White Lies

by Charles Reade

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  You see now into what a fatal entanglement two high-minded young ladieswere led, step by step, through yielding to the natural foible of theirsex--the desire to hide everything painful from those they love, even atthe expense of truth.

  A nice mess they made of it with their amiable dishonesty. And pray takenotice that after the first White Lie or two, circumstances overpoweredthem, and drove them on against their will. It was no small part of alltheir misery that they longed to get back to truth and could not.

  We shall see presently how far they succeeded in that pious object, forthe sake of which they first entered on concealments. But first a wordis due about one of the victims of their amiable, self-sacrificinglubricity. Edouard Riviere fell in one night, from happiness andconfidence, such as till that night he had never enjoyed, to deep andhopeless misery.

  He lost that which, to every heart capable of really loving, is thegreatest earthly blessing, the woman he adored. But worse than that,he lost those prime treasures of the masculine soul, belief in humangoodness, and in female purity. To him no more could there be in naturea candid eye, a virtuous ready-mantling cheek: for frailty and treacheryhad put on these signs of virtue and nobility. Henceforth, let him livea hundred years, whom could he trust or believe in?

  Here was a creature whose virtues seemed to make frailty impossible:treachery, doubly impossible: a creature whose very faults--for faultsshe had--had seemed as opposite to treachery as her very virtues were.Yet she was all frailty and falsehood.

  He passed in that one night of anguish from youth to age. He went abouthis business like a leaden thing. His food turned tasteless. His lifeseemed ended. Nothing appeared what it had been. The very landscapeseemed cut in stone, and he a stone in the middle of it, and his hearta stone in him. At times, across that heavy heart came gushes of furiousrage and bitter mortification; his heart was broken, and his faith wasgone, for his vanity had been stabbed as fiercely as his love. "GeorgesDandin!" he would cry, "curse her! curse her!" But love and miseryoverpowered these heats, and froze him to stone again.

  The poor boy pined and pined. His clothes hung loose about him; hisface was so drawn with suffering, you would not have known him. He hatedcompany. The things he was expected to talk about!--he with his crushedheart. He could not. He would not. He shunned all the world; he wentalone like a wounded deer. The good doctor, on his return from Paris,called on him to see if he was ill: since he had not come for days tothe chateau. He saw the doctor coming and bade the servant say he wasnot in the village.

  He drew down the blind, that he might never see the chateau again. Hedrew it up again: he could not exist without seeing it. "She will bemiserable, too," he cried, gnashing his teeth. "She will see whether shehas chosen well." At other times, all his courage, and his hatred, andhis wounded vanity, were drowned in his love and its despair, and thenhe bowed his head, and sobbed and cried as if his heart would burst. Onemorning he was so sobbing with his head on the table, when his landladytapped at his door. He started up and turned his head away from thedoor.

  "A young woman from Beaurepaire, monsieur."

  "From Beaurepaire?" his heart gave a furious leap. "Show her in."

  He wiped his eyes and seated himself at a table, and, all in a flutter,pretended to be the state's.

  It was not Jacintha, as he expected, but the other servant. She made alow reverence, cast a look of admiration on him, and gave him a letter.His eye darted on it: his hand trembled as he took it. He turned awayagain to open it. He forced himself to say, in a tolerably calm voice,"I will send an answer."

  The letter was apparently from the baroness de Beaurepaire; a mere lineinviting him to pay her a visit. It was written in a tremulous hand.Edouard examined the writing, and saw directly it was written by Rose.

  Being now, naturally enough, full of suspicion, he set this down as anattempt to disguise her hand. "So," said he, to himself, "this is thegame. The old woman is to be drawn into it, too. She is to help to makeGeorges Dandin of me. I will go. I will baffle them all. I will exposethis nest of depravity, all ceremony on the surface, and voluptuousnessand treachery below. O God! who could believe that creature never lovedme! They shall none of them see my weakness. Their benefactor shallbe still their superior. They shall see me cold as ice, and bitter asgall."

  But to follow him farther just now, would be to run too far in advanceof the main story. I must, therefore, return to Beaurepaire, and show,amongst other things, how this very letter came to be written.

  When Josephine and Rose awoke from that startled slumber that followedthe exhaustion of that troubled night, Rose was the more wretched of thetwo. She had not only dishonored herself, but stabbed the man she loved.

  Josephine, on the other hand, was exhausted, but calm. The fearfulescape she had had softened down by contrast her more distant terrors.

  She began to shut her eyes again, and let herself drift. Above all, thedoctor's promise comforted her: that she should go to Paris with him,and have her boy.

  This deceitful calm of the heart lasted three days.

  Carefully encouraged by Rose, it was destroyed by Jacintha.

  Jacintha, conscious that she had betrayed her trust, was almostheart-broken. She was ashamed to appear before her young mistress, and,coward-like, wanted to avoid knowing even how much harm she had done.

  She pretended toothache, bound up her face, and never stirred from thekitchen. But she was not to escape: the other servant came down with amessage: "Madame Raynal wanted to see her directly."

  She came quaking, and found Josephine all alone.

  Josephine rose to meet her, and casting a furtive glance round the roomfirst, threw her arms round Jacintha's neck, and embraced her with manytears.

  "Was ever fidelity like yours? how COULD you do it, Jacintha? and howcan I ever repay it? But, no; it is too base of me to accept such asacrifice from any woman."

  Jacintha was so confounded she did not know what to say. But it was amystification that could not endure long between two women, who wereboth deceived by a third. Between them they soon discovered that it musthave been Rose who had sacrificed herself.

  "And Edouard has never been here since," said Josephine.

  "And never will, madame."

  "Yes, he shall! there must be some limit even to my feebleness, and mysister's devotion. You shall take a line to him from me. I will write itthis moment."

  The letter was written. But it was never sent. Rose found Josephine andJacintha together; saw a letter was being written, asked to see it; onJosephine's hesitating, snatched it out of her hand, read it, tore it topieces, and told Jacintha to leave the room. She hated the sight ofpoor Jacintha, who had slept at the very moment when all depended on herwatchfulness.

  "So you were going to send to HIM, unknown to me."

  "Forgive me, Rose." Rose burst out crying.

  "O Josephine! is it come to this? Would you deceive ME?"

  "You have deceived ME! Yes! it has come to that. I know all. Twill notconsent to destroy ALL I love."

  She then begged hard for leave to send the letter.

  Rose gave an impetuous refusal. "What could you say to him? foolishthing, don't you know him, and his vanity? When you had exposed yourselfto him, and showed him I had insulted him for you, do you think he wouldforgive me? No! this is to make light of my love--to make me waste thesacrifice I have made. I feel that sacrifice as much as you do, moreperhaps, and I would rather die in a convent than waste that night ofshame and agony. Come, promise me, no more attempts of that kind, or weare sisters no more, friends no more, one heart and one blood no more."

  The weaker nature, weakened still more by ill-health and grief, wasterrified into submission, or rather temporized. "Kiss me then," saidJosephine, "and love me to the end. Ah, if I was only in my grave!"

  Rose kissed her with many sighs, but Josephine smiled. Rose eyed herwith suspicion. That deep smile; what did it mean? She had formed someresolution. "She is going to deceive
me somehow," thought Rose.

  From that day she watched Josephine like a spy. Confidence was gonebetween them. Suspicion took its place.

