."

The chevalier sat down and wrote:

"DEAR BATHILDE--To-day it is more than a danger which
threatens me; it is a misfortune which overtakes me. I
am forced to leave this instant, without seeing you,
without bidding you adieu. I shall be six weeks absent.
In the name of Heaven, Bathilde, do not forget him who
will not pass an hour without thinking of you.

RAOUL."

This letter written, folded, and sealed, the chevalier rose and went to
the window; but as we have said, that of his neighbor was closed when
Brigaud appeared. There was then no means of sending to Bathilde the
dispatch destined for her. D'Harmental made an impatient gesture. At
this moment they heard a scratching at the door. The abbe opened it, and
Mirza appeared, guided by her instinct, and her greediness, to the
giver of the bon-bons, and making lively demonstrations of joy.

"Well," said Brigaud, "who shall say God is not good to lovers? You
wanted a messenger, and here is one."

"Abbe, abbe," said D'Harmental, shaking his head, "do not enter into my
secrets before I wish it."

"Oh," replied Brigaud, "a confessor, you know, is an abyss."

"Then not a word will pass your lips?"

"On my honor, chevalier."

D'Harmental tied the letter to Mirza's neck, gave her a piece of sugar
as a reward for the commission she was about to accomplish; and, half
sad at having lost his beautiful neighbor for s