Rose looked down; she could do nothing, she could say nothing.
With his strength, Camille lost a portion of his pride: he pined for a sight of her he no longer respected; pined for her, as the thirsty pine for water in Sahara.
At last one day he spoke out.

"How kind you are to me, Rose! how kind you all are--but one." He waited in hopes she would say something, but she held her tongue.
"At least tell me why it is.

Is she ashamed?
Is she afraid ?" "Neither." "She hates me: it is true, then, that we hate those whom we have wounded.

Cruel, cruel Josephine! Oh, heart of marble against which my heart has wrecked itself forever!" "No, no! She is anything but cruel: but she is Madame Raynal." "Ah! I forgot.

But have I no claim on her?
Nearly four years she has been my betrothed.