  Rose was right in her misgivings. The moment Josephine saw thatEdouard's happiness and Rose's were to be sacrificed for her whomnothing could make happy, the poor thing said to herself, "I CAN DIE."

  And that was the happy thought that made her smile.

  The doctor gave her laudanum: he found she could not sleep: and hethought it all-important that she should sleep.

  Josephine, instead of taking these small doses, saved them all up,secreted them in a phial, and so, from the sleep of a dozen nights,collected the sleep of death: and now she was tranquil. This youngcreature that could not bear to give pain to any one else, prepared herown death with a calm resolution the heroes of our sex have not oftenequalled. It was so little a thing to her to strike Josephine. Deathwould save her honor, would spare her the frightful alternative ofdeceiving her husband, or of telling him she was another's. "PoorRaynal," said she to herself, "it is so cruel to tie him to a womanwho can never be to him what he deserves. Rose would then prove herinnocence to Edouard. A few tears for a weak, loving soul, and theywould all be happy and forget her."

  One day the baroness, finding herself alone with Rose and Dr. Aubertin,asked the latter what he thought of Josephine's state.

  "Oh, she was better: had slept last night without her usual narcotic."

  The baroness laid down her knitting and said, with much meaning, "AndI tell you, you will never cure her body till you can cure her mind. Mypoor child has some secret sorrow."

  "Sorrow!" said Aubertin, stoutly concealing the uneasiness these wordscreated, "what sorrow?"

  "Oh, she has some deep sorrow. And so have you, Rose."

  "Me, mamma! what DO you mean?"

  The baroness's pale cheek flushed a little. "I mean," said she, "thatmy patience is worn out at last; I cannot live surrounded by secrets.Raynal's gloomy looks when he left us, after staying but one hour;Josephine ill from that day, and bursting into tears at every word;yourself pale and changed, hiding an unaccountable sadness under forcedsmiles--Now, don't interrupt me. Edouard, who was almost like a son,gone off, without a word, and never comes near us now."

  "Really you are ingenious in tormenting yourself. Josephine is ill!Well, is it so very strange? Have you never been ill? Rose is pale! youARE pale, my dear; but she has nursed her sister for a month; is it awonder she has lost color? Edouard is gone a journey, to inherit hisuncle's property: a million francs. But don't you go and fall ill, likeJosephine; turn pale, like Rose; and make journeys in the region offancy, after Edouard Riviere, who is tramping along on the vulgar highroad."

  This tirade came from Aubertin, and very clever he thought himself.But he had to do with a shrewd old lady, whose suspicions had longsmouldered; and now burst out. She said quietly, "Oh, then Edouard isnot in this part of the world. That alters the case: where IS he?"

  "In Normandy, probably," said Rose, blushing.

  The baroness looked inquiringly towards Aubertin. He put on an innocentface and said nothing.

  "Very good," said the baroness. "It's plain I am to learn nothing fromyou two. But I know somebody who will be more communicative. Yes:this uncomfortable smiling, and unreasonable crying, and interminablewhispering; these appearances of the absent, and disappearances of thepresent; I shall know this very day what they all mean."

  "Really, I do not understand you."

  "Oh, never mind; I am an old woman, and I am in my dotage. For all that,perhaps you will allow me two words alone with my daughter."

  "I retire, madame," and he disappeared with a bow to her, and an anxiouslook at Rose. She did not need this; she clenched her teeth, and bracedherself up to stand a severe interrogatory.

  Mother and daughter looked at one another, as if to measure forces, andthen, instead of questioning her as she had intended, the baroness sankback in her chair and wept aloud. Rose was all unprepared for this. Shealmost screamed in a voice of agony, "O mamma! mamma! O God! kill mewhere I stand for making my mother weep!"

  "My girl," said the baroness in a broken voice, and with the mosttouching dignity, "may you never know what a mother feels who findsherself shut out from her daughters' hearts. Sometimes I think it is myfault; I was born in a severer age. A mother nowadays seems to be a sortof elder sister. In my day she was something more. Yet I loved my motheras well, or better than I did my sisters. But it is not so with those Ihave borne in my bosom, and nursed upon my knee."

  At this Rose flung herself, sobbing and screaming, at her mother'sknees. The baroness was alarmed. "Come, dearest, don't cry like that. Itis not too late to take your poor old mother into your confidence. Whatis this mystery? and why this sorrow? How comes it I intercept at everyinstant glances that were not intended for me? Why is the very airloaded with signals and secrecy? (Rose replied only by sobs.) Is somedeceit going on? (Rose sobbed.) Am I to have no reply but these sullensobs? will you really tell me nothing?"

  "I've nothing to tell," sobbed Rose.

  "Well, then, will you do something for me?"

  Such a proposal was not only a relief, but a delight to the deceivingbut loving daughter. She started up crying, "Oh, yes, mamma; anything,everything. Oh, thank you!" In the ardor of her gratitude, she wantedto kiss her mother; but the baroness declined the embrace politely, andsaid, coldly and bitterly, "I shall not ask much; I should not venturenow to draw largely on your affection; it's only to write a few linesfor me."

  Rose got paper and ink with great alacrity, and sat down all beaming,pen in hand.

  The baroness dictated the letter slowly, with an eye gimleting herdaughter all the time.

  "Dear--Monsieur--Riviere."

  The pen fell from Rose's hand, and she turned red and then pale.

  "What! write to him?"

  "Not in your own name; in mine. But perhaps you prefer to give me thetrouble."

  "Cruel! cruel!" sighed Rose, and wrote the words as requested.

  The baroness dictated again,--

  "Oblige me by coming here at your very earliest convenience."

  "But, mamma, if he is in Normandy," remonstrated Rose, fighting everyinch of the ground.

  "Never you mind where he is," said the baroness. "Write as I request."

  "Yes, mamma," said Rose with sudden alacrity; for she had recovered herready wit, and was prepared to write anything, being now fully resolvedthe letter should never go.

  "Now sign my name." Rose complied. "There; now fold it, and address itto his lodgings." Rose did so; and, rising with a cheerful air, said shewould send Jacintha with it directly.

  She was half across the room when her mother called her quietly back.

  "No, mademoiselle," said she sternly. "You will give me the letter.I can trust neither the friend of twenty years, nor the servant thatstayed by me in adversity, nor the daughter I suffered for and nursed.And why don't I trust you? Because YOU HAVE TOLD ME A LIE."

  At this word, which in its coarsest form she had never heard from thosehigh-born lips till then, Rose cowered like a hare.

  "Ay, A LIE," said the baroness. "I saw Edouard Riviere in the parkbut yesterday. I saw him. My old eyes are feeble, but they are notdeceitful. I saw him. Send my breakfast to my own room. I come of anancient race: I could not sit with liars; I should forget courtesy;you would see in my face how thoroughly I scorn you all." And she wenthaughtily out with the letter in her hand.

  Rose for the first time, was prostrated. Vain had been all this deceit;her mother was not happy; was not blinded. Edouard might come and tellher his story. Then no power could keep Josephine silent. The plot wasthickening; the fatal net was drawing closer and closer.

