“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.