“It is settled, dear,” said Rose soothingly.

“Oh, the comfort of that! you relieve me of a weight; you give me peace.  I shall have duties; I shall do some good in the world.  They were all for it but you before, were they not?”

“Yes, and now I am strongest for it of them all.  Josephine, it is settled.”

Josephine looked at her for a moment in silence, then said eagerly, “Bless you, dear Rose; you have saved your sister;” then, after a moment, in a very different voice, “O Camille!  Camille! why have you deserted me?”

And with this she fell to sobbing terribly.  Rose wept on her neck, but said nothing.  She too was a woman, and felt that this was the last despairing cry of love giving up a hopeless struggle.

They sat twined together in silence till Jacintha came to tell them it was close upon dinner-time; so then they hastened to dry their tears and wash their red eyes, for fear their mother should see what they had been at, and worry herself.

“Well, mademoiselle, these two consent; but what do you say? for after all, it is you I am courting, and not them.  Have you the courage to venture on a rough soldier like me?”

This delicate question was put point-blank before the three ladies.

“Sir,” replied Josephine timidly, “I will be as frank, as straightforward as you are.  I thank you for the honor you do me.”

Raynal looked perplexed.

“And does that mean ‘yes’ or ’no’?”

“Which you please,” said Josephine, hanging her sweet head.

The wedding was fixed for that day fortnight.  The next morning wardrobes were ransacked.  The silk, muslin, and lace of their prosperous days were looked out:  grave discussions were held over each work of art.  Rose was active, busy, fussy.  The baroness threw in the weight of her judgment and experience.

Josephine managed to smile whenever either Rose or the baroness looked at all fixedly at her.

So glided the peaceful days.  So Josephine drifted towards the haven of wedlock.

CHAPTER VI.

At Bayonne, a garrison town on the south frontier of France, two sentinels walked lethargically, crossing and recrossing before the governor’s house.  Suddenly their official drowsiness burst into energy; for a pale, grisly man, in rusty, defaced, dirty, and torn regimentals, was walking into the courtyard as if it belonged to him.  The sentinels lowered their muskets, and crossed them with a clash before the gateway.

The scarecrow did not start back.  He stopped and looked down with a smile at the steel barrier the soldiers had improvised for him, then drew himself a little up, carried his hand carelessly to his cap, which was nearly in two, and gave the name of an officer in the French army.