gs brood, told him that to throw up his present
chances would bring him no nearer and no sooner to Guida, and must
return him to the prison whence he came.

Yet he would write to Guida now, and send the letter when he was
released from parole. His courage grew as the sentences spread out
before him; he became eloquent. He told her how heavily the days and
months went on apart from her. He emptied out the sensations of absence,
loneliness, desire, and affection. All at once he stopped short. It
flashed upon him now that always his letters had been entirely of his
own doings; he had pictured himself always: his own loneliness, his own
grief at separation. He had never yet spoken of the details of her life,
questioned her of this and of that, of all the little things which fill
the life of a woman--not because she loves them, but because she is a
woman, and the knowledge and governance of little things is the habit
of her life. His past egotism was borne in upon him now. He would try to
atone for it. Now he asked her many questions in his letter. But one
he did not ask. He knew not how to speak to her of it. The fact that he
could not was a powerful indictment of his relations towards her, of his
treatment of her, of his headlong courtship and marriage.

So portions of this letter of his had not the perfect ring of truth, not
the conviction which unselfish love alone can beget. It was only at the
last, only when he came to a close, that the words went from him with
the sharp photography of his own heart. It came, perhaps, from a remorse
which, for the instant, foreshadowed danger ahead; from an acute pity
for her; or perchance from a longing to forego the attempt upon an
exalted place, and get back to the straightforward hours, such as those
upon the Ecrehos, when he knew that he loved her. But the sharpness of
his feelings rendered more intense now the declaration of his love.
The phrases were wrung from him. "Good-bye--no, a la bonne heure, my
dearest," he wrote. "Good days are coming--brave, great days, when I
shall be free to strike another blow for England, both from within
and from without France; when I shall be, if all go well, the Prince
d'Avranche, Duc de Bercy, and you my perfect Princess. Good-bye! Thy
Philip, qui t'aime toujours."

He had hardly written the last words when there came a knocking at his
door, and a servant entered. "His Highness offers his compliments to
monsieur, and will monsieur descend to