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Updated: June 10, 2025
The work dropped from Josephine's hands: she turned her face wildly on Aubertin, and faltered out, "M my child?" "My words are plain," replied he gravely.
"Yes!" whispered he, "it is from HIM." Josephine and Camille saw something was going on; they joined the other two, with curiosity in their faces. Rose put her hand on a small table near her, and leaned a moment. She turned half sick at a letter coming from the dead. Josephine now came towards her with a face of concern, and asked what was the matter. The reply came from Aubertin.
He determined to slip away, and pack up, and begone. However, nobody took any notice of him. The baroness drew Josephine apart. And Rose followed her mother and sister with eyes bent on the ground. There was a strange solemnity about them all. Aubertin remained behind. But even he took no notice of Camille, but walked up and down with his hands behind him, and a sad and troubled face.
Ask nothing of these wretches. Let us lose all, but not forget ourselves." The baroness had not her daughter's spirit. Her very person tottered under this blow. Josephine supported her, and the next moment Aubertin came out and hastened to her side. Her head fell back; what little strength she had failed her; she was half lifted, half led, into the house.
Like Burton, Aubertin loved Camoens, and the two friends delighted to walk together in the butterfly-haunted forests and talk about the "beloved master," while each communicated to the other his intention of translating The Lusiads into English. Thirteen years, however, were to elapse before the appearance of Aubertin's translation and Burton's did not see print till 1880.
Letters can enchain hearts; it was by letters that these two found themselves imperceptibly betrothed. Their union was looked forward to as certain, and not very distant. Rose was fairly in love. One day, Dr. Aubertin, coming back from Paris to Beaurepaire rather suddenly, found nobody at home but the baroness. Josephine and Rose were gone to Frejus; had been there more than a week.
John James Aubertin, who resided at Sao Paulo, became Burton's principal friend there. Aubertin was generally known as the "Father of Cotton," because during the days of the cotton famine, he had laboured indefatigably and with success to promote the cultivation of the shrub in those parts.
She sat like one turned to stone looking far away over her mother's head with rigid eyes fixed on the air and on coming horrors. Rose felt her arm seized. It was Aubertin. He too was pale now, though not before. He spoke in a terrible whisper to Rose, his eye fixed on the woman of stone that sat there. Rose, by a mighty effort, raised her eyes and confronted his full.
Further discussion of that nice point was stopped by the baroness coming out, leaning on Dr. Aubertin.
The others left off guessing: Aubertin had it all his own way: he upheld Perrin as their silent benefactor, and bade them all observe that the worthy notary had never visited the chateau openly since the day the purse was left there. "Guilty conscience," said Aubertin dryly.
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