"Philosophy? No: I will not call it that. It was knowledge--the heart
wise in its own wisdom, surpassing mine, telling me that if I would but
be patient love would one day seek me out again, wherever I might wait,
and give me once more--life."

She rose and went to the window, paused there, turning back to Duchemin
a face composed but fairer for a deepened flush.

"But this is not writing to my bankers, monsieur," she said in a
changed but steady voice. "I must do that at once if I am to get the
letter in to-day's post."

"If madame will accept the advice of one not without some
experience..."

"What else does monsieur imagine I am doing?"

"Then you will write privately and burn your blotting paper; after
which you will post the letter with your own hands, letting nobody see
the address."

"And when shall I say I will make the journey?"

"As soon as your bankers can send their people to the Château de
Montalais."

"That will be in three days..."

"Or less."