Jacintha was so confounded she did not know what to say.  But it was a mystification that could not endure long between two women, who were both deceived by a third.  Between them they soon discovered that it must have been Rose who had sacrificed herself.

“And Edouard has never been here since,” said Josephine.

“And never will, madame.”

“Yes, he shall! there must be some limit even to my feebleness, and my sister’s devotion.  You shall take a line to him from me.  I will write it this moment.”

The letter was written.  But it was never sent.  Rose found Josephine and Jacintha together; saw a letter was being written, asked to see it; on Josephine’s hesitating, snatched it out of her hand, read it, tore it to pieces, and told Jacintha to leave the room.  She hated the sight of poor Jacintha, who had slept at the very moment when all depended on her watchfulness.

“So you were going to send to him, unknown to me.”

“Forgive me, Rose.”  Rose burst out crying.

“O Josephine! is it come to this?  Would you deceive me?”

“You have deceived me!  Yes! it has come to that.  I know all.  Twill not consent to destroy all I love.”

She then begged hard for leave to send the letter.

Rose gave an impetuous refusal.  “What could you say to him? foolish thing, don’t you know him, and his vanity?  When you had exposed yourself to him, and showed him I had insulted him for you, do you think he would forgive me?  No! this is to make light of my love—­to make me waste the sacrifice I have made.  I feel that sacrifice as much as you do, more perhaps, and I would rather die in a convent than waste that night of shame and agony.  Come, promise me, no more attempts of that kind, or we are sisters no more, friends no more, one heart and one blood no more.”

The weaker nature, weakened still more by ill-health and grief, was terrified into submission, or rather temporized.  “Kiss me then,” said Josephine, “and love me to the end.  Ah, if I was only in my grave!”

Rose kissed her with many sighs, but Josephine smiled.  Rose eyed her with suspicion.  That deep smile; what did it mean?  She had formed some resolution.  “She is going to deceive me somehow,” thought Rose.

From that day she watched Josephine like a spy.  Confidence was gone between them.  Suspicion took its place.

Rose was right in her misgivings.  The moment Josephine saw that Edouard’s happiness and Rose’s were to be sacrificed for her whom nothing could make happy, the poor thing said to herself, “I can die.”

And that was the happy thought that made her smile.

The doctor gave her laudanum:  he found she could not sleep:  and he thought it all-important that she should sleep.