“It is my duty.  I have no right to seek your society.  If you really want mine, you have only to get well, and so join us down-stairs a week or two before you leave us.”

“How am I to get well?  My heart is broken.”

“Camille, be a man.  Do not fling away a soldier’s life because a fickle, worthless woman could not wait for you.  Forgive me like a man, or else revenge yourself like a man.  If you cannot forgive me, kill me.  See, I kneel at your feet.  I will not resist you.  Kill me.”

“I wish I could.  Oh! if I could kill you with a look and myself with a wish!  No man should ever take you from me, then.  We would be together in the grave at this hour.  Do not tempt me, I say;” and he cast a terrible look of love, and hatred, and despair upon her.  Her purple eye never winced; it poured back tenderness and affection in return.  He saw and turned away with a groan, and held out his hand to her.  She seized it and kissed it.  “You are great, you are generous; you will not strike me as a woman strikes; you will not die to drive me to despair.”

“I see,” said he, more gently, “love is gone, but pity remains.  I thought that was gone, too.”

“Yes, Camille,” said Josephine, in a whisper, “pity remains, and remorse and terror at what I have done to a man of whom I was never worthy.”

“Well, madame, as you have come at last to me, and even do me the honor to ask me a favor—­I shall try—­if only out of courtesy—­to—­ah, Josephine!  Josephine! when did I ever refuse you anything?”

At this Josephine sank into a chair, and burst out crying.  Camille, at this, began to cry too; and the two poor things sat a long way from one another, and sobbed bitterly.

The man, weakened as he was, recovered his quiet despair first.

“Don’t cry so,” said he.  “But tell me what is your will, and I shall obey you as I used before any one came between us.”

“Then, live, Camille.  I implore you to live.”

“Well, Josephine, since you care about it, I will try and live.  Why did not you come before and ask me?  I thought I was in your way.  I thought you wanted me dead.”

Josephine cast a look of wonder and anguish on Camille, but she said nothing.  She rang the bell, and, on Jacintha coming up, despatched her to Dr. Aubertin for the patient’s medicine.

“Tell the doctor,” said she, “Colonel Dujardin has let fall the glass.”  While Jacintha was gone, she scolded Camille gently.  “How could you be so unkind to the poor doctor who loves you so?  Only think:  to throw away his medicines!  Look at the ashes; they are wet.  Camille, are you, too, becoming disingenuous?”

Jacintha came in with the tonic in a glass, and retired with an obeisance.  Josephine took it to Camille.

“Drink with me, then,” said he, “or I will not touch it.”  Josephine took the glass.  “I drink to your health, Camille, and to your glory; laurels to your brow, and some faithful woman to your heart, who will make you forget this folly:  it is for her I am saving you.”  She put the glass with well-acted spirit to her lips; but in the very action a spasm seized her throat and almost choked her; she lowered her head that he might not see her face, and tried again; but the tears burst from her eyes and ran into the liquid, and her lips trembled over the brim, and were paralyzed.