human
Miss St. Just does not intrude into the secrets of her sister's married life; and if she did, she would not repeat them.
gpt
Pardon, Miss St. Just; I asked a rude question, and I am sorry for it.
human
Pardon you, my dear Saint Père? cried she, almost catching at his hand.
gpt
Never! I must either believe you infallible, or hate you eternally. It is I that was naughty; I always am; but you will forgive Queen Whims?
human
Who could help it? said the Major, in a sad, sweet tone.
gpt
But here is the postman. May I open my letters?
human
You may do as you like, now you have forgiven me. Why, what is it, mon Saint Père?
gpt
A gallant officer, whom we and all the world knew well, is dead of cholera, at his post, where a man should die.... And, my dear Miss St. Just, we are going to the Crimea.
human
We?--you?
gpt
Yes. The expedition will really sail, I find.
human
But not you?
gpt
I shall offer my services. My leave of absence will, in any case, end on the first of September; and even if it did not, my health is quite enough restored to enable me to walk up to a cannon's mouth.
human
Ah, mon Saint Père, what words are these?
gpt
The words of an old soldier, Queen Whims, who has been so long at his trade that he has got to take a strange pleasure in it.
human
In killing?
gpt
No; only in the chance of----. But I will not cast an unnecessary shadow over your bright soul. There will be shadows enough over it soon, without my help.
human
What do you mean?
gpt
That you, and thousands more as delicate, if not as fair as you, will see, ere long, what the realities of human life are; and in a way of which you have never dreamed.
human
You think there will be def--disasters?
gpt
How can I tell? That we are what we always were, I doubt not. Scoutbush will fight as merrily as I. But we owe the penalty of many sins, and we shall pay it.