Josephine, instead of taking these small doses, saved them all up, secreted them in a phial, and so, from the sleep of a dozen nights, collected the sleep of death:  and now she was tranquil.  This young creature that could not bear to give pain to any one else, prepared her own death with a calm resolution the heroes of our sex have not often equalled.  It was so little a thing to her to strike Josephine.  Death would save her honor, would spare her the frightful alternative of deceiving her husband, or of telling him she was another’s.  “Poor Raynal,” said she to herself, “it is so cruel to tie him to a woman who can never be to him what he deserves.  Rose would then prove her innocence to Edouard.  A few tears for a weak, loving soul, and they would all be happy and forget her.”

One day the baroness, finding herself alone with Rose and Dr. Aubertin, asked the latter what he thought of Josephine’s state.

“Oh, she was better:  had slept last night without her usual narcotic.”

The baroness laid down her knitting and said, with much meaning, “And I tell you, you will never cure her body till you can cure her mind.  My poor child has some secret sorrow.”

“Sorrow!” said Aubertin, stoutly concealing the uneasiness these words created, “what sorrow?”

“Oh, she has some deep sorrow.  And so have you, Rose.”

“Me, mamma! what do you mean?”

The baroness’s pale cheek flushed a little.  “I mean,” said she, “that my patience is worn out at last; I cannot live surrounded by secrets.  Raynal’s gloomy looks when he left us, after staying but one hour; Josephine ill from that day, and bursting into tears at every word; yourself pale and changed, hiding an unaccountable sadness under forced smiles—­Now, don’t interrupt me.  Edouard, who was almost like a son, gone off, without a word, and never comes near us now.”

“Really you are ingenious in tormenting yourself.  Josephine is ill!  Well, is it so very strange?  Have you never been ill?  Rose is pale! you are pale, my dear; but she has nursed her sister for a month; is it a wonder she has lost color?  Edouard is gone a journey, to inherit his uncle’s property:  a million francs.  But don’t you go and fall ill, like Josephine; turn pale, like Rose; and make journeys in the region of fancy, after Edouard Riviere, who is tramping along on the vulgar high road.”

This tirade came from Aubertin, and very clever he thought himself.  But he had to do with a shrewd old lady, whose suspicions had long smouldered; and now burst out.  She said quietly, “Oh, then Edouard is not in this part of the world.  That alters the case:  where is he?”

“In Normandy, probably,” said Rose, blushing.

The baroness looked inquiringly towards Aubertin.  He put on an innocent face and said nothing.

“Very good,” said the baroness.  “It’s plain I am to learn nothing from you two.  But I know somebody who will be more communicative.  Yes:  this uncomfortable smiling, and unreasonable crying, and interminable whispering; these appearances of the absent, and disappearances of the present; I shall know this very day what they all mean.”