But Josephine declined this. “No,” said she; “give me every advantage; I must think beforehand every word I shall say; but take him by surprise, coward and doubleface that I am.” Rose knocked at the door. A faint voice said, “Come in.” The sisters entered the room very softly. Camille sat on the sofa, his head bowed over his hands. A glance showed Josephine that he was doggedly and resolutely thrusting himself into the grave. Thinking it was only Rose--for he had now lost all hope of seeing Josephine come in at the door--he never moved. Some one glided gently but rapidly up to him. He looked up. Josephine was kneeling to him. He lifted his head with a start, and trembled all over. She whispered, “I am come to you to beg your pity; to appeal to your generosity; to ask a favor; I who deserve so little of you.” “You have waited a long time,” said Camille, agitated greatly; “and so have I.” “Camille, you are torturing one who loved you once, and who has been very weak and faithless, but not so wicked as she appears.” “How am I torturing you?” “With remorse; do I not suffer enough? Would you make me a murderess?” “Why have you never been near me?” retorted Camille. “I could forgive your weakness, but not your heartlessness.” “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.