“No, Camille, let me look at you.  Then you will be the last thing I shall see on earth.”

At this he hesitated a moment; then, with a fierce stamp at what he thought was weakness, he levelled a pistol at her.

She put up her hands with a piteous cry, “Oh! not my face, Camille! pray do not disfigure my face.  Here—­kill me here—­in my bosom—­my heart that loved you well, when it was no sin to love you.”

“I can’t shoot you.  I can’t spill your blood.  The river will end all, and not disfigure your beauty, that has driven me mad, and cost you, poor wretch, your life.”

“Thank you, dear Camille.  The water does not frighten me as a pistol does; it will not hurt me; it will only kill me.”

“No, it is but a plunge, and you will be at peace forever; and so shall I. Come, take my hand, Madame Raynal, Madame Raynal.”

She gave him her hand with a look of infinite love.  She only said, “My poor mother!” That word did not fall to the ground.  It flashed like lightning at night across the demented lover, and lighted up his egotism (suicide, like homicide, is generally a fit of maniacal egotism), even to his eyes blinded by fury.

“Wretch that I am,” he shrieked.  “Fly, Josephine, fly! escape this moment, that my better angel whispers to me.  Do you hear? begone, while it is time.”

“I will not leave you, Camille.”

“I say you shall.  Go to your mother and Rose; go to those you love, and I can pity; go to the chapel and thank Heaven for your escape.”

“Yes, but not without you, Camille.  I am afraid to leave you.”

“You have more to fear if you stay.  Well, I can’t wait any longer.  Stay, then, and live; and learn from me how to love Jean Raynal.”

He levelled the pistol at himself.

Josephine threw herself on him with a cry, and seized his arm.  With the strength excitement lent her she got the better, and all but overpowered him.  But, as usual, the man’s strength lasted longer, and with a sustained effort he threw her off; then, pale and panting, raised the pistol to take his life.  This time she moved neither hand nor foot; but she palsied his rash hand with a word.

“No; I love you.”

CHAPTER XIII.

There lie the dead corpses of those words on paper; but my art is powerless to tell you how they were uttered, those words, potent as a king’s, for they saved a life.

They were a cry of terror and a cry of reproach and a cry of love unfathomable.

The weapon shook in his hand.  He looked at her with growing astonishment and joy; she at him fixedly and anxiously, her hands clasped in supplication.

“As you used to love me?”

“More, far more.  Give me the pistol.  I love you, dearest.  I love you.”

At these delicious words he lost all power of resistance, she saw; and her soft and supple hand stole in and closed upon his, and gently withdrew the weapon, and threw it into the water.  “Good Camille! now give me the other.”