Camille nodded his head.
Jean drew back, covering his face for a moment with his hands.
“I have just that amount,” he said, “saved up. Your employer shall have it to-morrow. As for you,” he added bitterly, “I wash my hands of you. This is twice.”
His voice broke, and he hurriedly withdrew to the window, as if the sight of his brother’s face maddened him.
He returned almost instantly, however, and walking straight up to Camille, demanded:
“What were you doing there?” pointing sternly below. “This bag shows you intended to abscond to-night. Were you bidding her farewell or—”
He had not strength to finish, but his look filled up the hiatus left in his speech.
Camille faltered beneath that glance. If he could have seen a way to escape, his furtive, worried look showed he would have availed himself of it. But his brother’s eye held him and would have the truth. With a gasp he broke forth:
“I have bidden her farewell. She does not know why I go. She loves me and she trusts me. I—I would have persuaded her to go with me if I could. I love her, I say, whatever you may call it. I love her, do you hear, and if I could have induced her to leave her father you would not have caught me in this box. It was my despair.”