White Lies [143]
in you. We shall not leave that family in tears, Rose in shame, and your child without a name."
Dujardin stared at the speaker. What new and devilish deception was this?
"My child!" he faltered. "What child?"
"Ah," said Raynal, "what a fool I was! That is the first thing I ought to have told you. Poor little fellow! I surprised him in his cradle; his mother and Josephine were rocking him, and singing over him. Oh! it was a scene, I can tell you. My poor wife had been ill for some time, and was so weakened by it, that I frightened her into a fit, stealing a march on her that way. She fainted away. Perhaps it is as well she did; for I--I did not know what to think; it looked ugly; but while she lay at our feet insensible, I forced the truth from Rose; she owned the boy was hers."
While Raynal told him this strange story, Camille turned hot and cold. First came a thrill of glowing joy; he had some clew to all this: he was a father; that child was Josephine's and his; the next moment he froze within. So Josephine had not only gulled her husband, but him, too; she had refused him the sad consolation of knowing he had a child. Cruelty, calculation, and baseness unexampled! Here was a creature who could sacrifice anything and anybody to her comfort, to the peace and sordid smoothness of her domestic life. She stood between two men--a thing. Between two truths--a double lie.
His heart, in one moment, turned against her like a stone. A musket-bullet through the body does not turn life to death quicker than Raynal turned his rival's love to despair and scorn: that love which neither wounds, absence, prison, nor even her want of constancy had prevailed to shake.
"Out of my bosom!" he cried--"out of it, in this world and the next!"
He forgot, in his lofty rage, who stood beside him.
"What?--what?" cried Raynal.
"No matter," said Camille; "only I esteem YOU, Raynal. You are truth; you are a man, and deserve a better lot."
"Don't say that," replied Raynal, quite misunderstanding him. "It is a soldier's end: I never desired nor hoped a better: only, of course, I feel sad. You are a happy fellow, to have a child and to live to see it, and her you love."
"Oh, yes, I am very happy," replied the poor fellow, his lip quivering.
"Watch over all those poor women, comrade, and sometimes speak to them of me. It is foolish, but we like to be remembered."
"Yes! but do not let us speak of that. Raynal, you and I were lieutenants together; do you remember saving my life in the Arno?"
"Yes."
"Then promise me, if you should live, to remember not our quarrel of to-day, nor anything; but only those early days, AND THIS AFTERNOON."
"I do."
"Your hand, comrade."
"There, comrade, there."
They wrung one another's hands, and turned away and hid their faces from each other, for their eyes were moist.
"This won't do, comrade, I must go. I shall attack from your position. So I shall go down the line, and bring the men up. Meantime, pick me your detachment. Give me a good spice of veterans. I shall get one word with you before we go out. God bless you!"
"God bless you, Raynal!"
The moment Raynal was gone, Camille beckoned a lieutenant to him, and ordered half the brigade to form in a strong column on both sides Death's Alley.
His eye fell upon private Dard, as luck would have it. "Come here," said he. Dard came and saluted.
"Have you anybody at Beaurepaire that would be sorry if you were killed?"
"Yes, colonel! Jacintha, that used to make your broth, colonel."
"Take this line to Colonel Raynal. You will find him with the 12th brigade."
He wrote a few lines in pencil, folded them, and Dard went off with them, little dreaming that the colonel of his brigade was taking the trouble to save his life, because he came from Beaurepaire. Colonel Dujardin then went into his tent, and closed the aperture, and took the good book the priest had given him, and prayed humbly, and forgave all the world.
Then he sat down, his head in his hands, and thought of his
Dujardin stared at the speaker. What new and devilish deception was this?
"My child!" he faltered. "What child?"
"Ah," said Raynal, "what a fool I was! That is the first thing I ought to have told you. Poor little fellow! I surprised him in his cradle; his mother and Josephine were rocking him, and singing over him. Oh! it was a scene, I can tell you. My poor wife had been ill for some time, and was so weakened by it, that I frightened her into a fit, stealing a march on her that way. She fainted away. Perhaps it is as well she did; for I--I did not know what to think; it looked ugly; but while she lay at our feet insensible, I forced the truth from Rose; she owned the boy was hers."
While Raynal told him this strange story, Camille turned hot and cold. First came a thrill of glowing joy; he had some clew to all this: he was a father; that child was Josephine's and his; the next moment he froze within. So Josephine had not only gulled her husband, but him, too; she had refused him the sad consolation of knowing he had a child. Cruelty, calculation, and baseness unexampled! Here was a creature who could sacrifice anything and anybody to her comfort, to the peace and sordid smoothness of her domestic life. She stood between two men--a thing. Between two truths--a double lie.
His heart, in one moment, turned against her like a stone. A musket-bullet through the body does not turn life to death quicker than Raynal turned his rival's love to despair and scorn: that love which neither wounds, absence, prison, nor even her want of constancy had prevailed to shake.
"Out of my bosom!" he cried--"out of it, in this world and the next!"
He forgot, in his lofty rage, who stood beside him.
"What?--what?" cried Raynal.
"No matter," said Camille; "only I esteem YOU, Raynal. You are truth; you are a man, and deserve a better lot."
"Don't say that," replied Raynal, quite misunderstanding him. "It is a soldier's end: I never desired nor hoped a better: only, of course, I feel sad. You are a happy fellow, to have a child and to live to see it, and her you love."
"Oh, yes, I am very happy," replied the poor fellow, his lip quivering.
"Watch over all those poor women, comrade, and sometimes speak to them of me. It is foolish, but we like to be remembered."
"Yes! but do not let us speak of that. Raynal, you and I were lieutenants together; do you remember saving my life in the Arno?"
"Yes."
"Then promise me, if you should live, to remember not our quarrel of to-day, nor anything; but only those early days, AND THIS AFTERNOON."
"I do."
"Your hand, comrade."
"There, comrade, there."
They wrung one another's hands, and turned away and hid their faces from each other, for their eyes were moist.
"This won't do, comrade, I must go. I shall attack from your position. So I shall go down the line, and bring the men up. Meantime, pick me your detachment. Give me a good spice of veterans. I shall get one word with you before we go out. God bless you!"
"God bless you, Raynal!"
The moment Raynal was gone, Camille beckoned a lieutenant to him, and ordered half the brigade to form in a strong column on both sides Death's Alley.
His eye fell upon private Dard, as luck would have it. "Come here," said he. Dard came and saluted.
"Have you anybody at Beaurepaire that would be sorry if you were killed?"
"Yes, colonel! Jacintha, that used to make your broth, colonel."
"Take this line to Colonel Raynal. You will find him with the 12th brigade."
He wrote a few lines in pencil, folded them, and Dard went off with them, little dreaming that the colonel of his brigade was taking the trouble to save his life, because he came from Beaurepaire. Colonel Dujardin then went into his tent, and closed the aperture, and took the good book the priest had given him, and prayed humbly, and forgave all the world.
Then he sat down, his head in his hands, and thought of his