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Updated: June 1, 2025
There, with my hand shading my eyes from the level glory of sunset that flamed into the room, I listened to the strange tale of Camille's seizure. "Once, Monsieur, I lived in myself and was exultant with a loneliness of fancied knowledge. My youth was my excuse; but God could not pardon me all.
A fine and touching heroine truly, a woman of forty! Ah! my poor Camille, smoke your hookah; you haven't even the resource of making a poem of your misery that's the last drop of anguish in your cup!" The next morning Calyste came before mid-day and slipped upstairs, as he was told, into Camille's own room, where he found the books.
She told her lover that she would never forgive him an act of infidelity except with Camille, to whom she felt bound to yield all since to her she owed all. I became so much in love with her that I often went to Camille's solely to see her and to enjoy those artless speeches with which she delighted the company.
I was nearly spoiling the efficacy of the operation when I saw the grimaces they made in trying to keep serious. Nothing could be more amusing than the expression on Camille's face. At last I told her that she had rubbed enough, and dipping the brush into the mixture I drew on his thigh the five-pointed star called Solomon's seal.
The doctor seemed in a reverie. The others did not know what to think, much less to say. Aubertin sat by Camille's side; so the latter could hold no secret communication with either lady. Now it was not the doctor's habit to rise at this time of the morning: yet there he was, going with them to Frejus uninvited.
"You will still have the charming original," the Prince said not quite pleasantly. There was a sudden silence. The men all waited for Camille's answer. Beyond, in the next room, they heard the two girls splashing the water, clattering the cups and plates. The young Frenchman paused in the act of striking a match. He looked surprised. "But this is the original. I have made no copy."
The young Breton found the company assembled in the little salon of Camille's suite of rooms. It was then about six o'clock; the sun, in setting, cast through the windows its ruddy light chequered by the trees; the air was still; twilight, beloved of women, was spreading through the room.
One never knows when one will be free; and besides, if I have a moment, I shall call at the /modiste's/." Camille's secret rage brought almost a murderous glare to her dark eyes. The truth was evident. But however passionately she might desire to set some obstacle across her mother's path, she could not, dared not, carry matters any further.
"I am tired of saying 'No! no! no! no! no! forever and ever to him I love." But this was not all. She was not free from self-reproach. Camille's faith in her had stood firm. Hers in him had not. She had wronged him, first by believing him false, then by marrying another. One day she asked his pardon for this.
In reality, he was going to see one of his Conservatoire friends, a large, lanky dowdy, as swarthy as a mole and full of pretensions, who was destined for the tragic line of character, and inflicted upon her lover Athalie's dream, Camille's imprecations, and Phedre's monologue.
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