Ah, she had thought him the dreamer, the
enthusiast--maybe, in kind, credulous moments, the great man he claimed
to be; and he had only been the sensualist after all! That he did not
love Elise, she knew well enough: he had been coldblooded; in this, at
least, he was Napoleonic.
She had not spoken with him since that night; but she had had two long
letters superscribed: "In Camp, Headquarters, Dalgrothe Mountain," and
these had breathed only patriotism, the love of a cause, the warmth of a
strong, virile temperament, almost a poetical abandon of unnamed
ambitions and achievements. She had read the letters again and again, for
she had found it hard to reconcile them with her later knowledge of this
man. He wrote to her as to an ally, frankly, warmly. She felt the genuine
thing in him somewhere; and, in spite of all, she felt a sort of kinship
for him. Yet that scene--that scene! She flushed with anger again, and,
in spite of her smiling lips, the young Seigneur saw the flush, and
wondered.
"The thing must end soon," he said, as he rose to go, for a messenger had
come for him. "He is injuring the peace, the trade, and the life of the
parishes; he is gathering men and arms, drilling, exploiting military
designs in one country, to proceed against another.
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