“We have a friend still more zealous and active than our enemy; believe me, your depression is really caused by his absence; we all miss the contact of that young heroic spirit; we are a body, and he its soul.”

Josephine was silent, for she said to herself, “Why should I dash their spirits? they are so happy and confident.”

Edouard had animated Rose and Aubertin with his own courage, and had even revived the baroness.

It had been agreed between him and Picard that the latter should communicate with Dr. Aubertin direct, should anything fresh occur.  And on the third day after Edouard’s departure, Picard sent up a private message:  “Perrin has just sent me a line to say he will not trouble us, as he is offered the money in another quarter.”

This was a heavy blow, and sent them all to bed more or less despondent.

The next day brought a long letter from Edouard to Rose, telling her he had found his uncle crusty at first; but at last with a little patience, and the co-operation of Martha, his uncle’s old servant, and his nurse, the old boy had come round.  They might look on the affair as all but settled.

The contents of this letter were conveyed to the baroness.  The house brightened under it:  the more so that there was some hope of their successful champion returning in person next day.  Meantime Perrin had applied to Raynal for the immediate loan of a large sum of money on excellent security.  Raynal refused plump.  Perrin rode away disconsolate.

But the next day he returned to the charge with another proposal:  and the nature of this second proposal we shall learn from events.

The day Edouard was expected opened deliciously.  It was a balmy morning, and tempted the sisters out before breakfast.  They strolled on the south terrace with their arms round each other’s waists, talking about Edouard, and wondering whether they should really see him before night.  Rose owned she had missed him, and confessed for the first time she was a proud and happy girl.

“May I tell him so?” asked Josephine.

“Not for all the world.  Would you dare?”

Further discussion of that nice point was stopped by the baroness coming out, leaning on Dr. Aubertin.

Then—­how we young people of an unceremonious age should have stared—­the demoiselles de Beaurepaire, inasmuch as this was their mother’s first appearance, lowered their fair heads at the same time like young poplars bowing to the wind, and so waited reverently till she had slightly lifted her hands, and said, “God bless you, my children!”

It was done in a moment on both sides, but full of grace and piety, and the charm of ancient manners.

“How did our dear mother sleep?” inquired Josephine.  Aubertin interposed with a theory that she slept very well indeed if she took what he gave her.

“Ay, if,” suggested Rose, saucily.

“I slept,” said the baroness, “and I wish I had not for I dreamed an ugly dream.”  They all gathered round her, and she told her dream.