Jacintha knew the obstinate toad.  She did as she was bid, and soon the little bundle was ready, and the two men faced the wine; La Croix, radiant and bellicose; Dard, crestfallen but dogged (for there was a little bit of good stuff at the bottom of the creature); and Jacintha rocking herself, with her apron over her head.

“I’ll give you a toast,” said La Croix.  “Here’s gunpowder.”

Jacintha promptly honored the toast with a flood of tears.

“Drop that, Jacintha,” said Dard, angrily; “do you think that is encouraging?  Sergeant, I told this poor girl all about glory before you came, but she was not ripe for it:  say something to cheer her up, for I can’t.”

“I can,” cried this trumpet of battle, emptying its glass.  “Attention, young woman.”

“Oh, dear! oh, dear! yes, sir.”

“A French soldier is a man who carries France in his heart”—­

“But if the cruel foreign soldiers kill him?  Oh!”

“Why, in that case, he does not care a straw.  Every man must die; horses likewise, and dogs, and donkeys, when they come to the end of their troubles; but dogs and donkeys and chaps in blouses can’t die gloriously; as Dard may, if he has any luck at all:  so, from this hour, if there was twice as little of him, be proud of him, for from this time he is a part of France and her renown.  Come, recruit ninety-nine, shoulder your traps at duty’s call, and let us go forth in form.  Attention!  Quick—­march!  Halt! is that the way I showed you to march?  Didn’t I tell you to start from the left?  Now try again.  Quick—­march! left—­right—­left—­right—­left—­right—­now you’ve—­got it—­drat ye,—­keep it—­left—­right—­left—­right—­left—­right.”  And with no more ado the sergeant marched the little odd-job man to the wars.

Vive la France!

CHAPTER XVIII.

Edouard, the moment his temper cooled, became very sad.  He longed to be friends again with Rose, but did not know how.  His own pride held him back, and so did his fear that he had gone too far, and that his offended mistress would not listen to an offer of reconciliation from him.  He sat down alone now to all his little meals.  No sweet, mellow voices in his ear after the fatigues of the day.  It was a dismal change in his life.

At last, one day, he received three lines from Josephine, requesting him to come and speak to her.  He went over directly, full of vague hopes.  He found her seated pale and languid in a small room on the ground floor.

“What has she been doing to you, dear?” began she kindly.

“Has she not told you, Madame Raynal?”

“No; she is refractory.  She will tell me nothing, and that makes me fear she is the one in fault.”

“Oh! if she does not accuse me, I am sure I will not accuse her.  I dare say I am to blame; it is not her fault that I cannot make her love me.”