On the envelope were certainly inscribed her name and address in a heavy rustic scrawl, with pothooks and hangers tumbling over one another. When at last she made it all out, after being repeatedly baffled by the extraordinary style and spelling, she could not but smile again. It was a letter from Rosalie’s aunt, introducing Zephyrin Lacour, who had fallen a victim to the conscription, “in spite of two masses having been said by his reverence.” However, as Zephyrin was Rosalie’s “intended” the aunt begged that madame would be so good as to allow the young folks to see each other on Sundays. In the three pages which the letter comprised this question was continually cropping up in the same words, the confusion of the epistle increasing through the writer’s vain efforts to say something she had not said before. Just above the signature, however, she seemed to have hit the nail on the head, for she had written: “His reverence gives his permission”; and had then broken her pen in the paper, making a shower of blots. Hélène slowly folded the letter. Two or three times, while deciphering its contents, she had raised her head to glance at the soldier. He still remained close to the wall, and his lips stirred, as though to emphasize each sentence in the letter by a slight movement of the chin. No doubt he knew its contents by heart. “Then you are Zephyrin Lacour, are you not?” asked Hélène. He began to laugh and wagged his head. “Come in, my lad; don’t stay out there.” He made up his mind to follow her, but he continued standing close to the door, while Hélène sat down. She had scarcely seen him in the darkness of the ante-room. He must have been just as tall as Rosalie; a third of an inch less, and he would have been exempted from service. With red hair, cut very short, he had a round, freckled, beardless face, with two little eyes like gimlet holes. His new greatcoat, much too large for him, made him appear still more dumpy, and with his red-trousered legs wide apart, and his large peaked cap swinging before him, he presented both a comical and pathetic sight—his plump, stupid little person plainly betraying the rustic, although he wore a uniform. Hélène desired to obtain some information from him. “You left Beauce a week ago?” she asked. “Yes, madame!” “And here you are in Paris. I suppose you are not sorry?” “No, madame.” He was losing his bashfulness, and now gazed all over the room, evidently much impressed by its blue velvet hangings. “Rosalie is out,” Hélène began again, “but she will be here very soon. Her aunt tells me you are her sweetheart.” To this the little soldier vouchsafed no reply, but hung his head, laughing awkwardly, and scraping the carpet with the tip of his boot. “Then you will have to marry her when you leave the army?” Hélène continued questioning.