“Not till my life is--” “NIECE!” “Oh.” “Read the letter, Marie--I, your father Sulpice, bid you read the letter.” She took the old letter, which she had never much, thought of--for, whereas, somebody belonging to it had deserted her--she had found scores of fathers. She took the letter. Read it through. Let it fall. Covered her face with her hands. And the little daughter of the regiment quite wept again. “Come, niece, come away. I have a pass, elegant, I presume, to my castle--my Castle of Berkenfelt.” “Surely, marquise, I--I--dare say you will be happy, Marie.” “Come, niece, come.” Then turning to the steward, “Order our carriage.” _Our_ carriage. The vivandiere’s carriage. The marquise marched up in great state to her niece. But at that moment there was a tremendous to-do on the drums, and the next moment a score or so of stout soldiers, Tony among them, came forward. By this time they were quite friendly with Tony, and had somehow cause to perceive what an admirable arrangement his marrying their daughter, the vivandiere, would be. “Ah, there you are, Marie.” “Pray, _who_ is this young man?” “Pardon, lady--Marie’s husband. Her fathers have said so. “Fall back, private--fall back. There’s a general of division has stopped the match.” “What?” “Yes, comrade--Marie leaves us. The letter has done its work. This is Marie’s aunt.” Perhaps many of the brave eleventh would have disputed this position with the butt end of a musket or so, but respect for their daughter stopped such a frightful proceeding; yet with one mighty voice they cried out, “Marie going to leave us. No, no, she won’t leave us.” “Leave us--no, no, Marie. Leave us--leave me, Tony?” “I must, I must.” She was a very different being now from the brisk vivandiere. Before, she was all smiles, now she was all tears. “I must go. For shame, do not make me worse than I am.” Tony took off his hat, which was decorated with the gay French cockade, and looked upon the innocent little fluttering ribbons with horror, for they told him he was bound to the regiment, and could not follow her. “Pray is our carriage ready.” “Good-bye, oh! good-bye all--all of you; and dear, dear Tony.” The soldiers were rude enough to push the marquise aside, that they might shake the hands of Marie, and some actually kissed her. “Men!” was the only remark the marquise could make. “Men!” “Good-bye, oh! good-bye all--all of you; and dear, dear Tony.” “When _will_ that carriage be ready?” The carriage was ready at last, but as she stepped into it, she turned her head to her then old companions. They had hoped she was going to run away to them, under which evidence of preference they would have defied the marquise, but the next moment she was seated, and “our carriage” rolled away. Her eyes were upon her old friends till she could see no more for tears and distance.