arms folded in a brutal, menacing way—­not the Josephine we have seen her, the calm languid beauty, but the demoiselle de Beaurepaire—­her great heart on fire—­her blood up—­not her own only, but all the blood of all the De Beaurepaires—­pale as ashes with great wrath, her purple eyes on fire, and her whole panther-like body full of spring.  “Wretch! you dare to insult her, and before me!  Arriere miserable! or I soil my hand with your face.”  And her hand was up with the word, up, up, higher it seemed than ever a hand was raised before.  And if he had hesitated one moment, I really believe it would have come down; not heavily, perhaps—­the lightning is not heavy.  But there was no need.  The towering threat and the flaming eye and the swift rush buffeted the caitiff away:  he recoiled.  She followed him as he went, strong, for A moment or two, as Hercules, beautiful and terrible as Michael driving Satan.  He dared not, or could not stand before her:  he writhed and cowered and recoiled all down the room, while she marched upon him.  But the driven serpent hissed horribly as it wriggled away.

“You shall both be turned out of Beaurepaire by me, and forever; I swear it, parole de Perrin.”

He had not been gone a minute when Josephine’s courage oozed away, and she ran, or rather tottered, into the Pleasaunce, and clung like a drowning thing to Rose, and, when Edouard took her hand, she clung to him.  They had to gather what had happened how they could:  the account was constantly interrupted with her sobs and self-reproaches.  She said she had ruined all she loved:  ruined her sister, ruined her mother, ruined the house of Beaurepaire.  Why was she ever born?  Why had she not died three years ago? (Query, what was the date at which Camille’s letters suddenly stopped?) “That coward,” said she, “has the heart of a fiend.  He told us he never forgave an affront; and he holds our fate in his hands.  He will drive our mother from her home, and she will die:  murdered by her own daughter.  After all, why did I refuse him?  What should I have sacrificed by marrying him?  Rose, write to him, and say—­say—­I was taken by surprise, I—­I”—­a violent flood of tears interrupted the sentence.

Rose flung her arms round her neck.  “My beautiful Josephine marry that creature?  Let house and lands go a thousand times sooner.  I love my sister a thousand times better than the walls of this or any other house.”

“Come, come,” cried Edouard, “you are forgetting me all this time.  Do you really think I am the sort of man to stand by with my hands in my pockets, and let her marry that cur, or you be driven out of Beaurepaire?  Neither, while I live.”

“Alas! dear boy,” sighed Josephine, “what can you do?”

“I’ll soon show you.  From this hour forth it is a duel between that Perrin and me.  Now, Josephine—­Rose—­don’t you cry and fret like that:  but just look quietly on, and enjoy the fight, both of you.”