"You are right," said Theresa, in a crushed voice; then, as though forming a supreme resolution, she rose. She passed both her hands across her eyes, and loosing from her wrist the bracelet to which the little key was suspended, she offered the trinket to Hubert without uttering a word. He took the gold chainlet, and his fingers met those of the young woman. They looked at each other, and for the first time since his entry into the room he saw her fully face to face. Her beauty at that moment was sublime. Her mouth was half open, as though respiration had failed her, her eyes were laden with languor, her fingers pressed those of the young man with a lingering caress, and a quick flame swept suddenly through him. As though seized with intoxication he went up to her, took her in his arms, and gave her a kiss. She gave way, and both fell upon the shadowed divan together, clasping each other in one of those wild and silent embraces wherein dissolves all animosity, just or unjust, but all dignity as well. These are moments when neither man nor woman utters the words, "I love you," as though feeling that such frenzies have, in fact, nothing in common with love. When they recovered their senses, she looked at him. She trembled lest she should see him yield to the horrible impulse which is familiar to men after similar lapses, and which prompts them to punish their accomplice for their own weakness by loading her with contempt. If Hubert was seized with a shudder of revolt, he, at least, had the generosity to spare Theresa the sight of it, and then, in a voice rendered so captivating by fear: "Oh, Hubert!" she said, "I have you again for my own. Could you but know it, I should not have survived our separation. I should have died of it, for I love you too much. I will be so kind, so kind to you, I will make you so happy. But do not leave me. If you love me no longer, let me love you. Take me, or send me away as your fancy wills. I am your slave, your thing, your property. Ah, if I could die now!" And she covered her lover's wasted face with passionate tears. He nevertheless remained motionless, with lips and eyes closed, and thought of his downfall. Now that the intoxication was dispelled, he could compare what he had felt just then with what he had felt formerly. The symbol of the change that had been wrought was in the contrast between the brutality of the pleasure taken thus upon this divan, and the divine modesty of other days. He had not forgiven Theresa, and he had not been able to resist her, but for this very reason he had for ever lost the right of reproaching her with her betrayal.