“Nothing:  give me the salts, quick.”

She only passed them, as it were, under her own nostrils; then held them to Josephine, who was now observed to be trembling all over.  Rose contrived to make it appear that this was mere sympathy on Josephine’s part.

“Don’t be silly, girls,” cried the baroness, cheerfully; “there is nobody killed that we care about.”

Dr. Aubertin read the rest to himself.

Edouard fell into a gloomy silence and tortured himself about Camille, and Rose’s anxiety and agitation.

By and by the new servant brought in a letter.  It was the long-expected one from Egypt.

“Here is something better than salts for you.  A long letter, Josephine, and all in his own hand; so he is safe, thank Heaven!  I was beginning to be uneasy again.  You frightened me for that poor Camille:  but this is worth a dozen Camilles; this is my son; I would give my old life for him.”—­“My dear Mother—­(’Bless him!’), my dear wife, and my dear sister—­(’Well! you sit there like two rocks!’)—­We have just gained a battle—­fifty colors. (’What do you think of that?’) All the enemy’s baggage and ammunition are in our hands. (’This is something like a battle, this one.’) Also the Pasha of Natolie. (’Ah! the Pasha of Natolie; an important personage, no doubt, though I never had the honor of hearing of him.  Do you hear?—­you on the sofa.  My son has captured the Pasha of Natolie.  He is as brave as Caesar.’) But this success is not one of those that lead to important results (’Never mind, a victory is a victory’), and I should not wonder if Bonaparte was to dash home any day.  If so, I shall go with him, and perhaps spend a whole day with you, on my way to the Rhine.”

At this prospect a ghastly look passed quick as lightning between Rose and Josephine.

The baroness beckoned Josephine to come close to her, and read her what followed in a lower tone of voice.

“Tell my wife I love her more and more every day.  I don’t expect as much from her, but she will make me very happy if she can make shift to like me as well as her family do.”—­“No danger!  What husband deserves to be loved as he does?  I long for his return, that his wife, his mother, and his sister may all combine to teach this poor soldier what happiness means.  We owe him everything, Josephine, and if we did not love him, and make him happy, we should be monsters; now should we not?”

Josephine stammered an assent.

“Now you may read his letter:  Jacintha and all,” said the baroness graciously.

The letter circulated.  Meantime, the baroness conversed with Aubertin in quite an undertone.

“My friend, look at Josephine.  That girl is ill, or else she is going to be ill.”

“Neither the one nor the other, madame,” said Aubertin, looking her coolly in the face.

“But I say she is.  Is a doctor’s eye keener than a mother’s?”