  She sank with a groan into a chair, and body and spirit alike succumbed.But that was only for a little while. To this prostration succeeded afeverish excitement. She could not, would not, look Edouard in the face.She would implore Josephine to be silent; and she herself would fly fromthe chateau. But, if
Josephine would not be silent? Why, then she wouldgo herself to Edouard, and throw herself upon his honor, and tell himthe truth. With this, she ran wildly up the stairs, and burst intoJosephine's room so suddenly, that she caught her, pale as death, on herknees, with a letter in one hand and a phial of laudanum in the other.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  Josephine conveyed the phial into her bosom with wonderful rapidityand dexterity, and rose to her feet. But Rose just saw her concealsomething, and resolved to find out quietly what it was. So she saidnothing about it, but asked Josephine what on earth she was doing.

  "I was praying."

  "And what is that letter?"

  "A letter I have just received from Colonel Raynal."

  Rose took the letter and read it. Raynal had written from Paris. He wascoming to Beaurepaire to stay a month, and was to arrive that very day.

  Then Rose forgot all about herself, and even what she had come for. Sheclung about her sister's neck, and implored her, for her sake, to tryand love Raynal.

  Josephine shuddered, and clung weeping to her sister in turn. For inRose's arms she realized more powerfully what that sister would sufferif she were to die. Now, while they clung together, Rose felt somethinghard, and contrived just to feel it with her cheek. It was the phial.

  A chill suspicion crossed the poor girl. The attitude in which she hadfound Josephine; the letter, the look of despair, and now this littlebottle, which she had hidden. WHY HIDE IT? She resolved not to letJosephine out of her sight; at all events, until she had seen thislittle bottle, and got it away from her.

  She helped her to dress, and breakfasted with her in the tapestriedroom, and dissembled, and put on gayety, and made light of everythingbut Josephine's health.

  Her efforts were not quite in vain. Josephine became more composed; andRose even drew from her a half promise that she would give Raynal andtime a fair trial.

  And now Rose was relieved of her immediate apprehensions for Josephine,but the danger of another kind, from Edouard, remained. So she ran intoher bedroom for her bonnet and shawl, determined to take the strongmeasure of visiting Edouard at once, or intercepting him. While she wasmaking her little toilet, she heard her mother's voice in the room. Thiswas unlucky; she must pass through that room to go out. She sat downand fretted at this delay. And then, as the baroness appeared to bevery animated, Rose went to the keyhole, and listened. Their mother wastelling Josephine how she had questioned Rose, and how Rose had told heran untruth, and how she had made that young lady write to Edouard, etc.;in short, the very thing Rose wanted to conceal from Josephine.

  Rose lost all patience, and determined to fly through the room and outbefore anybody could stop her. She heard Jacintha come in with somemessage, and thought that would be a good opportunity to slip outunmolested. So she opened the door softly. Jacintha, it seemed, had beenvolunteering some remark that was not well received, for the baronesswas saying, sharply, "Your opinion is not asked. Go down directly, andbring him up here, to this room." Jacintha cast a look of dismay atRose, and vanished.

  Rose gathered from that look, as much as from the words, who the visitorwas. She made a dart after Jacintha. But the room was a long one, andthe baroness intercepted her: "No," said she, gravely, "I cannot spareyou."

  Rose stood pale and panting, but almost defiant. "Mamma," said she, "ifit is Monsieur Riviere, I MUST ask your leave to retire. And you haveneither love nor pity, nor respect for me, if you detain me."

  "Mademoiselle!" was the stern reply, "I FORBID you to move. Be goodenough to sit there;" with which the baroness pointed imperiously toa sofa at the other side of the room. "Josephine, go to your room."Josephine retired, casting more than one anxious glance over hershoulder.

  Rose looked this way and that in despair and terror; but ended bysinking, more dead than alive, into the seat indicated; and even as shedrooped, pale and trembling, on that sofa, Edouard Riviere, worn andagitated, entered the room, and bowed low to them all, without a word.

  The baroness looked at him, and then at her daughter, as much as to say,now I have got you; deceive me now if you can. "Rose, my dear," saidthis terrible old woman, affecting honeyed accents, "don't you seeMonsieur Riviere?"

  The poor girl at this challenge rose with difficulty, and courtesiedhumbly to Edouard.

  He bowed to her, and stealing a rapid glance saw her pallor anddistress; and that showed him she was not so hardened as he had thought.

  "You have not come to see us lately," said the baroness, quietly, "yetyou have been in the neighborhood."

  These words puzzled Edouard. Was the old lady all in the dark, then? Asa public man he had already learned to be on his guard; so he stammeredout, "That he had been much occupied with public duties."

  Madame de Beaurepaire despised this threadbare excuse too much to noticeit at all. She went on as if he had said nothing. "Intimate as you werewith us, you must have some reason for deserting us so suddenly."

  "I have," said Edouard, gravely.

  "What is it?"

  "Excuse me," said Edouard, sullenly.

  "No, monsieur, I cannot. This neglect, succeeding to a somewhat ardentpursuit of my daughter, is almost an affront. You shall, of course,withdraw yourself altogether, if you choose. But not without anexplanation. This much is due to me; and, if you are a gentleman, youwill not withhold it from me."

  "If he is a gentleman!" cried Rose; "O mamma, do not you affront agentleman, who never, never gave you nor me any ground of offence. Whyaffront the friends and benefactors we have lost by our own fault?"

  "Oh, then, it is all your fault," said the baroness. "I feared as much."

  "All my fault, all," said Rose; then putting her pretty palms together,and casting a look of abject supplication on Edouard, she murmured, "mytemper!"

  "Do not you put words into his mouth," said the shrewd old lady. "Come,Monsieur Riviere, be a man, and tell me the truth. What has she said toyou? What has she done?"

  By this time the abject state of terror the high-spirited Rose was in,and her piteous glances, had so disarmed Edouard, that he had not theheart to expose her to her mother.

  "Madame," said he, stiffly, taking Rose's hint, "my temper andmademoiselle's could not accord."

  "Why, her temper is charming: it is joyous, equal, and gentle."

  "You misunderstand me, madame; I do not reproach Mademoiselle Rose. Itis I who am to blame."

  "For what?" inquired the baroness dryly.

  "For not being able to make her love me."

  "Oh! that is it! She did not love you?"

  "Ask herself, madame," said Edouard, bitterly.

  "Rose," said the baroness, her eye now beginning to twinkle, "wereyou really guilty of such a want of discrimination? Didn't you lovemonsieur?"

  Rose flung her arms round her mother's neck, and said, "No, mamma, Idid not love Monsieur Edouard," in an exquisite tone of love, that to afemale ear conveyed the exact opposite of the words.

  But Edouard had not that nice discriminating ear. He sighed deeply, andthe baroness smiled. "You tell me that?" said she, "and you are crying!"

  "She is crying, madame?" said Edouard, inquiringly, and taking a steptowards them.

  "Why, you see she is, you foolish boy. Come, I must put an end to this;"and she rose coolly from her seat, and begging Edouard to forgive herfor leaving him a moment with his deadly enemy, went off with knowinglittle nods into Josephine's room; only, before she entered it, sheturned, and with a maternal smile discharged this word at the pair.

  "Babies!"

  But between the alienated lovers was a long distressing silence. Neitherknew what to say; and their situation was intolerable. At last Roseventured in a timorous voice to say, "I thank you for your generosity.But I knew that you would not betray me."

  "Your secret is safe for me," sighed Edouard. "Is there anything else Ican do for you?"

  Rose shook her head sadly.

  Edouard moved to the door.

  Rose bowed her head with a despairing moan. It
took him by the heart andheld him. He hesitated, then came towards her.

