There was that subtle something, more often the fruit of what is called
friendship than of love, by which Josephine's presence increased all his
strong faculties and subdued his faults. Caius knew this with the
unerring knowledge of instinct. He tried to reason about it, too: even
a dull king reigns well if he have but the wit to choose good ministers;
and among men, each ruling his small kingdom, they are often the most
successful who possess, not many talents, but the one talent of choosing
well in friendship and in love.
Ah! but it is one thing to choose and another to obtain. Caius still
felt that he dared not seek Josephine. Since Le Maitre's death something
of the first blank horror of his own guilt had passed away, but still he
knew that he was not innocent. Then, too, if he dared to woo her, what
would be the result? That last admonition and warning that he had given
her when she was about to leave the island with him clogged his hope
when he sought to take courage. He knew that popular lore declared that,
whether or not she acknowledged its righteousness, her woman's vanity
would take arms against it.
Caius had written to Josephine a letter of common friendliness upon the
occasion of her husband's death, and had received in return a brief
sedate note that might, indeed, have been written by the ancient lady
whom the quaint Italian handwriting learned in the country convent had
at first figured to his imagination.
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