Colonel Raynal saluted Colonel Dujardin ceremoniously.  Colonel Dujardin returned the salute in the same style.

“You thought I was in Egypt,” said Raynal with grim significance that caught Dujardin’s attention, though he did not know quite how to interpret it.

He answered mechanically, “Yes, I did.”

“I am sent here by General Bonaparte to take a command,” explained Raynal.

“You are welcome.  What command?”

“Yours.”

“Mine?” cried Dujardin, his forehead flushing with mortification and anger.  “What, is it not enough that you take my”—­He stopped then.

“Come, colonel,” said the other calmly, “do not be unjust to an old comrade.  I take your demi-brigade; but you are promoted to Raimbaut’s brigade.  The exchange is to be made to-morrow.”

“Was it then to announce to me my promotion you came to my quarters?” and Camille looked with a strange mixture of feelings at his old comrade.

“That was the first thing, being duty, you know.”

“What? have you anything else to say to me, then?”

“I have.”

“Is it important? for my own duties will soon demand me.”

“It is so important that, command or no command, I should have come further than the Rhine to say it to you.”

Let a man be as bold as a lion, a certain awe still waits upon doubt and mystery; and some of this vague awe crept over Camille Dujardin at Raynal’s mysterious speech, and his grave, quiet, significant manner.

Had he discovered something, and what?  For Josephine’s sake, more than his own, Camille was on his guard directly.

Raynal looked at him in silence a moment.

“What?” said he with a slight sneer, “has it never occurred to you that I must have a serious word to say to you?  First, let me put you a question:  did they treat you well at my house? at the chateau de Beaurepaire?”

“Yes,” faltered Camille.

“You met, I trust, all the kindness and care due to a wounded soldier and an officer of merit.  It would annoy me greatly if I thought you were not treated like a brother in my house.”

Colonel Dujardin writhed inwardly at this view of matters.  He could not reply in few words.  This made him hesitate.

His inquisitor waited, but, receiving no reply, went on, “Well, colonel, have you shown the sense of gratitude we had a right to look for in return?  In a word, when you left Beaurepaire, had your conscience nothing to reproach you with?”

Dujardin still hesitated.  He scarcely knew what to think or what to say.  But he thought to himself, “Who has told him? does he know all?”

“Colonel Dujardin, I am the husband of Josephine, the son of Madame de Beaurepaire, and the brother of Rose.  You know very well what brings me here.  Your answer?”

“Colonel Raynal, between men of honor, placed as you and I are, few words should pass, for words are idle.  You will never prove to me that I have wronged you:  I shall never convince you that I have not.  Let us therefore close this painful interview in the way it is sure to close.  I am at your service, at any hour and place you please.”