  "I see you are sorry for what you have done to me who loved you so; andyou loved me. Oh! yes, do not deny it, Rose; there was a time you lovedme. And that makes it worse: to have given me such sweet hopes, only tocrush both them and me. And is not this cruel of you to weep so and letme see your penitence--when it is too late?"

  "Alas! how can I help my regrets? I have insulted so good a friend."

  There was a sad silence. Then as he looked at her, her looks belied thecharge her own lips had made against herself.

  A light seemed to burst on Edouard from that high-minded,sorrow-stricken face.

  "Tell me it is false!" he cried.

  She hid her face in her hands--woman's instinct to avoid being read.

  "Tell me you were misled then, fascinated, perverted, but that yourheart returned to me. Clear yourself of deliberate deceit, and I willbelieve and thank you on my knees."

  "Heaven have pity on us both!" cried poor Rose.

  "On us! Thank you for saying on us. See now, you have not gainedhappiness by destroying mine. One word--do you love that man?--thatDujardin?"

  "You know I do not."

  "I am glad of that; since his life is forfeited; if he escapes my friendRaynal, he shall not escape me."

  Rose uttered a cry of terror. "Hush! not so loud. The life of Camille!Oh! if he were to die, what would become of--oh, pray do not speak soloud."

  "Own then that you DO love him," yelled Edouard; "give me truth, if youhave no love to give. Own that you love him, and he shall be safe. It ismyself I will kill, for being such a slave as to love you still."

  Rose's fortitude gave way.

  "I cannot bear it," she cried despairingly; "it is beyond my strength;Edouard, swear to me you will keep what I tell you secret as the grave!"

  "Ah!" cried Edouard, all radiant with hope, "I swear."

  "Then you are under a delirium. I have deceived, but never wronged you;that unhappy child is not--Hush! HERE SHE COMES."

  The baroness came smiling out, and Josephine's wan, anxious face wasseen behind her.

  "Well," said the baroness, "is the war at an end? What, are we stillsilent? Let me try then what I can do. Edouard, lend me your hand."

  While Edouard hesitated, Josephine clasped her hands and mutelysupplicated him to consent. Her sad face, and the thought of how oftenshe had stood his friend, shook his resolution. He held out his hand,but slowly and reluctantly.

  "There is my hand," he groaned.

  "And here is mine, mamma," said Rose, smiling to please her mother.

  Oh! the mixture of feeling, when her soft warm palm pressed his. How thedelicious sense baffled and mystified the cold judgment.

  Josephine raised her eyes thankfully to heaven.

  While the young lovers yet thrilled at each other's touch, yet could notlook one another in the face, a clatter of horses' feet was heard.

  "That is Colonel Raynal," said Josephine, with unnatural calmness. "Iexpected him to-day."

  The baroness was at the side window in a moment.

  "It is he!--it is he!"

  She hurried down to embrace her son.

  Josephine went without a word to her own room. Rose followed her thenext minute. But in that one minute she worked magic.

  She glided up to Edouard, and looked him full in the face: not the sad,depressed, guilty-looking humble Rose of a moment before, but the oldhigh-spirited, and some what imperious girl.

  "You have shown yourself noble this day. I am going to trust you as onlythe noble are trusted. Stay in the house till I can speak to you."

  She was gone, and something leaped within Edouard's bosom, and a floodof light seemed to burst in on him. Yet he saw no object clearly: but hesaw light.

  Rose ran into Josephine's room, and once more surprised her on herknees, and in the very act of hiding something in her bosom.

  "What are you doing, Josephine, on your knees?" said she, sternly.

  "I have a great trial to go through," was the hesitating answer.

  Rose said nothing. She turned paler. She is deceiving me, thought she,and she sat down full of bitterness and terror, and, affecting not towatch Josephine, watched her.

  "Go and tell them I am coming, Rose."

  "No, Josephine, I will not leave you till this terrible meeting is over.We will encounter him hand in hand, as we used to go when our heartswere one, and we deceived others, but never each other."

  At this tender reproach Josephine fell upon her neck and wept.

  "I will not deceive you," she said. "I am worse than the poor doctorthinks me. My life is but a little candle that a breath may put out anyday."

  Rose said nothing, but trembled and watched her keenly.

  "My little Henri," said Josephine imploringly, "what would you do withhim--if anything should happen to me?"

  "What would I do with him? He is mine. I should be his mother. Oh! whatwords are these: my heart! my heart!"

  "No, dearest; some day you will be married, and owe all the mother toyour children; and Henri is not ours only: he belongs to some one I haveseemed unkind to. Perhaps he thinks me heartless. For I am a foolishwoman; I don't know how to be virtuous, yet show a man my heart. ButTHEN he will understand me and forgive me. Rose, love, you will writeto him. He will come to you. You will go together to the place where Ishall be sleeping. You will show him my heart. You will tell him all mylong love that lasted to the end. YOU need not blush to tell him all. Ihave no right. Then you will give him his poor Josephine's boy, and youwill say to him, 'She never loved but you: she gives you all thatis left of her, her child. She only prays you not to give him a badmother.'"

  Poor soul! this was her one bit of little, gentle jealousy; but it madeher eyes stream. She would have put out her hand from the tomb to keepher boy's father single all his life.

  "Oh! my Josephine, my darling sister," cried Rose, "why do you speak ofdeath? Do you meditate a crime?"

  "No; but it was on my heart to say it: it has done me good."

  "At least, take me to your bosom, my well-beloved, that I may not SEEyour tears."

  "There--tears? No, you have lightened my heart. Bless you! bless you!"

  The sisters twined their bosoms together in a long, gentle embrace. Youmight have taken them for two angels that flowed together in one love,but for their tears.

  A deep voice was now heard in the sitting-room.

  Josephine and Rose postponed the inevitable one moment more, byarranging their hair in the glass: then they opened the door, andentered the tapestried room.

  Raynal was sitting on the sofa, the baroness's hand in his. Edouard wasnot there.

  Colonel Raynal had given him a strange look, and said, "What, you here?"in a tone of voice that was intolerable.

  Raynal came to meet the sisters. He saluted Josephine on the brow.

  "You are pale, wife: and how cold her hand is."

  "She has been ill this month past," said Rose interposing.

  "You look ill, too, Mademoiselle Rose."

  "Never mind," cried the baroness joyously, "you will revive them both."

  Raynal made no reply to that.

  "How long do you stay this time, a day?"

  "A month, mother."

  The doctor now joined the party, and friendly greetings passed betweenhim and Raynal.

  But ere long somehow all became conscious this was not a joyful meeting.The baroness could not alone sustain the spirits of the party, and sooneven she began to notice that Raynal's replies were short, and that hismanner was distrait and gloomy. The sisters saw this too, and trembledfor what might be coming.

  At last Raynal said bluntly, "Josephine, I want to speak to you alone."

  The baroness gave the doctor a look, and made an excuse for goingdown-stairs to her own room. As she was going Josephine went to her andsaid calmly,--

  "Mother, you have not kissed me to-day."

  "There! Bless you, my darling!"

  Rayn
al looked at Rose. She saw she must go, but she lingered, and soughther sister's eye: it avoided her. At that Rose ran to the doctor, whowas just going out of the door.

  "Oh! doctor," she whispered trembling, "don't go beyond the door. Ifound her praying. My mind misgives me. She is going to tell him--orsomething worse."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I am afraid to say all I dread. She could not be so calm if she meantto live. Be near! as I shall. She has a phial hid in her bosom."

