Jacintha colored and evaded this question, and begged her to go on, to keep nothing back from her.  Josephine assured her she had revealed all.  Jacintha looked at her a moment in silence.

“It is then as I half suspected.  You do not know all that is before you.  You do not see why I am afraid of that old man.”

“No, not of him in particular.”

“Nor why I want to keep Mademoiselle Rose from prattling to him?”

“No.  I assure you Rose is to be trusted; she is wise—­wiser than I am.”

“You are neither of you wise.  You neither of you know anything.  My poor young mistress, you are but a child still.  You have a deep water to wade through,” said Jacintha, so solemnly that Josephine trembled.  “A deep water, and do not see it even.  You have told me what is past, now I must tell you what is coming.  Heaven help me!  But is it possible you have no misgiving?  Tell the truth, now.”

“Alas!  I am full of them; at your words, at your manner, they fly around me in crowds.”

“Have you no one?”

“No.”

“Then turn your head from me a bit, my sweet young lady; I am an honest woman, though I am not so innocent as you, and I am forced against my will to speak my mind plainer than I am used to.”

Then followed a conversation, to detail which might anticipate our story; suffice it to say, that Rose, coming into the room rather suddenly, found her sister weeping on Jacintha’s bosom, and Jacintha crying and sobbing over her.

She stood and stared in utter amazement.

Dr. Aubertin, on his arrival, was agreeably surprised at Madame Raynal’s appearance.  He inquired after her appetite.

“Oh, as to her appetite,” cried the baroness, “that is immense.”

“Indeed!”

“It was,” explained Josephine, “just when I began to get better, but now it is as much as usual.”  This answer had been arranged beforehand by Jacintha.  She added, “The fact is, we wanted to see you, doctor, and my ridiculous ailments were a good excuse for tearing you from Paris.”—­“And now we have succeeded,” said Rose, “let us throw off the mask, and talk of other things; above all, of Paris, and your eclat.”

“For all that,” persisted the baroness, “she was ill, when I first wrote, and very ill too.”

“Madame Raynal,” said the doctor solemnly, “your conduct has been irregular; once ill, and your illness announced to your medical adviser, etiquette forbade you to get well but by his prescriptions.  Since, then, you have shown yourself unfit to conduct a malady, it becomes my painful duty to forbid you henceforth ever to be ill at all, without my permission first obtained in writing.”

This badinage was greatly relished by Rose, but not at all by the baroness, who was as humorless as a swan.