Camille stood gloomy and bitter, awaiting her in silence.  He planted himself in the middle of the path, and said not a word.

She looked him all over, and her color came and went.

“Out so far as this,” she said kindly; “and without your cap.”

He put his hand to his head, and discovered that he was bareheaded.

“You will catch your death of cold.  Come, let us go in and get your cap.”

She made as if she would pass him.  He planted himself right before her.

“No.”

“Camille!”

“Why do you shun me as if I was a viper?”

“I do not shun you.  I but avoid conferences that can lead to no good; it is my duty.”

“You are very wise; cold-hearted people can be wise.”

“Am I cold-hearted, Camille?”

“As marble.”

She looked him in the face; the water came into her eyes; after awhile she whispered, sorrowfully, “Well, Camille, I am.”

“But with all your wisdom and all your coldness,” he went on to say, “you have made a mistake; you have driven me to madness and despair.”

“Heaven forbid!” said she.

“Your prayer comes too late; you have done it.”

“Camille, let me go to the oratory, and pray for you.  You terrify me.”

“It is no use.  Heaven has no mercy for me.  Take my advice; stay where you are; don’t hurry; for what remains of your life you gave to pass with me, do you understand that?”

“Ah!” And she turned pale.

“Can you read my riddle?”

She looked him in the face.  “I can read your eyes, and I know you love me.  I think you mean to kill me.  I have heard men kill the thing they love.”

“Of course they do; sooner than another should have it, they kill it—­they kill it.”

“God has not made them patient like us women.  Poor Camille!”

“Patience dies when hope dies.  Come, Madame Raynal, say a prayer, for you are going to die.”

“God bless you, Camille!” said the poor girl, putting her hands together in her last prayer.  At this sweet touch of affection, Camille hung his head, and sobbed.  Then suddenly lashing himself into fury, he cried,—­

“You are my betrothed! you talk of duty; but you forget your duty to me.  Are you not my betrothed this four years?  Answer me that.”

“Yes, Camille, I was.”

“Did I not suffer death a hundred times for you, to keep faith with you, you cold-blooded traitress with an angel’s face?”

“Ah, Camille! can you speak so bitterly to me?  Have I denied your right to kill me?  You shall never dishonor me, but you shall kill me, if it is your pleasure.  I do not resist.  Why, then, speak to me like that; must the last words I hear from your mouth be words of anger, cruel Camille?”

“I was wrong.  But it is so hard to kill her I love in cold blood.  I want anger as well as despair to keep me to it.  Come, turn your head away from me, and all our troubles shall end.”