At all events, I sat saying nothing; and then, abruptly, I began to think again about this letter. The surface of it was simple, kind and sweet; but there were three words in it that all at once repeated themselves to me, and gave me odd thoughts. “Eight thousand kisses.”

Then, too, why was this harmless letter so brief? The woman who wrote it professed a deep affection for her ward, and had few opportunities to communicate with her. I thought so much love might have been more copious in expression: more ample of news.

And those eight thousand kisses? Lovers, mothers, tender women writing to children, send a thousand kisses, or ten thousand kisses; they do not send two thousand or six thousand or eight thousand, though I could admit the possibility that here and there five thousand might be sent. Eight thousand was a number that was somehow wrong.

However, seeing that Nathaniel was fumbling for words, I thought it wise to say a few myself. I said them somewhat at random, but not altogether. During our voyage, my musings had occupied themselves a little with the quiet figure that had been our companion for a time; and just at this moment I recalled rather sharply that we had first encountered that figure in Marie de Sabrevois’s company. An impulse decided me to mention him.

“Well,” I said to Madame St. Auge, “it was a pleasure to meet the lady, and her uncle, also. It was due to Mr. Leonard that we were able to leave England when we did. I hoped he might arrive here before us, even.”

“Leonard?” she asked. “Leonard?” Then she smiled. “Ah, Lanaudiere!” The word was no sooner out of her mouth than her face seemed to stiffen. “Your English names!” she protested. “They’re difficult for us! I do not know that name you spoke! I do not know that gentleman! We have no knowledge of him.”

Here, at least, was something—not much, but a sign, perhaps: an indication. I fixed the name in my mind: Lanaudiere. It was possible that a Lanaudiere might somehow be connected with Marie de Sabrevois, and in no praiseworthy manner. At all events, Madame St. Auge had made a slip. That was clear from the volubility of her protests. She was frightened, too, at having made it; but I knew I could gain nothing by letting her see I had noticed her mistake.

“Too bad,” I said, “too bad! If you should ever meet Mr. Leonard, please to tell him we inquired for him. And now about that letter: as she says, of course, we’d be happy to assist this young lady in any possible way; but we’re in the army and not our own masters.”