“Swear this to me by the thing you hold most sacred,” she almost shrieked.

“I swear by my love for you,” was his touching reply.

Ere they had recovered a miserable composure after this passionate outburst, all the more terrible as coming from a creature so tender as Josephine, agitated voices were heard at the door, and the baroness tottered in, followed by the doctor, who was trying in vain to put some bounds to her emotion and her hopes.

“Oh, my children! my children!” cried she, trembling violently.  “Here, Rose, my hands shake so; take this key, open the cabinet, there is the Moniteur.  What is the date?”

The journal was found, and rapidly examined.  The date was the 20th of May.

“There!” cried Camille.  “I told you!”

The baroness uttered a feeble moan.  Her hopes died as suddenly as they had been born, and she sank drooping into a chair, with a bitter sigh.

Camille stole a joyful look at Josephine.  She was in the same attitude looking straight before her as at a coming horror.  Presently Rose uttered a faint cry, “The battle was before.”

“To be sure,” cried the doctor.  “You forget, it is not the date of the paper we want, but of the battle it records.  For Heaven’s sake, when was the battle?”

“The 3d of May,” said Josephine, in a voice that seemed to come from the tomb.

Rose’s hands that held the journal fell like a dead weight upon her knees, journal and all.  She whispered, “It was the 3d of May.”

“Ah!” cried the baroness, starting up, “he may yet be alive.  He must be alive.  Heaven is merciful!  Heaven would not take my son from me, a poor old woman who has not long to live.  There was a letter; where is the letter?”

“Are we mad, not to read the letter?” said the doctor.  “I had it; it has dropped from my old fingers when I went for the journal.”

A short examination of the room showed the letter lying crumpled up near the door.  Camille gave it to the baroness.  She tried to read it, but could not.

“I am old,” said she; “my hand shakes and my eyes are troubled.  This young gentleman will read it to us.  His eyes are not dim and troubled.  Something tells me that when I hear this letter, I shall find out whether my son lives.  Why do you not read it to me, Camille?” cried she, almost fiercely.

Camille, thus pressed, obeyed mechanically, and began to read Raynal’s letter aloud, scarce knowing what he did, but urged and driven by the baroness.

“My dear mother,—­I hope all are well at Beaurepaire, as I am, or I hope soon to be.  I received a wound in our last skirmish; not a very severe one, but it put an end to my writing for some time.”

“Go on, dear Camille! go on.”

“The page ends there, madame.”

The paper was thin, and Camille, whose hand trembled, had some difficulty in detaching the leaves from one another.  He succeeded, however, at last, and went on reading and writhing.