Later, when the night is filled with the sounds of the forest, and around the fire, the men snore, McGauran retrieves the red-wax sealed envelope from his pocket. With unsteady and stained fingers, he slips the letter out and unfolds the thick smooth paper, trying not to soil it. The ink is bold and dark blue. He loves the feel of the letter in his hand. It belongs to Honoré. Before reading the words, he brings the paper up to his nose, inhaling deeply. Honoré must have dropped a bit of his Fougère Royale on the paper. The familiar green and lemony scent awakens his body and he feels flushed already. Has to keep his wits. He reads, taking his time, enjoying every word.
Montreal, November 5th, 1886
My dearest friend,
It is late in the night and I write this letter sitting at my desk, she
