“Oh, show some pity!” cried Rose.

“I shall try to be just.”

There was a long, trembling silence; and during that silence and terrible agitation, one figure stood firm among those quaking, beating hearts, like a rock with the waves breaking round it—­the man of principle among the creatures of impulse.

He raised Josephine from her knees, and placed her all limp and powerless in an arm-chair.  To her frenzy had now succeeded a sickness and feebleness like unto death.

“Widow Dujardin,” said he, in a broken voice, “listen to me.”

She moaned a sort of assent.

“Your mistake has been not trusting me.  I was your friend, and not a selfish friend.  I was not enough in love with you to destroy your happiness.  Besides, I despise that sort of love.  If you had told me all, I would have spared you this misery.  By the present law, civil contracts of marriage can be dissolved by mutual consent.”

At this the baroness uttered some sign of surprise.

“Ah!” continued Raynal, sadly, “you are aristocrats, and cannot keep pace with the times.  This very day our mere contract shall be formally dissolved.  Indeed, it ceases to exist since both parties are resolved to withdraw from it.  So, if you married Dujardin in a church, you are Madame Dujardin at this moment, and his child is legitimate.  What does she say?”

This question was to Rose, for what Josephine uttered sounded like a mere articulate moan.  But Rose’s quick ear had caught words, and she replied, all in tears, “My poor sister is blessing you, sir.  We all bless you.”

“She does not understand my position,” said Raynal.  He then walked up to Josephine, and leaning over her arm, and speaking rather loud, under the impression that her senses were blunted by grief, he said, “Look here:  Colonel Dujardin, your husband, deliberately, and with his eyes open, sacrificed his life for me, and for his own heroic sense of honor.  Now, it is my turn.  If that hero stood here, and asked me for all the blood in my body, I would give it him.  He is gone; but, dying for me, he has left me his widow and his child; they remain under my wing.  To protect them is my pride, and my only consolation.  I am going to the mayor to annul our unlucky contract in due form, and make us brother and sister instead.  But,” turning to the baroness, “don’t you think to escape me as your daughter has done:  no, no, old lady, once a mother, always a mother.  Stir from your son’s home if you dare!”

And with these words, in speaking which his voice had recovered its iron firmness, he strode out at the door, superb in manhood and principle, and every eye turned with wonder and admiration after him.  Even when he was gone they gazed at the door by which a creature so strangely noble had disappeared.

The baroness was about to follow him without taking any notice of Josephine.  But Rose caught her by the gown.  “O mother, speak to poor Josephine:  bid her live.”