  She left the old man trembling, and went back.

  "Excuse me," said she to Raynal, "I only came to ask Josephine if shewants anything."

  "No!--yes!--a glass of eau sucree."

  Rose mixed it for her. While doing this she noticed that Josephineshunned her eye, but Raynal gazed gently and with an air of pity on her.

  She retired slowly into Josephine's bedroom, but did not quite close thedoor.

  Raynal had something to say so painful that he shrank from plunging intoit. He therefore, like many others, tried to creep into it, beginningwith something else.

  "Your health," said he, "alarms me. You seem sad, too. I don'tunderstand that. You have no news from the Rhine, have you?"

  "Monsieur!" said Josephine scared.

  "Do not call me monsieur, nor look so frightened. Call me your friend. Iam your sincere friend."

  "Oh, yes; you always were."

  "Thank you. You will give me a dearer title before we part this time."

  "Yes," said Josephine in a low whisper, and shuddered.

  "Have you forgiven me frightening you so that night?"

  "Yes."

  "It was a shock to me, too, I can tell you. I like the boy. Sheprofessed to love him, and, to own the truth, I loathe all treacheryand deceit. If I had done a murder, I would own it. A lie doubles everycrime. But I took heart; we are all selfish, we men; of the two sistersone was all innocence and good faith; and she was the one I had chosen."

  At these words Josephine rose, like a statue moving, and took a phialfrom her bosom and poured the contents into the glass.

  But ere she could drink it, if such was her intention, Raynal, with hiseyes gloomily lowered, said, in a voice full of strange solemnity,--

  "I went to the army of the Rhine."

  Josephine put down the glass directly, though without removing her handfrom it.

  "I see you understand me, and approve. Yes, I saw that your sister wouldbe dishonored, and I went to the army and saw her seducer."

  "You saw HIM. Oh, I hope you did not go and speak to him of--of this?"

  "Why, of course I did."

  Josephine resolved to know the worst at once. "May I ask," said she,"what you told him?"

  "Why, I told him all I had discovered, and pointed out the course hemust take; he must marry your sister at once. He refused. I challengedhim. But ere we met, I was ordered to lead a forlorn hope against abastion. Then, seeing me go to certain death, the noble fellow pitiedme. I mean this is how I understood it all at the time; at any rate, hepromised to marry Rose if he should live."

  Josephine put out her hand, and with a horrible smile said, "I thankyou; you have saved the honor of our family;" and with no more ado, shetook the glass in her hand to drink the fatal contents.

  But Raynal's reply arrested her hand. He said solemnly, "No, I havenot. Have you no inkling of the terrible truth? Do not fiddle withthat glass: drink it, or leave it alone; for, indeed, I need all yourattention."

  He took the glass out of her patient hand, and with a furtive look atthe bedroom-door, drew her away to the other end of the room; "and,"said he, "I could not tell your mother, for she knows nothing of thegirl's folly; still less Rose, for I see she loves him still, or why isshe so pale? Advise me, now, whilst we are alone. Colonel Dujardin wasCOMPARATIVELY indifferent to YOU. Will you undertake the task? A roughsoldier like me is not the person to break the terrible tidings to thatpoor girl."

  "What tidings? You confuse, you perplex me. Oh! what does this horriblepreparation mean?"

  "It means he will never marry your sister; he will never see her more."

  Then Raynal walked the room in great agitation, which at oncecommunicated itself to his hearer. But the loving heart is ingenious inavoiding its dire misgivings.

  "I see," said she; "he told you he would never visit Beaurepaire again.He was right."

  Raynal shook his head sorrowfully.

  "Ah, Josephine, you are far from the truth. I was to attack the bastion.It was mined by the enemy, and he knew it. He took advantage of myback being turned. He led his men out of the trenches; he assaulted thebastion at the head of his brigade. He took it."

  "Ah, it was noble; it was like him."

  "The enemy, retiring, blew the bastion into the air, and Dujardin--isdead."

  "Dead!" said Josephine, in stupefied tones, as if the word conveyed nomeaning to her mind, benumbed and stunned by the blow.

  "Don't speak so loud," said Raynal; "I hear the poor girl at the door.Ay, he took my place, and is dead."

  "Dead!"

  "Swallowed up in smoke and flames, overwhelmed and crushed under theruins."

  Josephine's whole body gave way, and heaved like a tree falling underthe axe. She sank slowly to her knees, and low moans of agony broke fromher at intervals. "Dead, dead, dead!"

  "Is it not terrible?" he cried.

  She did not see him nor hear him, but moaned out wildly, "Dead, dead,dead!" The bedroom-door was opened.

  She shrieked with sudden violence, "Dead! ah, pity! the glass! thecomposing draught." She stretched her hands out wildly. Raynal, with aface full of concern, ran to the table, and got the glass. She crawledon her knees to meet it; he brought it quickly to her hand.

  "There, my poor soul!"

  Even as their hands met, Rose threw herself on the cup, and snatchedit with fury from them both. She was white as ashes, and her eyes,supernaturally large, glared on Raynal with terror. "Madman!" she cried,"would you kill her?"

  He glared back on her: what did this mean? Their eyes were fixed on eachother like combatants for life and death; they did not see that the roomwas filling with people, that the doctor was only on the other side ofthe table, and that the baroness and Edouard were at the door, and alllooking wonderstruck at this strange sight--Josephine on her knees,and those two facing each other, white, with dilating eyes, the glassbetween them.

  But what was that to the horror, when the next moment the patientJosephine started to her feet, and, standing in the midst, tore her hairby handfuls, out of her head.

  "Ah, you snatch the kind poison from me!"

  "Poison!"

  "Poison!"

  "Poison!" cried the others, horror-stricken.

  "Ah! you won't let me die. Curse you all! curse you! I never had my ownway in anything. I was always a slave and a fool. I have murdered theman I love--I love. Yes, my husband, do you hear? the man I love."

  "Hush! daughter, respect my gray hairs."

  "Your gray hairs! You are not so old in years as I am in agony. So thisis your love, Rose! Ah, you won't let me die--won't you? THEN I'LL DOWORSE--I'LL TELL."

  "He who is dead; you have murdered him amongst you, and I'll followhim in spite of you all--he was my betrothed. He struggled wounded,bleeding, to my feet. He found me married. News came of my husband'sdeath; I married my betrothed."

  "Married him!" exclaimed the baroness.

  "Ah, my poor mother. And she kissed me so kindly just now--she will kissme no more. Oh, I am not ashamed of marrying him. I am only ashamedof the cowardice that dared not do it in face of all the world. We hadscarce been happy a fortnight, when a letter came from Colonel Raynal.He was alive. I drove my true husband away, wretch that I was. Nonebut bad women have an atom of sense. I tried to do my duty to my legalhusband. He was my benefactor. I thought it was my duty. Was it? I don'tknow: I have lost the sense of right and wrong. I turned from a livingcreature to a lie. He who had scattered benefits on me and all thishouse; he whom it was too little to love; he ought
to have been adored:this man came here one night to wife proud, joyous, and warm-hearted. Hefound a cradle, and two women watching it. Now Edouard, now MONSIEUR, doyou see that life is IMPOSSIBLE to me? One bravely accused herself: shewas innocent. One swooned away like a guilty coward."

  Edouard uttered an exclamation.

