The Provencal took the letter from his son's hand, and looked at him with
an approbation half-complacent, half-ironical. "Mon fils!" said he,
patting the boy's head gently, "why should we not be friends? We want
each other; we have the strong world to fight against."

"Not if you are master of this place."

"Well answered,--no; then we shall have the strong world on our side, and
shall have only rogues and the poor to make war upon." Then, with a
quiet gesture, he dismissed his son, and gazed slowly on the letter. His
pulse, which was usually low, quickened, and his lips were tightly
compressed; he shrank from the contents with a jealous pang; as a light
quivers strugglingly in a noxious vault, love descended into that hideous
breast, gleamed upon dreary horrors, and warred with the noxious
atmosphere: but it shone still. To this dangerous man, every art that
gives power to the household traitor was familiar: he had no fear that
the violated seals should betray the fraud which gave the contents to the
eye that, at length, steadily fell upon the following lines:--

DEAREST, AND EVER DEAREST,--Where art thou at this moment? What are thy
thoughts,--are they upon me? I write this at the dead of night. I
picture you to myself as my hand glides over the paper. I think I see
you, as you look on these words, and envy them the gaze of those dark
eyes. Press your lips to the paper. Do you feel the kiss that I leave
there? Well, well! it will not be for long now that we shall be divided.
Oh, what joy, when I think that I am about to see you! Two days more, at
most three, and we shall meet, shall we not? I am going to see my
sister. I subjoin my address. Come, come, come; I thirst to see you
once more. And I did well to say, "Wait, and be patient;" we shall not