Some other hand had copied the address from it in
identical terms on the piece of white leather. She opened and read
it. It was the letter written to her by Charles on the bank of the
Kalugha river on the eve of Borodino, and left unfinished by him.
He must be dead. She prayed that he might be.
She was alone in the room, having come down early, as was her wont,
to prepare breakfast. She heard Lisa talking with some one at the
door--a messenger, no doubt, to say that Charles was dead.
One letter still remained unread. It was in a different writing--
the writing on the white leather.
"Madame," it read, "The enclosed papers were found on the field by
one of my orderlies. One of them being addressed to you, furnishes
a clue to their owner, who must have dropped them in the hurry of
the advance. Should Captain Charles Darragon be your husband, I
have the pleasure to inform you that he was seen alive and well at
the end of the day." The writer assured Desiree of his respectful
consideration, and wrote "Surgeon" after his name.
Desiree had read the explanation too late.
CHAPTER XIII. IN THE DAY OF REJOICING.
Truth, though it crush me.
The door of the room stood open, and the sound of a step in the
passage made Desiree glance up, as she hastily put together the
papers found on the battlefield of Borodino.
Louis d'Arragon was coming into the room, and for an instant, before
his expression changed, she saw all the fatigue that he must have
endured during the night; all that he must have risked.
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