  "Yes, Edouard, you shall not be miserable like me; she was guilty. Youdo not understand me yet, my poor mother--and she was so happy thismorning--I was the liar, the coward, the double-faced wife, themiserable mother that denied her child. Now will you let me die? Now doyou see that I can't and won't live upon shame and despair? Ah, MonsieurRaynal, my dear friend, you were always generous: you will pity andkill me. I have dishonored the name you gave me to keep: I am neitherBeaurepaire nor Raynal. Do pray kill me, monsieur--Jean, do pray releaseme from my life!"

  And she crawled to his knees and embraced them, and kissed his hand, andpleaded more piteously for death, than others have begged for life.

  Raynal stood like a rock: he was pale, and drew his breath audibly,but not a word. Then came a sight scarce less terrible than Josephine'sdespair. The baroness, looking and moving twenty years older than anhour before, tottered across the room to Raynal.

  "Sir, you whom I have called my son, but whom I will never presume soto call again, I thought I had lived long enough never to have to blushagain. I loved you, monsieur. I prayed every day for you. But she whoWAS my daughter was not of my mind. Monsieur, I have never knelt but toGod and to my king, and I kneel to you: forgive us, sir, forgive us!"

  She tried to go down on her knees. He raised her with his strong arm,but he could not speak. She turned on the others.

  "So this is the secret you were hiding from me! This secret has notkilled you all. Oh! I shall not live under its shame so long asyou have. Chateau of Beaurepaire--nest of treason, ingratitude, andimmodesty--I loathe you as much as once I loved you. I will go and hidemy head, and die elsewhere."

  "Stay, madame!" said he, in a voice whose depth and dignity wassuch that it seemed impossible to disobey it. "It was sudden--I wasshaken--but I am myself again."

  "Oh, show some pity!" cried Rose.

  "I shall try to be just."

  There was a long, trembling silence; and during that silence andterrible agitation, one figure stood firm among those quaking, beatinghearts, like a rock with the waves breaking round it--the MAN OFPRINCIPLE among the creatures of impulse.

  He raised Josephine from her knees, and placed her all limp andpowerless in an arm-chair. To her frenzy had now succeeded a sicknessand feebleness like unto death.

  "Widow Dujardin," said he, in a broken voice, "listen to me."

  She moaned a sort of assent.

  "Your mistake has been not trusting me. I was your friend, and nota selfish friend. I was not enough in love with you to destroy yourhappiness. Besides, I despise that sort of love. If you had told me all,I would have spared you this misery. By the present law, civil contractsof marriage can be dissolved by mutual consent."

  At this the baroness uttered some sign of surprise.

  "Ah!" continued Raynal, sadly, "you are aristocrats, and cannot keeppace with the times. This very day our mere contract shall be formallydissolved. Indeed, it ceases to exist since both parties are resolvedto withdraw from it. So, if you married Dujardin in a church, you areMadame Dujardin at this moment, and his child is legitimate. What doesshe say?"

  This question was to Rose, for what Josephine uttered sounded like amere articulate moan. But Rose's quick ear had caught words, and shereplied, all in tears, "My poor sister is blessing you, sir. We allbless you."

  "She does not understand my position," said Raynal. He then walked up toJosephine, and leaning over her arm, and speaking rather loud, under theimpression that her senses were blunted by grief, he said, "Look here:Colonel Dujardin, your husband, deliberately, and with his eyes open,sacrificed his life for me, and for his own heroic sense of honor. Now,it is my turn. If that hero stood here, and asked me for all the bloodin my body, I would give it him. He is gone; but, dying for me, he hasleft me his widow and his child; they remain under my wing. To protectthem is my pride, and my only consolation. I am going to the mayor toannul our unlucky contract in due form, and make us brother and sisterinstead. But," turning to the baroness, "don't you think to escape meas your daughter has done: no, no, old lady, once a mother, always amother. Stir from your son's home if you dare!"

  And with these words, in speaking which his voice had recovered its ironfirmness, he strode out at the door, superb in manhood and principle,and every eye turned with wonder and admiration after him. Even when hewas gone they gazed at the door by which a creature so strangely noblehad disappeared.

  The baroness was about to follow him without taking any notice ofJosephine. But Rose caught her by the gown. "O mother, speak to poorJosephine: bid her live."

  The baroness only made a gesture of horror and disgust, and turned herback on them both.

  Josephine, who had tottered up from her seat at Rose's words, sankheavily down again, and murmured, "Ah! the grave holds all that love menow."

  Rose ran to her side. "Cruel Josephine! what, do not I love you? Mother,will you not help me persuade her to live? Oh! if she dies, I will dietoo; you will kill both your children."

  Stern and indignant as the baroness was, yet these words pierced herheart. She turned with a piteous, half apologetic air to Edouard andAubertin. "Gentlemen," said she, "she has been foolish, not guilty.Heaven pardons the best of us. Surely a mother may forgive her child."And with this nature conquered utterly; and she held out her arms, wide,wide, as is a mother's heart. Her two erring children rushed sobbingviolently into them; and there was not a dry eye in the room for a longtime.

  After this, Josephine's heart almost ceased to beat. Fear andmisgivings, and the heavy sense of deceit gnawing an honorable heart,were gone. Grief reigned alone in the pale, listless, bereaved widow.

  The marriage was annulled before the mayor; and, three days afterwards,Raynal, by his influence, got the consummated marriage formally allowedin Paris.

  With a delicacy for which one would hardly have given him credit, henever came near Beaurepaire till all this was settled; but he broughtthe document from Paris that made Josephine the widow Dujardin, andher boy the heir of Beaurepaire; and the moment she was really MadameDujardin he avoided her no longer; and he became a comfort to herinstead of a terror.

  The dissolution of the marriage was a great tie between them. So muchthat, seeing how much she looked up to Raynal, the doctor said one dayto the baroness, "If I know anything of human nature, they will marryagain, provided none of you give her a hint which way her heart isturning."

  They, who have habituated themselves to live for others, can suffer aswell as do great things. Josephine kept alive. A passion such as hers,in a selfish nature, must have killed her.

  Even as it was, she often said, "It is hard to live."

  Then they used to talk to her of her boy. Would she leave him--Camille'sboy--without a mother? And these words were never spoken to her quite invain.

  Her mother forgave her entirely, and loved her as before. Who could beangry with her long? The air was no longer heavy with lies. Wretched asshe was, she breathed lighter. Joy and hope were gone. Sorrowful peacewas coming. When the heart comes to this, nothing but Time can cure; butwhat will not Time do? What wounds have I seen him heal! His cures areincredible.

  The little party sat one day, peaceful, but silent and sad, in thePleasaunce, under the great oak.

  Two soldiers came to the gate. They walked feebly, for one was lame, andleaned upon the other, who was pale and weak, and leaned upon a stick.

  "Soldiers," said Raynal, "and invalided."

  "Give them food and wine," said Josephine.

  Rose went towards them; but she had scarcely taken three steps ere shecried out,--

  "It is Dard! it is poor Dard! Come in, Dard, come in."

  Dard limped towards them, leaning upon Sergeant La Croix. A b
it ofDard's heel had been shot away, and of La Croix's head.

  Rose ran to the kitchen.

  "Jacintha, bring out a table into the Pleasaunce, and something for twoguests to eat."

  The soldiers came slowly to the Pleasaunce, and were welcomed, andinvited to sit down, and received with respect; for France even in thatday honored the humblest of her brave.

