There was something so flattering in this attitude of humility that she was completely disarmed. She approached Octave, and took him by the hand to raise him, seated herself again and allowed him to resume his position beside her. She softly pressed his hand, of which she had not let go, and, looking her lover in the eyes, said in that deep, penetrating voice that women sometimes have: “My friend!” “Friend!” he thought; “yes, certainly. I will raise no dispute as to the word, provided the fact is recognized. What matters the color of the flag? Only fools trouble themselves about that. ‘Friend’ is not the throne I aspire to, but it is the road that leads to it. So then, let it be ‘friend,’ while waiting for better. This word is very pleasant to hear when spoken in these siren’s accents, and when at the same time the eyes say ‘lover!’” “Will you always love me thus?” Octave asked, whose face beamed with virtuous pledges. “Always!” sighed Clemence, without lowering eyes under the burning glance which met hers. “You will be the soul of my soul; the angel of my heaven?” “Your sister,” she said, with a sweet smile, as she caressed her lover’s cheek with her hand. He felt the blood mount to his face at this caress, and turned his eyes away with a dreamy air. “I probably am one of the greatest fools that has ever existed since the days of Joseph and Hippolytus,” thought he. He remained silent and apparently indifferent for several moments. “Of what are you thinking?” asked Madame de Bergenheim, surprised by Octave’s silence and rather listless air. He gave a start of surprise at this question. “May I die if I tell her!” he thought; “she must think me ridiculous enough as it is.” “Tell me, I wish you to speak out,” she continued, in that despotic tone which a woman assumes when sure of her empire. Instead of replying, as she demanded, he gave her a long, questioning glance, and it would have been impossible at that moment for her to keep a single secret from her lover. Madame de Bergenheim felt the magnetic influence of his penetrating glance so deeply that it seemed to her these sharp eyes were fathoming her very heart. She felt intensely disturbed to be gazed at in that way, and, in order to free herself from this mute questioning, she leaned her head upon Octave’s shoulder, as she said softly: “Do not look at me like that or I shall not love your eyes any more.” Her straw hat, whose ribbons were not tied, slipped and fell, dragging with it the comb which confined her beautiful hair, and it fell in disorder over her shoulders. Gerfaut passed his hand behind the charming head which rested upon his breast, in order to carry this silky, perfumed fleece to his lips. At the same time, he gently pressed the supple form which, as it bent toward him, seemed to ask for this caress. Clemence made a sudden effort and arose, fastening her hair at the back of her head with an almost shamed haste.