When he got well enough to leave his bed the largest couch was sent up to him from the saloon; a kind hand lined the baron’s silk dressing-gown for him warm and soft and nice; and he would sit or lie on his couch, or take two turns in the room leaning upon Rose’s shoulder, and glad of the support; and he looked piteously in her eyes when she came and when she went.  Rose looked down; she could do nothing, she could say nothing.

With his strength, Camille lost a portion of his pride:  he pined for a sight of her he no longer respected; pined for her, as the thirsty pine for water in Sahara.

At last one day he spoke out.  “How kind you are to me, Rose! how kind you all are—­but one.”

He waited in hopes she would say something, but she held her tongue.

“At least tell me why it is.  Is she ashamed?  Is she afraid?”

“Neither.”

“She hates me:  it is true, then, that we hate those whom we have wounded.  Cruel, cruel Josephine!  Oh, heart of marble against which my heart has wrecked itself forever!”

“No, no!  She is anything but cruel:  but she is Madame Raynal.”

“Ah!  I forgot.  But have I no claim on her?  Nearly four years she has been my betrothed.  What have I done?  Was I ever false to her?  I could forgive her for what she has done to me, but she cannot forgive me.  Does she mean never to see me again?”

“Ask yourself what good could come of it.”

“Very well,” said Camille, with a malicious smile.  “I am in her way.  I see what she wants; she shall have it.”

Rose carried these words to Josephine.  They went through her like a sword.

Rose pitied her.  Rose had a moment’s weakness.

“Let us go to him,” she said; “anything is better than this.”

“Rose, I dare not,” was the wise reply.

But the next day early, Josephine took Rose to a door outside the house, a door that had long been disused.  Nettles grew before it.  She produced a key and with great difficulty opened this door.  It led to the tapestried chamber, and years ago they used to steal up it and peep into the room.

Rose scarcely needed to be told that she was to watch Camille, and report to her.  In truth, it was a mysterious, vague protection against a danger equally mysterious.  Yet it made Josephine easier.  But so unflinching was her prudence that she never once could be prevailed on to mount those stairs, and peep at Camille herself.  “I must starve my heart, not feed it,” said she.  And she grew paler and more hollow-eyed day by day.

Yet this was the same woman who showed such feebleness and irresolution when Raynal pressed her to marry him.  But then dwarfs feebly drew her this way and that.  Now giants fought for her.  Between a feeble inclination and a feeble disinclination her dead heart had drifted to and fro.  Now honor, duty, gratitude,—­which last with her was a passion,—­dragged her one way:  love, pity, and remorse another.