"I felicitate you, madam." I bowed, and resumed my writing:
the Lady Nepean packet, outward bound from Falmouth to"
"Excuse me, but where the dickens are we bound for?"
"For the coast of Massachusetts, I believe."
"You believe?"
She nodded. "Young man, if you'll take my advice, you'll go back."
"Madam," I answered, on a sudden impulse, "I am an escaped French prisoner." And with that, having tossed my cap over the mills (as they say) I leaned back in the settee, and we regarded each other. "—Escaped!" I continued, still with my eyes on hers, "with a trifle of money, but minus my heart. I write this to the fair daughter of Britain who has it in her keeping. And now what have you to say?"
"Ah, well!" she mused, "the Lord's ways be past finding out. It may be the easier for you!"
Apparently it was the habit of this ship's company to speak in enigmas. I caught up my pen again:
". . . the coast of Massachusetts, in the United States of America, whence I hope to make my way in good time to France. Though you have news, dearest, I fear none can reach me for a while. Yet and though you have no more to write than 'I love you, Anne,' write it and commit it to Mr. Robbie, who will forward it to Mr. Romaine, who in turn may find a means to get it smuggled through to Paris, Rue du Fouarre 16. It should be consigned to the Widow Jupille, "to be called for by the corporal who praised her vin blanc." She will remember; and in truth a man who had the courage to praise it deserves remembrance as singular among the levies of France. Should a youth of the name of Rowley present himself before you, you may trust his fidelity absolutely, his sagacity not at all. And so (since the boat waits to take this) I kiss the name of Flora, and subscribe myself—until I come to claim her, and afterwards to eternity—her prisoner Anne
