“Camille, you are very proud,” said Josephine, with an accent of reproach, and a look of approval.
“I am obliged to be. I am the husband of the proudest woman in France.”
“Hush! not so loud: there is Dard on the grass.”
“Dard!” muttered the soldier with a word of meaning. “Josephine,” said he after a pause, and a little peevishly, “how much longer are we to lower our voices, and turn away our eyes from each other, and be ashamed of our happiness?”
“Five months longer, is it not?” answered Josephine quietly.
“Five months longer!”
Josephine was hurt at this, and for once was betrayed into a serious and merited remonstrance.
“Is this just?” said she. “Think of two months ago: yes, but two months ago, you were dying. You doubted my love, because it could not overcome my virtue and my gratitude: yet you might have seen it was destroying my life. Poor Raynal, my husband, my benefactor, died. Then I could do more for you, if not with delicacy, at least with honor; but no! words, and looks, and tender offices of love were not enough, I must give stronger proof. Dear Camille, I have been reared in a strict school: and perhaps none of your sex can know what it cost me to go to Frejus that day with him I love.”
“My own Josephine!”
“I made but one condition: that you would not rob me of my mother’s respect: to her our hasty marriage would appear monstrous, heartless. You consented to be secretly happy for six months. One fortnight has passed, and you are discontented again.”