“Mademoiselle,—­I beg pardon, madame,—­I carried you in my arms when I was a child.  When I was a girl you toddled at my side, and held my gown, and lisped my name, and used to put your little arms round my neck, and kissed me, you would; and if ever I had the least pain or sickness your dear little face would turn as sorrowful, and all the pretty color leave it for Jacintha; and now you are in trouble, in sore trouble, yet you turn away from me, you dare not trust me, that would be cut in pieces ere I would betray you.  Ah, mademoiselle, you are wrong.  The poor can feel:  they have all seen trouble, and a servant is the best of friends where she has the heart to love her mistress; and do not I love you?  Pray do not turn from her who has carried you in her arms, and laid you to sleep upon her bosom, many’s and many’s the time.”

Josephine panted audibly.  She held out her hand eloquently to Jacintha, but she turned her head away and trembled.

Jacintha cast a hasty glance round the room.  Then she trembled too at what she was going to say, and the effect it might have on the young lady.  As for Josephine, terrible as the conversation had become, she made no attempt to evade it:  she remained perfectly passive.  It was the best way to learn how far Jacintha had penetrated her secret, if at all.

Jacintha looked fearfully round and whispered in Josephine’s ear, “When the news of Colonel Raynal’s death came, you wept, but the color came back to your cheek.  When the news of his life came, you turned to stone.  Ah! my poor young lady, there has been more between you and that man than should be.  Ever since one day you all went to Frejus together, you were a changed woman.  I have seen you look at him as—­as a wife looks at her man.  I have seen him”—­

“Hush, Jacintha!  Do not tell me what you have seen:  oh! do not remind me of joys I pray God to help me forget.  He was my husband, then!—­oh, cruel Jacintha, to remind me of what I have been, of what I am!  Ah me! ah me! ah me!”

“Your husband!” cried Jacintha in utter amazement.

Then Josephine drooped her head on this faithful creature’s shoulder, and told her with many sobs the story I have told you.  She told it very briefly, for it was to a woman who, though little educated, was full of feeling and shrewdness, and needed but the bare facts:  she could add the rest from her own heart and experience:  could tell the storm of feelings through which these two unhappy lovers must have passed.  Her frequent sighs of pity and sympathy drew Josephine on to pour out all her griefs.  When the tale was ended she gave a sigh of relief.

“It might have been worse:  I thought it was worse the more fool I. I deserve to have my head cut off.”  This was Jacintha’s only comment at that time.

It was Josephine’s turn to be amazed.  “It could have been worse?” said she.  “How? tell me,” added she bitterly.  “It would be a consolation to me, could I see that.”