  Soon Jacintha came out with a little round table in her hands, andaffected a composure which was belied by her shaking hands and herglowing cheek.

  After a few words of homely welcome--not eloquent, but very sincere--shewent off again with her apron to her eyes. She reappeared with the goodcheer, and served the poor fellows with radiant zeal.

  "What regiment?" asked Raynal.

  Dard was about to answer, but his superior stopped him severely;then, rising with his hand to his forehead, he replied, with pride,"Twenty-fourth brigade, second company. We were cut up at Philipsburg,and incorporated with the 12th."

  Raynal instantly regretted his question; for Josephine's eye fixed onSergeant La Croix with an expression words cannot paint. Yet she showedmore composure, real or forced, than he expected.

  "Heaven sends him," said she. "My friend, tell me, were you--ah!"

  Colonel Raynal interfered hastily. "Think what you do. He can tell younothing but what we know, not so much, in fact, as we know; for, now Ilook at him, I think this is the very sergeant we found lying insensibleunder the bastion. He must have been struck before the bastion was takeneven."

  "I was, colonel, I was. I remember nothing but losing my senses, andfeeling the colors go out of my hand."

  "There, you see, he knows nothing," said Raynal.

  "It was hot work, colonel, under that bastion, but it was hotter to thepoor fellows that got in. I heard all about it from Private Dard here."

  "So, then, it was you who carried the colors?"

  "Yes, I was struck down with the colors of the brigade in my hand,"cried La Croix.

  "See how people blunder about, everything; they told me the colonelcarried the colors."

  "Why, of course he did. You don't think our colonel, the fightingcolonel, would let me hold the colors of the brigade so long as he wasalive. No; he was struck by a Prussian bullet, and he had just time tohand the colors to me, and point with his sword to the bastion, and downhe went. It was hot work, I can tell you. I did not hold them long, notthirty seconds, and if we could know their history, they passed throughmore hands than that before they got to the Prussian flag-staff."

  Raynal suddenly rose, and walked rapidly to and fro, with his handsbehind him.

  "Poor colonel!" continued La Croix. "Well, I love to think he died likea soldier, and not like some of my poor comrades, hashed to atoms, andnot a volley fired over him. I hope they put a stone over him, for hewas the best soldier and the best general in the army."

  "O sir!" cried Josephine, "there is no stone even to mark the spot wherehe fell," and she sobbed despairingly.

  "Why, how is this, Private Dard?" inquired La Croix, sternly.

  Dard apologized for his comrade, and touching his own head significantlytold them that since his wound the sergeant's memory was defective.

  "Now, sergeant, didn't I tell you the colonel must have got the betterof his wound, and got into the battery?"

  "It's false, Private Dard; don't I know our colonel better than that?Would ever he have let those colors out of his hand, if there had beenan ounce of life left in him?"

  "He died at the foot of the battery, I tell you."

  "Then why didn't we find him?"

  Here Jacintha put in a word with the quiet subdued meaning of her class."I can't find that anybody ever saw the colonel dead."

  "They did not find him, because they did not look for him," saidSergeant La Croix.

  "God forgive you, sergeant!" said Dard, with some feeling. "Not lookfor OUR COLONEL! We turned over every body that lay there,--full thirtythere were,--and you were one of them."

  "Only thirty! Why, we settled more Prussians than that, I'll swear."

  "Oh! they carried off their dead."

  "Ay! but I don't see why they should carry our colonel off. His epauletswas all the thieves could do any good with. Stop! yet I do, PrivateDard; I have a horrible suspicion. No, I have not; it is a certainty.What! don't you see, ye ninny? Thunder and thousands of devils, here's adisgrace. Dogs of Prussians! they have got our colonel, they have takenhim prisoner."

  "O God bless them!" cried Josephine; "O God bless the mouth that tellsme so! O sir, I am his wife, his poor heart-broken wife. You would notbe so cruel as to mock my despair. Say again that he may be alive, pray,say it again!"

  "His wife! Private Dard, why didn't you tell me? You tell me nothing.Yes, my pretty lady, I'll say it again, and I'll prove it. Here is anenemy in full retreat, would they encumber themselves with the colonel?If he was dead, they'd have whipped off his epaulets, and left himthere. Alive? why not? Look at me: I am alive, and I was worse woundedthan he was. They took me for dead, you see. Courage, madame! you willsee him again, take an old soldier's word for it. Dard, attention! thisis the colonel's wife."

  She gazed on the speaker like one in a trance.

  Every eye and every soul had been so bent on Sergeant La Croix that itwas only now Raynal was observed to be missing. The next minute he cameriding out of the stable-yard, and went full gallop down the road.

  "Ah!" cried Rose, with a burst of hope; "he thinks so too; he has hopes.He is gone somewhere for information. Perhaps to Paris."

  Josephine's excitement and alternations of hope and fear were nowalarming. Rose held her hand, and implored her to try and be calm tillthey could see Raynal.

  Just before dark he came riding fiercely home. Josephine flew down thestairs. Raynal at sight of her forgot all his caution. He waved hiscocked hat in the air. She fell on her knees and thanked God. He gaspedout,--

  "Prisoner--exchanged for two Prussian lieutenants--sent home--they sayhe is in France!"

  The tears of joy gushed in streams from her.

  Some days passed in hope and joy inexpressible; but the good doctorwas uneasy for Josephine. She was always listening with supernaturalkeenness and starting from her chair, and every fibre of her lovelyperson seemed to be on the quiver.

  Nor was Rose without a serious misgiving. Would husband and wife evermeet? He evidently looked on her as Madame Raynal, and made it a pointof honor to keep away from Beaurepaire.

  They had recourse to that ever-soothing influence--her child. MadameJouvenel was settled in the village, and Josephine visited her everyday, and came back often with red eyes, but always soothed.

  One day Rose and she went to Madame Jouvenel, and, entering the housewithout ceremony, found the nurse out, and no one watching the child.

  "How careless!" said Rose.

  Josephine stopped eagerly to kiss him. But instead of kissing him, sheuttered a loud cry. There was a locket hanging round his neck.

  It was a locket containing some of Josephine's hair and Camille's. Shehad given it him in the happy days that followed their marriage. Shestood gasping in the middle of the room. Madame Jouvenel came runningin soon after. Josephine, by a wonderful effort over herself, asked hercalmly and cunningly,--

  "Where is the gentleman who put this locket round my child's neck? Iwant to speak with him."

  Madame Jouvenel stammered and looked confused.

  "A soldier--an officer?--come, tell me!"

  "Woman," cried Rose, "why do you hesitate?"

  "What am I to do?" said Madame Jouvenel. "He made me swear never tomention his coming here. He goes away, or hides whenever you come. Andsince Madame does not love the poor wounded gentleman, what can he dobetter?"

  "Not love him!" cried Rose: "why, she is his wife, his lawful weddedwife; he is a fool or a monster to run away for her. She loves him as nowoman ever loved before. She pines for him. She dies for him."

  The door of a little back room opened at these words of Rose, and therestood Camille,
with his arm in a sling, pale and astounded, but greatjoy and wonder working in his face.

  Josephine gave a cry of love that made the other two women weep, and ina moment they were sobbing for joy upon each other's neck.

