"I am not quite deserted!" murmured Francesca, as she opened the letter, which contained these few words:—
"Ma belle princesse, are you immured in a dungeon, or only locked in your own chamber?—I hope the latter, as then my rôle de confidante has no difficulties in the way of its performance. I hear you are ill of a fever,—I do not believe it; but I do want to know what is the matter. What can I do for you? I have spoken to Charles, who has the most amiable intentions; the sooner, however, they are fulfilled the better. Mr. Evelyn is sure of his pardon—of his estate, not quite so certain; however, I suppose you can live upon love. My messenger is trustworthy: you can either speak or write.
"Yours, in all curiosity and sincerity,
"Marie."
Francesca hid her face in her hands, in a transport of mute but tearful thankfulness. Evelyn in safety and at liberty!—the very hope was perfect happiness. She caught up a pen, but the characters she traced were scarcely legible:
"I am, indeed, dearest Marie, a prisoner. Lord Avonleigh and the Duke surprised Mr. Evelyn
