Louise assumed a serious air, leant her chin upon her hand, and, in a tone full of candid remonstrance, “And do you reproach me with my good fortune?” said she. “Can you have the heart to do it? You have a future; you belong to the court; the king, if he should marry, will require Monsieur to be near his person; you will see splendid fetes; you will see the king, who they say is so handsome, so agreeable!” “Ay, and still more, I shall see Raoul, who attends upon M. le Prince,” added Montalais, maliciously. “Poor Raoul!” sighed Louise. “Now is the time to write to him, my pretty dear! Come, begin again, with that famous ‘Monsieur Raoul’ which figures at the top of the poor torn sheet.” She then held the pen toward her, and with a charming smile encouraged her hand, which quickly traced the words she named. “What next?” asked the younger of the two girls. “Why, now write what you think, Louise,” replied Montalais. “Are you quite sure I think of anything?” “You think of somebody, and that amounts to the same thing, or rather even more.” “Do you think so, Montalais?” “Louise, Louise, your blue eyes are as deep as the sea I saw at Boulogne last year! No, no, I mistake—the sea is perfidious: your eyes are as deep as the azure yonder—look!—over our heads!” “Well, since you can read so well in my eyes, tell me what I am thinking about, Montalais.” “In the first place, you don’t think Monsieur Raoul; you think My dear Raoul.” “Oh!——” “Never blush for such a trifle as that! ‘My dear Raoul,’ we will say—‘You implore me to write to you at Paris, where you are detained by your attendance on M. le Prince. As you must be very dull there, to seek for amusement in the remembrance of a provinciale——’” Louise rose up suddenly. “No, Montalais,” said she, with a smile; “I don’t think a word of that. Look, this is what I think;” and she seized the pen boldly and traced, with a firm hand, the following words:— “I should have been very unhappy if your entreaties to obtain a remembrance of me had been less warm. Everything here reminds me of our early days, which so quickly passed away, which so delightfully flew by, that no others will ever replace the charm of them in my heart.” Montalais, who watched the flying pen, and read, the wrong way upwards, as fast as her friend wrote, here interrupted by clapping her hands. “Capital!” cried she; “there is frankness—there is heart—there is style! Show these Parisians, my dear, that Blois is the city for fine language!” “He knows very well that Blois was a Paradise to me,” replied the girl. “That is exactly what you mean to say; and you speak like an angel.” “I will finish, Montalais,” and she continued as follows: “You often think of me, you say, Monsieur Raoul: I thank you; but that does not surprise me, when I recollect how often our hearts have beaten close to each other.” “Oh! oh!” said Montalais. “Beware; my lamb! You are scattering your wool, and there are wolves about.”