“Charlotte goes with me to Italy, do you not, my dear? It was arranged, you know, that you should remain with me.” “I do not know, madame,” Charlotte stammered, turning very red. “I--I think perhaps I would better stop at Chambray.” For some reason which I could not fathom both monsieur and madame burst into a peal of laughter, while my companion turned an even deeper crimson. “As you will,” said her hostess when she had taken breath. “I myself think that you might do worse, happy as I would be to have you with me.” “Why cannot you stop at Chambray also, madame?” questioned Charlotte, her face slowly regaining its normal hue. “At least until you find some friend also bound for Italy? You will be quite safe at Chambray.” M. le Comte nodded. “She is right, my dear,” he said. “Accept, and thank her. No one will look for you there--besides, it is not for you they are searching, but for me.” “And where will you be, monsieur?” “I shall be in the Bocage,” he answered simply, “fighting the enemies of France.” Madame bit her lips to restrain their trembling, as she cast upon him a glance full of love and pride. “That is where I would be also,” she said, “if the choice were mine. Madame de la Rochejaquelein accompanies her husband.” “That is true,” he assented, “and she is sometimes frightfully in the way. If you knew that country, my love, you would see how impossible it is for women. Besides, I am not Rochejaquelein--I am not a leader, but a follower. I must go where I am ordered, and at once, without question. I shall fight better--I shall be worth more--knowing that you are in safety.” “Very well, monsieur,” she said, her eyes shining. “As you will. You know best.” He seized her hand and kissed it. “We shall have many happy days together,” he said, “when the fight is won.” And as I looked at them I fancied that happy future already realized. “You perceive, M. de Tavernay,” he smiled, catching my eyes, “that though I have the honor to be this lady’s husband, I have never ceased to be her lover.” “Indeed, that is not wonderful, M. le Comte,” I said, with a glance at the adoring face beside him. “Anything else is inconceivable.” “Thank you, monsieur!” cried madame. “You have the tongue of a courtier.” “I assure you, madame,” I protested, “that came from the heart.” She laughed as she rose to her feet, and held out her hand to me with a quick little pressure of the fingers. “Do not be long,” she said. “We women will be lonely.” I held back the drapery at the door for her and watched her as she passed--the beautiful, fair head, set imperiously upon the slender neck; the little ear, pink-tinted; the rounded, perfect arm---- Then another vision passed and eclipsed the first one, though all I caught of it was a glance from a pair of eyes dancing with mischief.