“Rose de Beaurepaire?” said he, putting his hand to his head, as if to see whether his reason was still there.
“Yes, Rose de Beaurepaire—Rose Dujardin that ought to be, and that is to be, if you please.”
“One word, monsieur: is it of Rose we have been talking all this time?”
Raynal nearly lost his temper at this question, and the cold, contemptuous tone with which it was put; but he gulped down his ire.
“It is,” said he.
“One question more. Did she tell you I had—I had”—
“Why, as to that, she was in no condition to deny she had fallen, poor girl; the evidence was too strong. She did not reveal her seducer’s name; but I had not far to go for that.”
“One question more,” said Dujardin, with a face of anguish. “Is it Jos—is it Madame Raynal’s wish I should marry her sister?”
“Why, of course,” said Raynal, in all sincerity, assuming that naturally enough as a matter of course; “if you have any respect for HER feelings, look on me as her envoy in this matter.”
At this Camille turned sick with disgust; then rage and bitterness swelled his heart. A furious impulse seized him to expose Josephine on the spot. He overcame that, however, and merely said, “She wishes me to marry her sister, does she? very well then, I decline.”