The confidence commenced between Camillia and Pauline upon the day of Augustus Horton's plotted defeat had never been discontinued, and it was to the Frenchwoman alone that Camillia looked for hope and comfort.
Strange anomaly of human nature! The ambitious and unscrupulous being who could stoop to purchase a wealthy husband by means of a vile and guilty secret, had yet some better feelings left.
Pauline loved her pupil—loved her with the light love of a selfish nature it is true, but it is something that one spark of affection remained in her perverted nature.
"You are sad, Camillia?" she said, as she looked up from her embroidery frame to watch the thoughtful face of the Spanish girl.
Camillia was seated with her hands lying idle in her lap, her eyes fixed vacantly upon the river, shining through the open window.
"You are sad, Camillia?" repeated Pauline.
Camillia aroused herself as if with an effort.
"Can I be otherwise," she said, "when I think of him? When I remember that he is away—I know not where—his name branded with disgrace, a wanderer and an outcast."
"Silly child! Have I not already told you that the day which crowns my ambition shall also crown your love?"
"Ah, Pauline! If I could but believe you!" sighed Camillia.