"Ah, Mademoiselle, if ever he leaves his bed again, it will be a
miracle."
She was not listening. Age, age again!--it makes all the difference.
Here came the coach--did it hold a letter for Raoul? Raoul was young.
The coach rolled by with less noise than usual, on the carpet of snow
churned brown with traffic. As it passed, the guard lifted his horn and
blew cheerily. She followed, telling herself it was a good omen. During
the long wait outside the post office she rebuked herself more than
once for building a hope upon it. Name after name was called, and at
each call a prisoner pushed forward to the doorway for his letter. She
caught sight of the General on the outskirts of the crowd. Her brother
would not come out until every letter had been distributed.
But when he appeared in the doorway she read the good news in his face.
He made his way briskly towards her, the prisoners falling back to
give passage.
"Right; it has come," he said. "Trot away home and have the valises
packed, while I run into 'The Dogs' and order the chaise."
Once clear of the town, she galloped. There was little need to hurry,
for her own valise had been packed overnight.
Having sent Mudge to attend to her brother's, she ran to Narcissus'
room--his scriptorium, as he called it.
Narcissus was at home to-day, busy with the cellar accounts. He took
stock twice a year and composed a report in language worthy of a
survey of the Roman Empire.
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