“Oh! do not jest.  I did not laugh at you.  Jacintha, it is no laughing matter; I revere her as mortals revere the saints; I love her so that were I ever to lose all hope of her I would not live a day.  And now that you have told me she is poor and in sorrow, and I think of her walking so calm and gentle—­always in black, Jacintha,—­and her low courtesy to me whenever we met, and her sweet smile to me though her heart must be sad, oh! my heart yearns for her.  What can I do for her?  How shall I surround her with myself unseen—­make her feel that a man’s love waits upon her feet every step she takes—­that a man’s love floats in the air round that lovely head?” Then descending to earth for a moment, “but I say, you promise not to betray me; come, secret for secret.”

“I will not tell a soul; on the honor of a woman,” said Jacintha.

The form of protestation was quite new to Edouard, and not exactly the one his study of the ancient writers would have led him to select.  But the tone was convincing:  he trusted her.  They parted sworn allies; and, at the very moment of parting, Jacintha, who had cast many a furtive glance at the dead game, told Edouard demurely, Mademoiselle Rose was very fond of roast partridge.  On this he made her take the whole bag; and went home on wings.  Jacintha’s revelation roused all that was noble and forgiving in him.  His understanding and his heart expanded from that hour, and his fancy spread its pinions to the sun of love.  Ah! generous Youth, let who will betray thee; let who will sneer at thee; let me, though young no longer, smile on thee and joy in thee!  She he loved was sad, was poor, was menaced by many ills; then she needed a champion.  He would be her unseen friend, her guardian angel.  A hundred wild schemes whirled in his beating heart and brain.  He could not go in-doors, indeed, no room could contain him:  he made for a green lane he knew at the back of the village, and there he walked up and down for hours.  The sun set, and the night came, and the stars glittered; but still he walked alone, inspired, exalted, full of generous and loving schemes:  of sweet and tender fancies:  a heart on fire; and youth the fuel, and the flame vestal.

CHAPTER III.

This very day was the anniversary of the baron’s death.

The baroness kept her room all the morning, and took no nourishment but one cup of spurious coffee Rose brought her.  Towards evening she came down-stairs.  In the hall she found two chaplets of flowers; they were always placed there for her on this sad day.  She took them in her hand, and went into the little oratory that was in the park; there she found two wax candles burning, and two fresh chaplets hung up.  Her daughters had been there before her.

She knelt and prayed many hours for her husband’s soul; then she rose and hung up one chaplet and came slowly away with the other in her hand.  At the gate of the park, Josephine met her with tender anxiety in her sapphire eyes, and wreathed her arms round her, and whispered, “But you have your children still.”