I read it thrice, and held it for a moment to my lips. Every word
stung me with the sweet pain that afflicted its author. I could
feel my cheeks burning.

"Ma'm'selle, pardon me; it is not I she refers to. She does not
say whom."

"Surely," said Therese, flirting her whip and lifting her
shoulders. "M'sieur Le Capitaine is never a stupid man. You--you
should say something very nice now."

"If it is I--thank God! Her misery is my delight, her liberation
my one purpose."

"And my congratulations," said she, giving me her hand. "She has
wit and beauty, a true heart, a great fortune, and--good luck in
having your love."

I raised my hat, blushing to the roots of my hair.

"It is a pretty compliment," I said. "And--and I have no gift of
speech to thank you. I am not a match for you except in my love of
kindness and--and of Louison. You have made me happier than I have
been before."

"If I have made you alert, ingenious, determined, I am content,"
was her answer. "I know you have courage."

"And will to use it."