“No, Camille, let me look at you. Then you will be the last thing I shall see on earth.”
At this he hesitated a moment; then, with a fierce stamp at what he thought was weakness, he levelled a pistol at her.
She put up her hands with a piteous cry, “Oh! not my face, Camille! pray do not disfigure my face. Here—kill me here—in my bosom—my heart that loved you well, when it was no sin to love you.”
“I can’t shoot you. I can’t spill your blood. The river will end all, and not disfigure your beauty, that has driven me mad, and cost you, poor wretch, your life.”
“Thank you, dear Camille. The water does not frighten me as a pistol does; it will not hurt me; it will only kill me.”
“No, it is but a plunge, and you will be at peace forever; and so shall I. Come, take my hand, Madame Raynal, Madame Raynal.”
She gave him her hand with a look of infinite love. She only said, “My poor mother!” That word did not fall to the ground. It flashed like lightning at night across the demented lover, and lighted up his egotism (suicide, like homicide, is generally a fit of maniacal egotism), even to his eyes blinded by fury.
“Wretch that I am,” he shrieked. “Fly, Josephine, fly! escape this moment, that my better angel whispers to me. Do you hear? begone, while it is time.”
“I will not leave you, Camille.”
“I say you shall. Go to your mother and Rose; go to those you love, and I can pity; go to the chapel and thank Heaven for your escape.”