ndered that any one could be so mad as to talk
to him about trifles; to him, a man standing on the brink of eternity.
Poor soul, it was he who was mad and unlucky. He should have heard what
Picard had to say. The very gentleness and solemnity of manner ought to
have excited his curiosity.

He watched Picard's retiring form. When he was out of sight, then he
turned round and resumed his thoughts as if Picard had been no more than
a fly that had buzzed and then gone.

"Yes, I should have taken her with me," he said. He sat gloomy and
dogged like a dangerous maniac in his cell; never moved, scarce thought
for more than half an hour; but his deadly purpose grew in him. Suddenly
he started. A lady was at the style, about a hundred yards distant. He
trembled. It was Josephine.

She came towards him slowly, her eyes bent on the ground in a deep
reverie. She stopped about a stone's throw from him, and looked at the
river long and thoughtfully; then casting her eye around, she caught
sight of Camille. He watched her grimly. He saw her give a little start,
and half turn round; but if this was an impulse to retreat, it was
instantly suppressed; for the next moment she pursued her way.

Camille stood gloomy and bitter, awaiting her in silence. He planted
himself in the middle of the path, and said not a word.

She looked him all over, and her color came and went.

"Out so far as this," she said kindly; "and without your cap."

He put his hand to his head, and discovered that he was bareheaded.

"You will catch your death of cold. Come, let us go in and get your
cap."

She made as if she would pass him. He planted himself right before her.

"No."

"Camille!"

"Why do you shun me as if I was a viper?"

"I do not shun you. I but avoid conferences that can lead to no good; it
is my duty."

"You are very wise; cold-hearted people can be wise."

"Am I cold-hearted, Camille?"

"As marble."

She looked him in the face; the water came into her eyes; after awhile
she whispered, sorrowfully, "Well, Camille, I am."

"But with all your wisdom and all your coldness," he went on to say,
"you have made a mistake; you have driven me to madness and despair."

"Heaven forbid!" said she.

"Your prayer comes too late; you have done it."

"Camille, let me go to the oratory, and pray for you. You terrify me."

"It is no use. Heaven has no mercy for me. Take my advice; stay where
you are; don't hurry; for what remains of your l