“Camille,” cried Rose—­the tears streaming down her cheeks—­“my poor Camille! leave Beaurepaire.  Oh, leave it at once.”

Returned towards her with a look of inquiry.

At that Josephine, like some feeble but nimble wild creature on whom a grasp has relaxed, writhed away from him and got free:  “Farewell!  Farewell!” she cried, in despair’s own voice, and made swiftly for the house.

Camille stood aghast, and did not follow her.

Now ere she had gone many steps who should meet her right in front but Jacintha.

“Madame Raynal, the baroness’s carriage is just in sight.  I thought you’d like to know.”  Then she bawled proudly to Rose, “I was the first to call her madame;” and off went Jacintha convinced she had done something very clever.

This blow turned those three to stone.

Josephine had no longer the power or the wish to fly.  “Better so,” she thought, and she stood cowering.

The great passions that had spoken so loud were struck dumb, and a deep silence fell upon the place.  Madame Raynal’s quivering eye turned slowly and askant towards Camille, but stopped in terror ere it could see him.  For she knew by this fearful stillness that the truth was creeping on Camille.  And so did Rose.

At last Camille spoke one word in a low whisper.

“Madame?”

Dead silence.

“White? both in white?”

Rose came between him and Josephine, and sobbed out, “Camille, it was our doing.  We drove her to it.  O sir, look how afraid of you she is.  Do not reproach her, if you are a man.”

He waved her out of his way as if she had been some idle feather, and almost staggered up to Josephine.

“It is for you to speak, my betrothed:  are you married?”

The poor creature, true to her nature, was thinking more of him than herself.  Even in her despair it flashed across her, “If he knew all, he too would be wretched for life.  If I let him think ill of me he may be happy one day.”  She cowered the picture of sorrow and tongue-tied guilt.

“Are you a wife?”

“Yes.”

He winced and quivered as if a bullet had pierced him.

“This is how I came to be suspected; she I loved was false.”

“Yes, Camille.”

“No, no!” cried Rose; “don’t believe her:  she never suspected you.  We have brought her to this, we alone.”

“Be silent, Rose! oh, be silent!” gasped Josephine.

“I lived for you:  I would have died for you; you could not even wait for me.”

A low moan, but not a word of excuse.

“What can I do for you now?”

“Forget me, Camille,” said she despairingly, doggedly.

“Forget you? never, never! there is but one thing I can do to show you how I loved you:  I will forgive you, and begone.  Whither shall I go? whither shall I go now?”

“Camile, your words stab her.”