“For what?” inquired the baroness dryly. “For not being able to make her love me.” “Oh! that is it! She did not love you?” “Ask herself, madame,” said Edouard, bitterly. “Rose,” said the baroness, her eye now beginning to twinkle, “were you really guilty of such a want of discrimination? Didn’t you love monsieur?” Rose flung her arms round her mother’s neck, and said, “No, mamma, I did not love Monsieur Edouard,” in an exquisite tone of love, that to a female ear conveyed the exact opposite of the words. But Edouard had not that nice discriminating ear. He sighed deeply, and the baroness smiled. “You tell me that?” said she, “and you are crying!” “She is crying, madame?” said Edouard, inquiringly, and taking a step towards them. “Why, you see she is, you foolish boy. Come, I must put an end to this;” and she rose coolly from her seat, and begging Edouard to forgive her for leaving him a moment with his deadly enemy, went off with knowing little nods into Josephine’s room; only, before she entered it, she turned, and with a maternal smile discharged this word at the pair. “Babies!” But between the alienated lovers was a long distressing silence. Neither knew what to say; and their situation was intolerable. At last Rose ventured in a timorous voice to say, “I thank you for your generosity. But I knew that you would not betray me.” “Your secret is safe for me,” sighed Edouard. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Rose shook her head sadly. Edouard moved to the door. Rose bowed her head with a despairing moan. It took him by the heart and held him. He hesitated, then came towards her. “I see you are sorry for what you have done to me who loved you so; and you loved me. Oh! yes, do not deny it, Rose; there was a time you loved me. And that makes it worse: to have given me such sweet hopes, only to crush both them and me. And is not this cruel of you to weep so and let me see your penitence--when it is too late?” “Alas! how can I help my regrets? I have insulted so good a friend.” There was a sad silence. Then as he looked at her, her looks belied the charge her own lips had made against herself. A light seemed to burst on Edouard from that high-minded, sorrow-stricken face. “Tell me it is false!” he cried. She hid her face in her hands--woman’s instinct to avoid being read. “Tell me you were misled then, fascinated, perverted, but that your heart returned to me. Clear yourself of deliberate deceit, and I will believe and thank you on my knees.” “Heaven have pity on us both!” cried poor Rose. “On us! Thank you for saying on us. See now, you have not gained happiness by destroying mine. One word--do you love that man?--that Dujardin?” “You know I do not.” “I am glad of that; since his life is forfeited; if he escapes my friend Raynal, he shall not escape me.” Rose uttered a cry of terror. “Hush! not so loud. The life of Camille! Oh! if he were to die, what would become of--oh, pray do not speak so loud.”