“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 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.” Louise was about to reply, when the gallop of a horse resounded under the porch of the castle. “What is that?” said Montalais, approaching the window. “A handsome cavalier, by my faith!” “Oh!—Raoul!” exclaimed Louise, who had made the same movement as her friend, and, becoming pale as death, sunk back beside her unfinished letter. “Now, he is a clever lover, upon my word!” cried Montalais; “he arrives just at the proper moment.” “Come in, come in, I implore you!” murmured Louise. “Bah! he does not know me. Let me see what he has come here for.” Chapter II. The Messenger. Mademoiselle de Montalais was right; the young cavalier was goodly to look upon. He was a young man of from twenty-four to twenty-five years of age, tall and slender, wearing gracefully the picturesque military costume of the period. His large boots contained a foot which Mademoiselle de Montalais might not have disowned if she had been transformed into a man. With one of his delicate but nervous hands he checked his horse in the middle of the court, and with the other raised his hat, whose long plumes shaded his at once serious and ingenuous countenance.