“No! that was my own wickedness and spitefulness.” “Wickedness, spitefulness! they are not in your nature. It is all that wretch’s doing.” Rose sighed, but she said nothing; for she saw that to excuse Camille would only make the jealous one more bitter against him. “Will you deign to write to me at my new post? once a month? in answer to my letters?” “Yes, dear. But you will ride over sometimes to see us.” “Oh, yes; but for some little time I shall not be able. The duties of a new post.” “Perhaps in a month--a fortnight?” “Sooner perhaps; the moment I hear that man is out of the house.” Edouard went away, dogged and sad; Rose shut herself up in her room and had a good cry. In the afternoon Josephine came and remonstrated with her. “You have not walked with him at all to-day.” “No; you must pet him yourself for once. I hate the sight of him; it has made mischief between Edouard and me, my being so attentive to him. Edouard is jealous, and I cannot wonder. After all, what right have I to mystify him who honors me with his affection?” Then, being pressed with questions by Josephine, she related to her all that had passed between Edouard and her, word for word. “Poor Camille!” sighed Josephine the just. “Oh, dear, yes! poor Camille! who has the power to make us all miserable, and who does it, and will go on doing it until he is happy himself.” “Ah! would to Heaven I could make him as happy as he deserves to be.” “You could easily make him much happier than that. And why not do it?” “O Rose,” said Josephine, shocked, “how can you advise me so?” She then asked her if she thought it possible that Camille could be ignorant of her heart. “Josephine,” replied Rose, angrily, “these men are absurd: they believe only what they see. I have done what I can for you and Camille, but it is useless. Would you have him believe you love him, you must yourself be kind to him; and it would be a charitable action: you would make four unhappy people happy, or, at least, put them on the road; NOW they are off the road, and, by what I have seen to-day, I think, if we go on so much longer, it will be too late to try to return. Come, Josephine, for my sake! Let me go and tell him you will consent--to all our happinesses. There, the crime is mine.” And she ran off in spite of Josephine’s faint and hypocritical entreaties. She returns the next minute looking all aghast. “It is too late,” said she. “He is going away. I am sure he is, for he is packing up his things to go. I spied through the old place and saw him. He was sighing like a furnace as he strapped his portmanteau. I hate him, of course, but I was sorry for him. I could not help being. He sighed so all the time, piteously.” Josephine turned pale, and lifted her hands in surprise and dismay.