The door to the library burst open. He wore a French military undress of the period, with high jack-boots, and a laced hat; and, though his attire indicated no particular rank, he had completely the air of a person of distinction. "Come with me, my love, come—come," cried his mother, seizing his hand, and endeavouring to force him away. She could not analyse what was stirring in her: the thought of losing the doll, the dog, and the cat. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him.
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