"I loved him," said the Beguine, wiping her eyes. "He was an excellent fellow, though dull; and I believe, next to smoking and schnaps, he loved me better than any thing else in the world. But on his emperor's birth-day, which he always kept with a bottle of brandy additional, he rambled out into the fog, and came back with a cold. _Peste!_ I knew it was all over with him; but I nursed him like a babe, and he died, like a true Austrian, with his meerschaum in his mouth, bequeathing me his snuff-box, the certificate of his pension, and his blessing. I buried him, got pensioned, and was broken-hearted. What, then, was to be done? I was born for society. I once or twice thought of an eleventh husband; but I was rich. I had above a thousand francs, and a pension of a hundred; this perplexed me. I was determined to be married for myself alone. Yet, how could I know whether the hypocrites who clustered round me were not thinking of my money all the while? So I determined to marry no more--and became a Beguine." In all my vexation, I could not help turning my eye upon the sentimentalist. She interpreted it in the happy way of her country. "You wonder at my self-denial," said she; "I perceive it in your astonishment. I was _but_ fifty then. Yes," said she, clasping her hands and looking pathetic; "I acknowledge that it _was_ cruel. What right had I to break so many hearts? I have much to answer for--and I _but_ fifty! I am even now but fifty-six. Yet, observe, I have taken no vows; remark _that_, Monsieur le Capitaine. At this moment I am only a _Soeur de Charite_. No, nothing shall ever induce me to make or keep the vows. _I_ am free to marry to-morrow; and I only beg, Monsieur le Capitaine, that when you are well enough to go abroad again, whether in the town or in the country, or in whatever part of Europe you may travel, you will have the kindness to state positively, most positively, that Juliet Donnertronk, _nee_ Ventrebleu, has not taken, and never will take, any vows whatever!" "Not even those of marriage, Juliet?" asked I. She laughed, and patted my burning head, with "_Ah, vous etes bien bon! Ah, moqueur Anglais!_" finishing with all the pantomine of blushing confusion, and starting away like a fluttered pigeon. As soon as I felt able to move, which was not till some days after, my first effort was to reach the mansion in which Clotilde resided. But there I received the intelligence, that on the evening of the day of my first and last visit, she had left the town with the superior of the convent. She had made such urgent entreaties to the governor to be permitted to leave Valenciennes, that he had obtained a passport for her from the general commanding the trenches; and not only for her, but also for the nuns--the burning of whose convent had left them houseless.