Restless anxiety rose into terror as this silence continued; and starting and trembling at every sound, and edging to the window at every footstep, Josephine expected hourly the tidings of her lover’s death.

Months rolled on in silence.

Then a new torture came.  He must not be dead but unfaithful.  At this all the pride of her race was fired in her.

The struggle between love and ire was almost too much for nature:  violently gay and moody by turns she alarmed both her mother and the good Dr. Aubertin.  The latter was not, I think, quite without suspicion of the truth; however, he simply prescribed change of air and place; she must go to Frejus, a watering-place distant about five leagues.  Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire yielded a languid assent.  To her all places were alike.

But when they returned from Frejus a change had taken place.  Rose had extracted her sister’s secret, and was a changed girl.  Pity, and the keen sense of Josephine’s wrong, had raised her sisterly love to a passion.  The great-hearted girl hovered about her lovely, suffering sister like an angel, and paid her the tender attentions of a devoted lover, and hated Camille Dujardin with all her heart:  hated him all the more that she saw Josephine shrink even from her whenever she inveighed against him.

At last Rose heard some news of the truant lover.  The fact is, this young lady was as intelligent as she was inexperienced; and she had asked Jacintha to tell Dard to talk to every soldier that passed through the village, and ask him if he knew anything about Captain Dujardin of the 17th regiment.  Dard cross-examined about a hundred invalided warriors, who did not even recognize the captain’s name; but at last, by extraordinary luck, he actually did fall in with two, who told him strange news about Captain Dujardin.  And so then Dard told Jacintha; and Jacintha soon had the men into the kitchen and told Rose.  Rose ran to tell Josephine; but stopped in the passage, and turned suddenly very cold.  Her courage failed her; she feared Josephine would not take the news as she ought; and perhaps would not love her so well if she told her; so she thought to herself she would let the soldiers tell their own tale.  She went into the room where Josephine was reading to the baroness and Dr. Aubertin; she sat quietly down; but at the first opportunity made Josephine one of those imperceptible signals which women, and above all, sisters, have reduced to so subtle a system.  This done, she went carelessly out:  and Josephine in due course followed her, and found her at the door.

“What is it?” said Josephine, earnestly.

“Have you courage?” was Rose’s reply.

“He is dead?” said Josephine, turning pale as ashes.

“No, no;” said Rose hastily; “he is alive.  But you will need all your courage.”

“Since he lives I fear nothing,” said Josephine; and stood there and quivered from head to foot.  Rose, with pitying looks, took her by the hand and drew her in silence towards the kitchen.