“It matters little, sir, and you heard nothing I blush for.”
“No! by St. Denis; quite the contrary. Well, to the point. Young lady, you love your mother.”
“What has she on earth now but her children’s love?”
“Now look here, young lady, I had a mother; I loved her in my humdrum way very dearly. She promised me faithfully not to die till I should be a colonel; and she went and died before I was a commandant, even; just before, too.”
“Then I pity you,” murmured Josephine; and her soft purple eye began to dwell on him with less repugnance.
“Thank you for that word, my good young lady,” said Raynal. “Now, I declare, you are the first that has said that word to me about my losing the true friend, that nursed me on her knee, and pinched and pinched to make a man of me. I should like to tell you about her and me.”
“I shall feel honored,” said Josephine, politely, but with considerable restraint.
Then he told her all about how he had vexed her when he was a boy, and gone for a soldier, though she was all for trade, and how he had been the more anxious to see her enjoy his honors and success. “And, mademoiselle,” said he, appealingly, “the day this epaulet was put on my shoulder in Italy, she died in Paris. Ah! how could you have the heart to do that, my old woman?”
The soldier’s mustache quivered, and he turned away brusquely, and took several steps. Then he came back to Josephine, and to his infinite surprise saw that her purple eyes were thick with tears. “What? you are within an inch of crying for my mother, you who have your own trouble at this hour.”
“Monsieur, our situations are so alike, I may well spare some little sympathy for your misfortune.”