“I trust you may: but for all that I must forbid the evening air to one of the party--to Madame Raynal.” The baroness came to him and whispered, “That is right. Thank you. See what is the matter with her, and tell me.” And she carried off the rest of the party. At the same time Jacintha asked permission to pass the rest of the evening with her relations in the village. But why that swift, quivering glance of intelligence between Jacintha and Rose de Beaurepaire when the baroness said, “Yes, certainly”? Time will show. Josephine and the doctor were left alone. Now Josephine had noticed the old people whisper and her mother glance her way, and the whole woman was on her guard. She assumed a languid complacency, and by way of shield, if necessary, took some work, and bent her eyes and apparently her attention on it. The doctor was silent and ill at ease. She saw he had something weighty on his mind. “The air would have done me no harm,” said she. “Neither will a few words with me.” “Oh, no, dear friend. Only I think I should have liked a little walk this evening.” “Josephine,” said the doctor quietly, “when you were a child I saved your life.” “I have often heard my mother speak of it. I was choked by the croup, and you had the courage to lance my windpipe.” “Had I?” said the doctor, with a smile. He added gravely, “It seems then that to be cruel is sometimes kindness. It is the nature of men to love those whose life they save.” “And they love you.” “Well, our affection is not perfect. I don’t know which is most to blame, but after all these years I have failed to inspire you with confidence.” The doctor’s voice was sad, and Josephine’s bosom panted. “Pray do not say so,” she cried. “I would trust you with my life.” “But not with your secret.” “My secret! What secret? I have no secrets.” “Josephine, you have now for full twelve months suffered in body and mind, yet you have never come to me for counsel, for comfort, for an old man’s experience and advice, nor even for medical aid.” “But, dear friend, I assure you”-- “We DO NOT deceive our friend. We CANNOT deceive our doctor.” Josephine trembled, but defended herself after the manner of her sex. “Dear doctor,” said she, “I love you all the better for this. Your regard for me has for once blinded your science. I am not so robust as you have known me, but there is nothing serious the matter with me. Let us talk of something else. Besides, it is not interesting to talk about one’s self.” “Very well; since there is nothing serious or interesting in your case, we will talk about something that is both serious and interesting.” “With all my heart;” and she smiled with a sense of relief. But the doctor leaned over the table to her, and said in a cautious and most emphatic whisper, “We will talk about YOUR CHILD.” The work dropped from Josephine’s hands: she turned her face wildly on Aubertin, and faltered out, “M--my child?”