"Oh, agreed! I am not anxious to die," Henri laughed; "still, it is possible, for, be assured, Michel, I have felt very ill this night; certainly I have been nearer death than has been my lot before to-day. Who can tell how the malady will go--which turn it will take. This girl, I spoke of; if I should die, Michel, you shall take a message to her. _Sapristi_--it is an odd thing, that I who have exchanged vows with a hundred women should now remember with affection but one, and she the most artless of them all and doubtless the most virtuous. You will carry a message for this one, Michel, promise me--it is only in case of my death--come!" "I promise," murmured Louise. "Good--perhaps I shall live, in which case keep my secret, lest by that time I should think differently. But supposing that I should die, go to the Palais d'armes of old Pierre Dupré, there ask for his daughter Louise--remember their names--you shall take a note of them presently, and tell her that in dying Baron Henri d'Estreville remembered her with tenderness; of all his vows of love he remembered those only that he made to her, which vows, say, he would certainly have kept if he should have remained in the same mind when he returned." Louise suddenly broke in upon Henri's message with a merry laugh. "I will leave out the last sentence, it will not sound so well as the rest," she said. "If you had lived, I will say, you might have been faithful to her. That you died loving her fairly well." "Ah, you mock me!" said Henri. "No, I am serious. It is wonderful, but I remember that little simple one with true affection. To her lips I send a loving kiss, the pledge of my love." "Shall I carry your very kiss to her?" said Louise; "if--if it would be a comfort to you, I will do so." "Ah, rascal! I think I have roused your interest in my pretty one--well, if I die I care very little what happens; yes, take her my very kiss--bend over and receive it from me. It is a strange thing, Michel, but there is something in your face which reminds me of my Louise; in kissing you thus I can almost fancy it is she--I would to God it were!" "Ah, you rave again!" murmured Louise. CHAPTER XV. On the following morning Louise, busy over some service on Henri's behalf, heard herself hailed by a wounded man, lying in the larger room of the house now in use as a temporary hospital. This was a sergeant in her own regiment, a rough-tongued veteran, keen in war, strict for discipline, a terror to the young conscripts of the regiment. "Hi, you, Prevost, what the devil do you here?" he cried. "You don't seem to be wounded? May the devil claim all shirkers; why are you not with the colours?" "I was engaged last night in tending an officer who was sorely wounded," said Louise; "I am no shirker." "To Hell with your tending; I know what that means: the desire to be out of the line of fire combined with the hope of a _pourboire_; away with you and report yourself to Sergeant Villeboeuf by midday."