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After a pause Laflamme said: “She will not come here again, Carbourd? No? Ah, well, perhaps it is better so; but I should have liked to speak my thanks to her.”

That night Marie sat by the window of the sitting-room, with the light burning, and Angers asleep in a chair beside her–sat till long after midnight, in the thought that Laflamme, if he had reached the Cave, would, perhaps, dare something to see her and bid her good-bye. She would of course have told him not to come, but he was chivalrous, and then her blindness would touch him. Yet as the hours went by the thought came: was he, was he so chivalrous? was he altogether true?… He did not come. The next morning Angers took her to where the boat had been, but it was gone, and no oars were left behind. So, both had sought escape in it.

She went to the Cave. She took Angers with her now. Upon the wall a paper was found. It was a note from M. Laflamme. She asked Angers to give it to her without reading it. She put it in her pocket and kept it there until she should see Hugh Tryon. He should read it to her. She said to herself as she felt the letter in her pocket: “He loved me. It was the least that I could do. I am so glad.” Yet she was not altogether glad either, and disturbing thoughts crossed the parallels of her pleasure.

The Governor and Madame Solde first brought news of the complete escape of the prisoners. The two had fled through the hills by the Brocken Path, and though pursued after crossing, had reached the coast, and were taken aboard the Parroquet, which sailed away towards Australia. It is probable that Marie’s visitors had their suspicions regarding the escape, but they said nothing, and did not make her uncomfortable. Just now they were most concerned for her bitter misfortune. Madame Solde said to her: “My poor Marie–does it feel so dreadful, so dark?”

“No, madame, it is not so bad. There are so many things which one does not wish to see, and one is spared the pain.”

“But you will see again. When you go to England, to great physicians there.”

“Then I should have three lives, madame: when I could see, when sight died, and when sight was born again. How wise I should be!”

They left her sadly, and after a time she heard footsteps that she knew. She came forward and greeted Tryon.

“Ah,” she said, “all’s well with them, I know; and you were so good.”

“They are safe upon the seas,” he gently replied, and he kissed her hand.

“Now you will read this letter for me. M. Laflamme left it behind in the Cave.”

With a pang he took it, and read thus:

DEAR FRIEND,–My grief for your misfortune is inexpressible. If it were possible I should say so in person, but there is danger, and we must fly at once. You shall hear from me in full gratitude when I am in safety. I owe you so many thanks, as I give you so much of devotion. But there is the future for all. Mademoiselle, I kiss your hand.

Always yours,
RIVE LAFLAMME.

“Hugh!” she said sadly when he had finished, “I seem to have new knowledge of things, now that I am blind. I think this letter is not altogether real. You see, that was his way of saying-good-bye.”

What Hugh Tryon thought, he did not say. He had met the Governor on his way to Pascal House, and had learned some things which were not for her to know.

She continued: “I could not bear that one who was innocent of any real crime, who was a great artist, and who believed himself a patriot, should suffer so here. When he asked me I helped him. Yet I suppose I was selfish, wasn’t I? It was because he loved me.”

Hugh spoke breathlessly: “And because–you loved him, Marie?”

Her head was lifted quickly, as though she saw, and was looking him in the eyes. “Oh no, oh no,” she cried, “I never loved him. I was sorry for him–that was all.”

“Marie, Marie,” he said gently, while she shook her head a little pitifully, “did you, then, love any one else?”

She was silent for a space and then she said: “Yes–Oh, Hugh, I am so sorry for your sake that I am blind, and cannot marry you.”

“But, my darling, you shall not always be blind, you shall see again. And you shall marry me also. As though–life of my life! as though one’s love could live but by the sight of the eyes!”

“My poor Hugh! But, blind, I could not marry you. It would not be just to you.”

He smiled with a happy hopeful determination; “But if you should see again?”

“Oh, then….”

She married him, and in time her sight returned, though not completely. Tryon never told her, as the Governor had told him, that Rive Laflamme, when a prisoner in New Caledonia, had a wife in Paris: and he is man enough to hope that she may never know.

But to this hour he has a profound regret that duels are not in vogue among Englishmen.