Ah, she had thought him the dreamer,
the enthusiast--maybe, in kind, credulous moments, the great man he
claimed to be; and he had only been the sensualist after all! That he
did not love Elise, she knew well enough: he had been coldblooded; in
this, at least, he was Napoleonic.
She had not spoken with him since that night; but she had had two long
letters superscribed: "In Camp, Headquarters, Dalgrothe Mountain," and
these had breathed only patriotism, the love of a cause, the warmth of
a strong, virile temperament, almost a poetical abandon of unnamed
ambitions and achievements. She had read the letters again and again,
for she had found it hard to reconcile them with her later knowledge of
this man. He wrote to her as to an ally, frankly, warmly. She felt the
genuine thing in him somewhere; and, in spite of all, she felt a sort of
kinship for him. Yet that scene--that scene! She flushed with anger
again, and, in spite of her smiling lips, the young Seigneur saw the
flush, and wondered.
"The thing must end soon," he said, as he rose to go, for a messenger had
come for him. "He is injuring the peace, the trade, and the life of the
parishes; he is gathering men and arms, drilling, exploiting military
designs in one country, to proceed against another. England is at peace
with France!"
"An international matter, this?" she asked sarcastically.
"Yes.
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