brilliancy, I have never seen or heard.

My wound was healing. War and stern duty were as things of the far
past. The grand passion had hold of me. I tried to fight it down,
to shake it off, but somehow it had the claws of a tiger. There
was an odd thing about it all: I could not for the life of me tell
which of the two charming girls I loved the better. It may seem
incredible; I could not understand it myself. They looked alike,
and yet they were quite different. Louison was a year older and of
stouter build. She had more animation also, and always a quicker
and perhaps a brighter answer. The other had a face more serious,
albeit no less beautiful, and a slower tongue. She had little to
say, but her silence had much in it to admire, and, indeed, to
remember. They appealed to different men in me with equal force, I
did not then know why. A perplexing problem it was, and I had to
think and suffer much before I saw the end of it, and really came
to know what love is and what it is not.

[Illustration: "I could not for the life of me tell which of the
two charming girls I loved the better."]

Shortly I was near the end of this delightful season of illness. I
had been out of bed a week. The baroness had read to me every day,
and had been so kind that I felt a great shame for my part in our
deception. Every afternoon she was off in a boat or in her
caleche, and had promised to take me with her as soon as I was able
to go.

"You know," said she, "I am going to make you to stay here a full
month. I have the consent of the general."