White Lies [75]
are not the man to kill a woman and spare yourself. Come."
"Josephine, have pity on me, do not deceive me; pray do not take this, my only friend, from me, unless you really love me."
"I love you; I adore you," was her reply.
She leaned her head on his shoulder, but with her hand she sought his, and even as she uttered those loving words she coaxed the weapon from his now unresisting grasp.
"There, it is gone; you are saved from death--saved from crime." And with that, the danger was over, she trembled for the first time, and fell to sobbing hysterically.
He threw himself at her knees, and embraced them again and again, and begged her forgiveness in a transport of remorse and self- reproach.
She looked down with tender pity on him, and heard his cries of penitence and shame.
"Rise, Camille, and go home with me," said she faintly.
"Yes, Josephine."
They went slowly and in silence. Camille was too ashamed and penitent to speak; too full of terror too at the abyss of crime from which he had been saved. The ancients feigned that a virgin could subdue a lion; perhaps they meant that a pure gentle nature can subdue a nature fierce but generous. Lion-like Camille walked by Josephine's side with his eyes bent on the ground, the picture of humility and penitence.
"This is the last walk you and I shall take together," said Josephine solemnly.
"I know it," said he humbly. "I have forfeited all right to be by your side."
"My poor, lost love," sighed Josephine, "will you never understand me? You never stood higher in my esteem than at this moment. It is the avowal you have forced from ME that parts us. The man to whom I have said 'I'--must not remain beneath my husband's roof. Does not your sense of honor agree with mine?"
"It does," faltered he.
"To-morrow you must leave the chateau."
"I will obey you."
"What, you do not resist, you do not break my heart by complaints, by reproaches?"
"No, Josephine, all is changed. I thought you unfeeling: I thought you were going to be HAPPY with him; that was what maddened me."
"I pray daily YOU may be happy, no matter how. But you and I are not alike, dear as we are to one another. Well, do not fear: I shall never be happy--will that soothe you, Camille?"
"Yes, Josephine, all is changed; the words you have spoken have driven the fiends out of my heart. I have nothing to do now but to obey, you to command: it is your right. Since you love me a little still, dispose of me. Bid me live: bid me die: bid me stay: bid me go. I shall never disobey the angel who loves me, my only friend upon the earth."
A single deep sob from Josephine was all the answer.
Then he could not help asking her why she had not trusted him?
"Why did you not say to me long ago, 'I love you, but I am a wife; my husband is an honest soldier, absent, and fighting for France: I am the guardian of his honor and my own; be just, be generous, be self-denying; depart and love me only as angels love'? Perhaps this might have helped me to show you that I too am a man of honor."
"Perhaps I was wrong," sighed Josephine. "I think I should have trusted more to you. But then, who would have thought you could really doubt my love? You were ill; I could not bear you to go till you were well, quite well. I saw no other way to keep you but this, to treat you with feigned coldness. You saw the coldness, but not what it cost me to maintain it. Yes, I was unjust; and inconsiderate, for I had many furtive joys to sustain me: I had you in my house under my care--that thought was always sweet--I had a hand in everything that was for your good, for your comfort. I helped Jacintha make your soup and your chocolate every day. I had the delight of lining the dressing-gown you were to wear. I had always some little thing or other to do for you. These kept me up: I forgot in my selfishness that you had none of these supports, and that I was driving you to despair. I am a foolish, disingenuous woman: I have been very culpable. Forgive me!"
"Forgive you, angel of
"Josephine, have pity on me, do not deceive me; pray do not take this, my only friend, from me, unless you really love me."
"I love you; I adore you," was her reply.
She leaned her head on his shoulder, but with her hand she sought his, and even as she uttered those loving words she coaxed the weapon from his now unresisting grasp.
"There, it is gone; you are saved from death--saved from crime." And with that, the danger was over, she trembled for the first time, and fell to sobbing hysterically.
He threw himself at her knees, and embraced them again and again, and begged her forgiveness in a transport of remorse and self- reproach.
She looked down with tender pity on him, and heard his cries of penitence and shame.
"Rise, Camille, and go home with me," said she faintly.
"Yes, Josephine."
They went slowly and in silence. Camille was too ashamed and penitent to speak; too full of terror too at the abyss of crime from which he had been saved. The ancients feigned that a virgin could subdue a lion; perhaps they meant that a pure gentle nature can subdue a nature fierce but generous. Lion-like Camille walked by Josephine's side with his eyes bent on the ground, the picture of humility and penitence.
"This is the last walk you and I shall take together," said Josephine solemnly.
"I know it," said he humbly. "I have forfeited all right to be by your side."
"My poor, lost love," sighed Josephine, "will you never understand me? You never stood higher in my esteem than at this moment. It is the avowal you have forced from ME that parts us. The man to whom I have said 'I'--must not remain beneath my husband's roof. Does not your sense of honor agree with mine?"
"It does," faltered he.
"To-morrow you must leave the chateau."
"I will obey you."
"What, you do not resist, you do not break my heart by complaints, by reproaches?"
"No, Josephine, all is changed. I thought you unfeeling: I thought you were going to be HAPPY with him; that was what maddened me."
"I pray daily YOU may be happy, no matter how. But you and I are not alike, dear as we are to one another. Well, do not fear: I shall never be happy--will that soothe you, Camille?"
"Yes, Josephine, all is changed; the words you have spoken have driven the fiends out of my heart. I have nothing to do now but to obey, you to command: it is your right. Since you love me a little still, dispose of me. Bid me live: bid me die: bid me stay: bid me go. I shall never disobey the angel who loves me, my only friend upon the earth."
A single deep sob from Josephine was all the answer.
Then he could not help asking her why she had not trusted him?
"Why did you not say to me long ago, 'I love you, but I am a wife; my husband is an honest soldier, absent, and fighting for France: I am the guardian of his honor and my own; be just, be generous, be self-denying; depart and love me only as angels love'? Perhaps this might have helped me to show you that I too am a man of honor."
"Perhaps I was wrong," sighed Josephine. "I think I should have trusted more to you. But then, who would have thought you could really doubt my love? You were ill; I could not bear you to go till you were well, quite well. I saw no other way to keep you but this, to treat you with feigned coldness. You saw the coldness, but not what it cost me to maintain it. Yes, I was unjust; and inconsiderate, for I had many furtive joys to sustain me: I had you in my house under my care--that thought was always sweet--I had a hand in everything that was for your good, for your comfort. I helped Jacintha make your soup and your chocolate every day. I had the delight of lining the dressing-gown you were to wear. I had always some little thing or other to do for you. These kept me up: I forgot in my selfishness that you had none of these supports, and that I was driving you to despair. I am a foolish, disingenuous woman: I have been very culpable. Forgive me!"
"Forgive you, angel of