  Away went sorrow, doubt, despair, and all they had suffered. That onemoment paid for all. And in that moment of joy and surprise, so great asto be almost terrible, perhaps it was well for Josephine that Camille,weakened by his wound, was quite overcome, and nearly fainted. She washerself just going into hysterics; but, seeing him quite overcome,she conquered them directly, and nursed, and soothed, and pitied, andencouraged him instead.

  Then they sat hand in hand. Their happiness stopped their very breath.They could not speak. So Rose told him all. He never owned why he hadslipped away when he saw them coming. He forgot it. He forgot all hishard thoughts of her. They took him home in the carriage. His wife wouldnot let him out of her sight. For years and years after this she couldhardly bear to let him be an hour out of her sight.

  The world is wide; there may be a man in it who can paint the suddenbliss that fell on these two much suffering hearts; but I am not thatman; this is beyond me; it was not only heaven, but heaven after hell.

  Leave we the indescribable and the unspeakable for a moment, and go to alighter theme.

  The day Rose's character was so unexpectedly cleared, Edouard had noopportunity of speaking to her, or a reconciliation would have takenplace. As it was, he went home intensely happy. But he did not resumehis visits to the chateau. When he came to think calmly over it, hisvanity was cruelly mortified. She was innocent of the greater offence;but how insolently she had sacrificed him, his love, and his respect, toanother's interest.

  More generous thoughts prevailed by degrees. And one day that her paleface, her tears, and her remorse got the better of his offended pride,he determined to give her a good lecture that should drown her inpenitent tears; and then end by forgiving her. For one thing he couldnot be happy till he had forgiven her.

  She walked into the room with a calm, dignified, stately air, and beforehe could utter one word of his grave remonstrance, attacked him thus:"You wish to speak to me, sir. If it is to apologize to me, I will saveyour vanity the mortification. I forgive you."

  "YOU forgive ME!" cried Edouard furiously.

  "No violence, if you please," said the lady with cold hauteur. "Let usbe friends, as Josephine and Raynal are. We cannot be anything moreto one another now. You have wounded me too deeply by your jealous,suspicious nature."

  Edouard gasped for breath, and was so far out-generalled that heaccepted the place of defendant. "Wasn't I to believe your own lips? Didnot Colonel Raynal believe you?"

  "Oh, that's excusable. He did not know me. But you were my lover; youought to have seen I was forced to deceive poor Raynal. How dare youbelieve your eyes; much more your ears, against my truth, against myhonor; and then to believe such nonsense?" Then, with a grand assumptionof superior knowledge, says she, "You little simpleton, how could thechild be mine when I wasn't married at all?"

  At this reproach, Edouard first stared, then grinned. "I forgot that,"said he.

  "Yes, and you forgot the moon isn't made of green cheese. However, if Isaw you very humble, and very penitent, I might, perhaps, really forgiveyou--in time."

  "No, forgive me at once. I don't understand your angelical, diabolical,incomprehensible sex: who on earth can? forgive me."

  "Oh! oh! oh! oh!"

  Lo! the tears that could not come at a remonstrance were flowing in astream at his generosity.

  "What is the matter now?" said he tenderly. She cried away, but at thesame time explained,--

  "What a f--f--foolish you must be not to see that it is I who am withoutexcuse. You were my betrothed. It was to you I owed my duty; not mysister. I am a wicked, unhappy girl. How you must hate me!"

  "I adore you. There, no more forgiving on either side. Let our onlyquarrel be who shall love the other best."

  "Oh, I know how that will be," said the observant toad. "You will loveme best till you have got me; and then I shall love you best; oh, everso much."

  However, the prospect of loving best did not seem disagreeable to her;for with this announcement she deposited her head on his shoulder, andin that attitude took a little walk with him up and down the Pleasaunce:sixty times; about eight miles.

  These two were a happy pair. This wayward, but generous heart neverforgot her offence, and his forgiveness. She gave herself to him heartand soul, at the altar, and well she redeemed her vow. He rose high inpolitical life: and paid the penalty of that sort of ambition; hisheart was often sore. But by his own hearth sat comfort and ever readysympathy. Ay, and patient industry to read blue-books, and a ready handand brain to write diplomatic notes for him, off which the mind glidedas from a ball of ice.

  In thirty years she never once mentioned the servants to him.

  "Oh, let eternal honor crown her name!"

  It was only a little bit of heel that Dard had left in Prussia. Morefortunate than his predecessor (Achilles), he got off with a slight butenduring limp. And so the army lost him.

  He married Jacintha, and Josephine set them up in Bigot's, (deceased)auberge. Jacintha shone as a landlady, and custom flowed in. For allthat, a hankering after Beaurepaire was observable in her. Her favoritestroll was into the Beaurepaire kitchen, and on all fetes and grandoccasions she was prominent in gay attire as a retainer of the house.The last specimen of her homely sagacity I shall have the honor to laybefore you is a critique upon her husband, which she vented six yearsafter marriage.

  "My Dard," said she, "is very good as far as he goes. What he has felthimself, that he can feel FOR: nobody better. You come to him with anempty belly, or a broken head, or all bleeding with a cut, or blackand blue, and you shall find a friend. But if it is a sore heart, ortrouble, and sorrow, and no hole in your carcass to show for it, you hadbetter come to ME; for you might as well tell your grief to a stone wallas to my man."

  The baroness took her son Raynal to Paris, and there, with keen eye,selected him a wife. She proved an excellent one. It would have beenhard if she had not, for the baroness with the severe sagacity of herage and sex, had set aside as naught a score of seeming angels, beforeshe could suit herself with a daughter-in-law. At first the Raynals veryproperly saw little of the Dujardins; but when both had been marriedsome years, the recollection of that fleeting and nominal connectionwaxed faint, while the memory of great benefits conferred on both sidesremained lively as ever in hearts so great, and there was a warm, asacred friendship between the two houses--a friendship of the ancientGreeks, not of the modern club-house.

  Camille and Josephine were blessed almost beyond the lot of humanity:none can really appreciate sunshine but those who come out of the colddark. And so with happiness. For years they could hardly be said to livelike mortals: they basked in bliss. But it was a near thing; for theybut just scraped clear of life-long misery, and death's cold touchgrazed them both as they went.

  Yet they had heroic virtues to balance White Lies in the great Judge'seye.

  A wholesome lesson, therefore, and a warning may be gathered from thisstory: and I know many novelists who would have preached that lesson atsome length in every other chapter, and interrupted the sacrednarrative to do it. But when I read stories so mutilated, I think of acircumstance related by Mr. Joseph Miller.

  "An Englishman sojourning in some part of Scotland was afflicted withmany hairs in the butter, and remonstrated. He was told, in reply, thatthe hairs and the butter came from one source--the cow; and that thejust and natural proportions hitherto observed, could not be deranged,and bald butter invented--for ONE. 'So be it,' said the Englishman; 'butlet me have the butter in one plate, and the hairs in another.'"

  Acting on this hint, I have reserved some admirable remarks,reflections, discourses, and tirades, until the story should be ended,and the other plate be ready for the subsidiary sermon.

  And now that the proper time is come, that love of intru
ding one's ownwisdom in one's own person on the reader, which has marred so many worksof art, is in my case restrained--first, by pure fatigue; secondly,because the moral of this particular story stands out so clear in thenarrative, that he who runs may read it without any sermon at all.

  Those who will not take the trouble to gather my moral from the livingtree, would not lift it out of my dead basket: would not unlock theirjaw-bones to bite it, were I to thrust it into their very mouths.