“Aha, my lady,” said he, as he watched her fly, “behold you changed a little since you came out.”  He was soon on the high road marching down to the town at a great rate, his sword clanking, and thus ran his thoughts:  “This does one good; you are right, my old woman.  Your son’s bosom feels as warm as toast.  Long live the five-franc pieces!  And they pretend money cannot make a fellow happy.  They lie; it is because they do not know how to spend it.”

Meantime at the chateau, as still befalls in emergencies and trials, the master spirit came out and took its real place.  Rose was now the mistress of Beaurepaire; she set Jacintha, and Dard, and the doctor, to pack up everything of value in the house.  “Do it this moment!” she cried; “once that notary gets possession of the house, it may be too late.  Enough of folly and helplessness.  We have fooled away house and lands; our movables shall not follow them.”

The moment she had set the others to work, she wrote a single line to Riviere to tell him the chateau and lands were sold, and would he come to Beaurepaire at once?  She ran with it herself to Bigot’s auberge, the nearest post-office, and then back to comfort her mother.

The baroness was seated in her arm-chair, moaning and wringing her hands, and Rose was nursing and soothing her, and bathing her temples with her last drop of eau de Cologne, and trying in vain to put some of her own courage into her, when in came Josephine radiant with happiness, crying “Joy! joy! joy!” and told her strange tale, with this difference, that she related her own share in it briefly and coldly, and was more eloquent than I about the strange soldier’s goodness, and the interest her mother had awakened in his heart.  And she told about the old woman in the Rue Quincampoix, her rugged phrases, and her noble, tender heart.  The baroness, deaf to Rose’s consolations, brightened up directly at Josephine’s news, and at her glowing face, as she knelt pouring the good news, and hope, and comfort, point blank into her.  But Rose chilled them both.

“It is a generous offer,” said, she, “but one we cannot accept.  We cannot live under so great an obligation.  Is all the generosity to be on the side of this Bonapartist?  Are we noble in name only?  What would our father have said to such a proposal?”

Josephine hung her head.  The baroness groaned.

“No, mother,” continued Rose; “let house and land go, but honor and true nobility remain.”

“What shall I do? you are cruel to me, Rose.”

“Mamma,” cried the enthusiastic girl, “we need depend on no one.  Josephine and I have youth and spirit.”

“But no money.”

“We have plenty of jewels, and pictures, and movables.  We can take a farm.”

“A farm!” shrieked the baroness.

“Why, his uncle has a farm, and we have had recourse to him for help:  better a farmhouse than an almshouse, though that almshouse were a palace instead of a chateau.”