White Lies [73]
many a fatal resolution.) Then he had a cruel regret. To die without a word; a parting word. Then he thought to himself, it was best so; for perhaps he should have taken her with him.
"Sir! colonel!" uttered a solemn voice behind him.
Absorbed and strung up to desperation as he was, this voice seemed unnaturally loud, and discordant with Camille's mood; a sudden trumpet from the world of small things.
It was Picard, the notary.
"Can you tell me where Madame Raynal is?"
"No. At the chateau, I suppose."
"She is not there; I inquired of the servant. She was out. You have not seen her, colonel?"
"Not I; I never see her."
"Then perhaps I had better go back to the chateau and wait for her: stay, are you a friend of the family? Colonel, suppose I were to tell you, and ask you to break it to Madame Raynal, or, better still, to the baroness, or Mademoiselle Rose."
"Monsieur," said Camille coldly, "charge me with no messages, for I cannot deliver them. I AM GOING ANOTHER WAY."
"In that case, I will go to the chateau once more; for what I have to say must be heard."
Picard returned to the chateau wondering at the colonel's strange manner.
Camille, for his part, wondered that any one could be so mad as to talk to him about trifles; to him, a man standing on the brink of eternity. Poor soul, it was he who was mad and unlucky. He should have heard what Picard had to say. The very gentleness and solemnity of manner ought to have excited his curiosity.
He watched Picard's retiring form. When he was out of sight, then he turned round and resumed his thoughts as if Picard had been no more than a fly that had buzzed and then gone.
"Yes, I should have taken her with me," he said. He sat gloomy and dogged like a dangerous maniac in his cell; never moved, scarce thought for more than half an hour; but his deadly purpose grew in him. Suddenly he started. A lady was at the style, about a hundred yards distant. He trembled. It was Josephine.
She came towards him slowly, her eyes bent on the ground in a deep reverie. She stopped about a stone's throw from him, and looked at the river long and thoughtfully; then casting her eye around, she caught sight of Camille. He watched her grimly. He saw her give a little start, and half turn round; but if this was an impulse to retreat, it was instantly suppressed; for the next moment she pursued her way.
Camille stood gloomy and bitter, awaiting her in silence. He planted himself in the middle of the path, and said not a word.
She looked him all over, and her color came and went.
"Out so far as this," she said kindly; "and without your cap."
He put his hand to his head, and discovered that he was bareheaded.
"You will catch your death of cold. Come, let us go in and get your cap."
She made as if she would pass him. He planted himself right before her.
"No."
"Camille!"
"Why do you shun me as if I was a viper?"
"I do not shun you. I but avoid conferences that can lead to no good; it is my duty."
"You are very wise; cold-hearted people can be wise."
"Am I cold-hearted, Camille?"
"As marble."
She looked him in the face; the water came into her eyes; after awhile she whispered, sorrowfully, "Well, Camille, I am."
"But with all your wisdom and all your coldness," he went on to say, "you have made a mistake; you have driven me to madness and despair."
"Heaven forbid!" said she.
"Your prayer comes too late; you have done it."
"Camille, let me go to the oratory, and pray for you. You terrify me."
"It is no use. Heaven has no mercy for me. Take my advice; stay where you are; don't hurry; for what remains of your life you gave to pass with me, do you understand that?"
"Ah!" And she turned pale.
"Can you read my riddle?"
She looked him in the face. "I can read your eyes, and I know you love me. I think you mean to kill me. I have heard men kill the thing they love."
"Of course they do; sooner than another should have it, they kill it--they kill it."
"God has not made them
"Sir! colonel!" uttered a solemn voice behind him.
Absorbed and strung up to desperation as he was, this voice seemed unnaturally loud, and discordant with Camille's mood; a sudden trumpet from the world of small things.
It was Picard, the notary.
"Can you tell me where Madame Raynal is?"
"No. At the chateau, I suppose."
"She is not there; I inquired of the servant. She was out. You have not seen her, colonel?"
"Not I; I never see her."
"Then perhaps I had better go back to the chateau and wait for her: stay, are you a friend of the family? Colonel, suppose I were to tell you, and ask you to break it to Madame Raynal, or, better still, to the baroness, or Mademoiselle Rose."
"Monsieur," said Camille coldly, "charge me with no messages, for I cannot deliver them. I AM GOING ANOTHER WAY."
"In that case, I will go to the chateau once more; for what I have to say must be heard."
Picard returned to the chateau wondering at the colonel's strange manner.
Camille, for his part, wondered that any one could be so mad as to talk to him about trifles; to him, a man standing on the brink of eternity. Poor soul, it was he who was mad and unlucky. He should have heard what Picard had to say. The very gentleness and solemnity of manner ought to have excited his curiosity.
He watched Picard's retiring form. When he was out of sight, then he turned round and resumed his thoughts as if Picard had been no more than a fly that had buzzed and then gone.
"Yes, I should have taken her with me," he said. He sat gloomy and dogged like a dangerous maniac in his cell; never moved, scarce thought for more than half an hour; but his deadly purpose grew in him. Suddenly he started. A lady was at the style, about a hundred yards distant. He trembled. It was Josephine.
She came towards him slowly, her eyes bent on the ground in a deep reverie. She stopped about a stone's throw from him, and looked at the river long and thoughtfully; then casting her eye around, she caught sight of Camille. He watched her grimly. He saw her give a little start, and half turn round; but if this was an impulse to retreat, it was instantly suppressed; for the next moment she pursued her way.
Camille stood gloomy and bitter, awaiting her in silence. He planted himself in the middle of the path, and said not a word.
She looked him all over, and her color came and went.
"Out so far as this," she said kindly; "and without your cap."
He put his hand to his head, and discovered that he was bareheaded.
"You will catch your death of cold. Come, let us go in and get your cap."
She made as if she would pass him. He planted himself right before her.
"No."
"Camille!"
"Why do you shun me as if I was a viper?"
"I do not shun you. I but avoid conferences that can lead to no good; it is my duty."
"You are very wise; cold-hearted people can be wise."
"Am I cold-hearted, Camille?"
"As marble."
She looked him in the face; the water came into her eyes; after awhile she whispered, sorrowfully, "Well, Camille, I am."
"But with all your wisdom and all your coldness," he went on to say, "you have made a mistake; you have driven me to madness and despair."
"Heaven forbid!" said she.
"Your prayer comes too late; you have done it."
"Camille, let me go to the oratory, and pray for you. You terrify me."
"It is no use. Heaven has no mercy for me. Take my advice; stay where you are; don't hurry; for what remains of your life you gave to pass with me, do you understand that?"
"Ah!" And she turned pale.
"Can you read my riddle?"
She looked him in the face. "I can read your eyes, and I know you love me. I think you mean to kill me. I have heard men kill the thing they love."
"Of course they do; sooner than another should have it, they kill it--they kill it."
"God has not made them