“Well, then,” said Josephine, half closing her eyes, “in the first place I feel a great calm, a heavenly calm.  My fate is decided.  No more suspense.  My duties are clear.  I have a husband I am proud of.  There is no perfidy with him, no deceit, no disingenuousness, no shade.  He is a human sun.  He will make me a better, truer woman, and I him a happier man.  Yes, is it not nice to think that great and strong as he is I can teach him a happiness he knows not as yet?” And she smiled with the sense of her delicate power, but said no more; for she was not the one to talk much about herself.  But Rose pressed her.  “Yes, go on, dear,” she said, “I seem to see your pretty little thoughts rising out of your heart like a bubbling fountain:  go on.”

Thus encouraged, Josephine thought on aloud, “And then, gratitude!” said she.  “I have heard it said, or read it somewhere, that gratitude is a burden:  I cannot understand that sentiment; why, to me gratitude is a delight, gratitude is a passion.  It is the warmest of all the tender feelings I have for dear Monsieur Raynal.  I feel it glow here, in my bosom.  I think I shall love him as I ought long before he comes back.”

“Before?”

“Yes,” murmured Josephine, her eyes still half closed.  “His virtues will always be present to me.  His little faults of manner will not be in sight.  Good Raynal!  The image of those great qualities I revere so, perhaps because I fail in them myself, will be before my mind; and ere he comes home I shall love him dearly.  I’ll tell you one reason why I wished to go home at once was—­no—­you must guess.”

“Guess?” said Rose, contemptuously.  “As if I did not see it was to put on your gray silk.”

Josephine smiled assent, and said almost with fervor, “Good Raynal!  I feel prouder of his honest name than of our noble one.  And I am so calm, dear, thanks to you, so tranquil; so pleased that my mother’s mind is at rest, so convinced all is for the best, so contented with my own lot; so hap—­py.”

A gentle tear stole from beneath her long lashes.  Rose looked at her wistfully:  then laid her cheek to hers.  They leaned back hand in hand, placid and silent.

The carriage glided fast.  Beaurepaire was almost in sight.

Suddenly Josephine’s hand tightened on Rose’s, and she sat up in the carriage like a person awakened from a strange dream.

“What is it?” asked Rose.

“Some one in uniform.”

“Oh, is that all?  Ah! you thought it was a message from Raynal.”

“Oh! no! on foot—­walking very slowly.  Coming this way, too.  Coming this way!” and she became singularly restless, and looked round in the carriage.  It was one of those old chariots with no side windows, but a peep hole at the back.  This aperture, however, had a flap over it.  Josephine undid the flap with nimble though agitated fingers; and saw—­nothing.  The road had taken a turn.  “Oh,” said Rose, carelessly, “for that matter the roads are full of soldiers just now.”