They entered the chapel, and there they saw something that thoroughly surprised them:  a marble monument to the memory of Raynal.  It leaned at present against the wall below the place prepared to receive it.  The inscription, short, but emphatic, and full of feeling, told of the battles he had fought in, including the last fatal skirmish, and his marriage with the heiress of Beaurepaire; and, in a few soldier-like words, the uprightness, simplicity, and generosity of his character.

They were so touched by this unexpected trait in Camille that they both threw their arms round his neck by one impulse.  “Am I wrong to be proud of him?” said Josephine, triumphantly.

“Well, don’t say too much to me,” said Camille, looking down confused.  “One tries to be good; but it is very hard—­to some of us—­not to you, Josephine; and, after all, it is only the truth that we have written on that stone.  Poor Raynal! he was my old comrade; he saved me from death, and not a soldier’s death—­drowning; and he was a better man than I am, or ever shall be.  Now he is dead, I can say these things.  If I had said them when he was alive, it would have been more to my credit.”

They all three went back towards the house; and on the way Rose told them all that had passed between the baroness and her.  When she came to the actual details of that conversation, to the words, and looks, and tones, Josephine’s uneasiness rose to an overpowering height; she even admitted that further concealment would be very difficult.

“Better tell her than let her find out,” said Rose.  “We must tell her some day.”

At last, after a long and agitated discussion, Josephine consented; but Rose must be the one to tell.  “So then, you at least will make your peace with mamma,” argued Josephine, “and let us go in and do this before our courage fails; besides, it is going to rain, and it has turned cold.  Where have all these clouds come from?  An hour ago there was not one in the sky.”

They went, with hesitating steps and guilty looks, to the saloon.  Their mother was not there.  Here was a reprieve.

Rose had an idea.  She would take her to the chapel, and show her the monument, and that would please her with poor Camille.  “After that,” said Rose, “I will begin by telling her all the misery you have both gone through; and, when she pities you, then I will show her it was all my fault your misery ended in a secret marriage.”

The confederates sat there in a chilly state, waiting for the baroness.  At last, as she did not come, Rose got up to go to her.  “When the mind is made up, it is no use being cowardly, and putting off,” said she, firmly.  For all that, her cheek had but little color left in it, when she left her chair with this resolve.

Now as Rose went down the long saloon to carry out their united resolve, Jacintha looked in; and, after a hasty glance to see who was present, she waited till Rose came up to her, and then whipped a letter from under her apron and gave it her.