e a month's interval between her
afflictions as a widow and her consolations as a wife. In the course of
time she changed her service. A handsome Austrian sergeant won her heart
and hand, and she followed him to Hungary. There, between marsh fever
and Turkish skirmishing, various casualties occurred in the matrimonial
list; and Juliet, who evidently had been a handsome brunette, and whose
French vivacity distanced all the heavy charms of the Austrian
peasantry, was never without a husband. At length, like other veterans,
having served her country to the full extent of her patriotism, she was
discharged with her tenth husband, and of course induced the honest
Austrian to come to the only country on which, in a Frenchwoman's creed,
the sun shines. There the Austrian died.

"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