“And pray is that all the answer you can think of?” asked Raynal somewhat scornfully.

“Why, what other answer can I give you?”

“A more sensible, a more honest, and a less boyish one.  Who doubts that you can fight, you silly fellow? haven’t I seen you?  I want you to show me a much higher sort of courage:  the courage to repair a wrong, not the paltry valor to defend one.”

“I really do not understand you, sir.  How can I undo what is done?”

“Why, of course you cannot.  And therefore I stand here ready to forgive all that is past; not without a struggle, which you don’t seem to appreciate.”

Camille was now utterly mystified.  Raynal continued, “But of course it is upon condition that you consent to heal the wound you have made.  If you refuse—­hum! but you will not refuse.”

“But what is it you require of me?” inquired Camille impatiently.

“Only a little common honesty.  This is the case:  you have seduced a young lady.”

“Sir!” cried Camille angrily.

“What is the matter?  The word is not so bad as the crime, I take it.  You have seduced her, and under circumstances—­But we won’t speak of them, because I am resolved to keep cool.  Well, sir, as you said just now, it’s no use crying over spilled milk; you can’t unseduce the little fool; so you must marry her.”

“M—­m—­marry her?” and Dujardin flushed all over, and his heart beat, and he stared in Raynal’s face.

“Why, what is the matter again?  If she has played the fool, it was with you, and no other man:  it is not as if she was depraved.  Come, my lad, show a little generosity!  Take the consequences of your own act—­or your share of it—­don’t throw it all on the poor feeble woman.  If she has loved you too much, you are the man of all others that should forgive her.  Come, what do you say?”

This was too much for Camille; that Raynal should come and demand of him to marry his own wife, for so he understood the proposal.  He stared at Raynal in silence ever so long, and even when he spoke it was only to mutter, “Are you out of your senses, or am I?”

At this it cost Raynal a considerable effort to restrain his wrath.  However, he showed himself worthy of the office he had undertaken.  He contained himself, and submitted to argue the matter.  “Why, colonel,” said he, “is it such a misfortune to marry poor Rose?  She is young, she is lovely, she has many good qualities, and she would have walked straight to the end of her days but for you.”

Now here was another surprise for Dujardin, another mystification.

“Rose de Beaurepaire?” said he, putting his hand to his head, as if to see whether his reason was still there.

“Yes, Rose de Beaurepaire—­Rose Dujardin that ought to be, and that is to be, if you please.”

“One word, monsieur:  is it of Rose we have been talking all this time?”

Raynal nearly lost his temper at this question, and the cold, contemptuous tone with which it was put; but he gulped down his ire.