“My friend M. de Marigny, who seems to have fallen in love with you, has written me something of the adventures which have befallen you since you started on your journey to Poitiers. I need hardly tell you that I have awaited news from you with the greatest anxiety, and that I am overjoyed to know that you have come through so gallantly. I am sending a faithful man to meet you in order that he may bring you direct to me, for I am longing to clasp the son of my old friend in my arms. My daughter joins me in wishes for your speedy arrival. “LOUIS MARIE DE BENSEVAL.” I read it through twice in order to give myself time to recover from the blow, especially from the poniard stroke of that final sentence. “Very well,” I said at last. “This was very thoughtful of your master. Have the horses got ready and I will join you in a moment.” He hastened away, and when, having finished my wine, I descended into the courtyard of the inn, I found him awaiting me with the horses accoutred for the journey. I swung into the saddle and cantered out from the inn, he following a pace behind. But my serenity of the morning had vanished utterly. Now that I was face to face with the task which awaited me, now that there was no longer chance of evasion or escape, the blood turned to water in my veins. To make love to a woman I did not love, to appear before her always with a smile upon my lips and soft words upon my tongue, to play the gallant when my heart was far away, to lead her to the church, to be bound to her irrevocably, and finally to pass the remainder of my life in her company, always with deceit in my face--in a word, to live a lie!--that was the task I had set myself. Would I be able to accomplish it? Was it not beyond my poor strength? After all, did honor demand of me such a sacrifice? But I put that thought from me for the last time as I recalled certain scorching words which had been uttered to me on the road from Dairon. I must accomplish it, or prove myself unworthy of that temple in which she had enshrined me! I put my hand into my bosom and touched the note I carried there, repeating its one word over and over to myself: “Courage! Courage! Courage!” And in that moment my doubts fell away, never to return. I was armed, _cap-a-pie_, against whatever arrows fate might launch. At last I turned and motioned my attendant to come forward. “What is your name?” I asked, noting his intelligent face. “Bertin, monsieur.” “You left your master in good health, I trust?” “In excellent health, monsieur.” “And your mistress?” “She also, monsieur. I have never seen her looking better.” “Let me see,” I went on, “Madame de Benseval is dead, is she not?” “Oh, these many years, monsieur.” “There was only one child?” “Only one, monsieur.” “How old is she?” “Nineteen, monsieur.”