"Forgive me," she sobbed. "Pray do not expose me! Do not destroy me."
"Unhappy young lady," said he, "did you think you had deceived me, or
that you are fit to deceive any but the blind? Your face, your anguish
after Colonel Dujardin's departure, your languor, and then your sudden
robustness, your appetite, your caprices, your strange sojourn at
Frejus, your changed looks and loss of health on your return! Josephine,
your old friend has passed many an hour thinking of you, divining your
folly, following your trouble step by step. Yet you never invited him to
aid you."
Josephine faltered out a lame excuse. If she had revered him less she
could have borne to confess to him. She added it would be a relief to
her to confide in him.
"Then tell me all," said he.
She consented almost eagerly, and told him--nearly all. The old man was
deeply affected. He murmured in a broken voice, "Your story is the story
of your sex, self-sacrifice, first to your mother, then to Camille, now
to your husband."
"And he is well worthy of any sacrifice I can make," said Josephine.
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