He confirmed this by a tremendous oath.

Rose shuddered, but said nothing, only she thought to herself, “I am forewarned.  Never shall you know who is the father of that child.”

He was no sooner gone than the baroness insisted on knowing what this private communication between him and Rose was about.

“Oh,” said Rose, “he was only telling me to keep up your courage and Josephine’s till he comes back.”

This was the last lie the poor entangled wretch had to tell that morning.  The next minute the sisters, exhausted by their terrible struggle, went feebly, with downcast eyes, along the corridor and up the staircase to Josephine’s room.

They went hand in hand.  They sank down, dressed as they were, on Josephine’s bed, and clung to one another and trembled together, till their exhausted natures sank into uneasy slumbers, from which each in turn would wake ever and anon with a convulsive start, and clasp her sister tighter to her breast.

Theirs was a marvellous love.  Even a course of deceit had not yet prevailed to separate or chill their sister bosoms.  But still in this deep and wonderful love there were degrees:  one went a shade deeper than the other now—­ay, since last night.  Which? why, she who had sacrificed herself for the other, and dared not tell her, lest the sacrifice should be refused.

It was the gray of the morning, and foggy, when Raynal, after taking leave, went to the stable for his horse.  At the stable-door he came upon a man sitting doubled up on the very stones of the yard, with his head on his knees.  The figure lifted his head, and showed him the face of Edouard Riviere, white and ghastly:  his hair lank with the mist, his teeth chattering with cold and misery.  The poor wretch had walked frantically all night round and round the chateau, waiting till Raynal should come out.  He told him so.

“But why didn’t you?—­Ah!  I see.  No! you could not go into the house after that.  My poor fellow, there is but one thing for you to do.  Turn your back on her, and forget she ever lived; she is dead to you.”

“There is something to be done besides that,” said Edouard, gloomily.

“What?”

“Vengeance.”

“That is my affair, young man.  When I come back from the Rhine, she will tell me who her seducer is.  She has promised.”

“And don’t you see through that?” said Edouard, gnashing his teeth; “that is only to gain time:  she will never tell you.  She is young in years, but old in treachery.”

He groaned and was silent a moment, then laying his hand on Raynal’s arm said grimly, “Thank Heaven, we don’t depend on her for information!  I know the villain.”

Raynal’s eyes flashed:  “Ah! then tell me this moment.”

“It is that scoundrel Dujardin.”

“Dujardin!  What do you mean?”

“I mean that, while you were fighting for France, your house was turned into a hospital for wounded soldiers.”