He has not been so thoroughly
trained to preserve his sang-froid, whatever may happen, as I, and I now
appreciate, for the first time, your wonderful patience and perseverance
in making me a master of the noble art of fencing, and how valuable my
proficiency in it will be to me. Your scholar does you honour, my brave
Pierre, and I won great praise and applause for my really too easy
victory. In spite of the constant novelty and excitement of my new way
of life, my thoughts often return to dwell upon my poor old chateau,
crumbling gradually into ruin over the tombs of my ancestors. From afar
it does not seem so desolate and forlorn, and there are times when
I fancy myself there once more, gazing up at the venerable family
portraits, wandering through the deserted rooms, and I find a sort
of melancholy pleasure in it. How I wish that I could look into your
honest, sunburnt face, lighted up with the glad smile that always
greeted me--and I am not ashamed to confess that I long to hear
Beelzebub's contented purring, Miraut's joyful bark, and the loud
whinnying of my poor old Bayard, who never failed to recognise my
step. Are they all still alive--the good, faithful, affectionate
creatures--and do they seem to remember me? Have you been able to keep
yourself and them from starvation thus far? Try to hold out until my
return, my good Pierre, so as to share my fate--be it bright or dark,
happy or sad--that we may finish our days together in the place where we
have suffered so much, yet which is so dear to us all.
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