“Monsieur, our situations are so alike, I may well spare some little sympathy for your misfortune.”

“Thank you, my good young lady.  Well, then, to business; while you were praying to the Virgin, I was saying a word or two for my part to her who is no more.”

“Sir!”

“Oh! it was nothing beautiful like the things you said to the other.  Can I turn phrases?  I saw her behind her little counter in the Rue Quincampoix; for she is a woman of the people, is my mother.  I saw myself come to the other side of the counter, and I said, ’Look here, mother, here is the devil to pay about this new house.  The old woman talks of dying if we take her from her home, and the young one weeps and prays to all the saints in paradise; what shall we do, eh?’ Then I thought my old woman said to me, ’Jean, you are a soldier, a sort of vagabond; what do you want with a house in France? you who are always in a tent in Italy or Austria, or who knows where.  Have you the courage to give honest folk so much pain for a caprice?  Come now,’ says she, ’the lady is of my age, say you, and I can’t keep your fine house, because God has willed it otherwise; so give her my place; so then you can fancy it is me you have set down at your hearth:  that will warm your heart up a bit, you little scamp,’ said my old woman in her rough way.  She was not well-bred like you, mademoiselle.  A woman of the people, nothing more.”

“She was a woman of God’s own making, if she was like that,” cried Josephine, the tears now running down her cheeks.

“Ah, that she was, she was.  So between her and me it is settled—­what are you crying for now? why, you have won the day; the field is yours; your mother and you remain; I decamp.”  He whipped his scabbard up with his left hand, and was going off without another word, if Josephine had not stopped him.

“But, sir, what am I to think? what am I to hope? it is impossible that in this short interview—­and we must not forget what is due to you.  You have bought the estate.”

“True; well, we will talk over that, to-morrow; but being turned out of the house, that was the bayonet thrust to the old lady.  So you run in and put her heart at rest about it.  Tell her that she may live and die in this house for Jean Raynal; and tell her about the old woman in the Rue Quincampoix.”

“God bless you, Jean Raynal!” cried Josephine, clasping her hands.

“Are you going?” said he, peremptorily.

“Oh, yes!” and she darted towards the chateau.

But when she had taken three steps she paused, and seemed irresolute.  She turned, and in a moment she had glided to Raynal again and had taken his hand before he could hinder her, and pressed two velvet lips on it, and was away again, her cheeks scarlet at what she had done, and her wet eyes beaming with joy.  She skimmed the grass like a lapwing; you would have taken her at this minute for Rose, or for Virgil’s Camilla; at the gate she turned an instant and clasped her hands together, with such a look, to show Raynal she blessed him again, then darted into the house.