“It is he!” she thought; after standing for a moment half stunned, she dragged herself as far as the stairs, and leaning over, listened with fear and trembling. At first she could hear nothing but the beating of her heart; then she heard the other noise again, and more distinctly. Somebody was turning the handle of the door, trying to open it. The unexpected obstacle of the bolt doubtless exasperated the would-be visitor, for the door was shaken and pushed with a violence which threatened to break the lock or push down the door. Madame de Bergenheim’s first thought was to run into her chamber and lock the door behind her;--the second showed her the danger that might result if the slightest noise should reach other ears. Not a moment was to be lost in hesitation. The young woman quickly descended the stairs and drew the bolt. The door opened softly and closed with the same precaution. The lamp from the parlor threw a feeble light upon the upper steps of the staircase, but the lower ones were in complete darkness. It was with her heart rather than her eyes that she recognized Octave; he could distinguish Madame de Bergenheim only in an indistinct way by her white dress, which was faintly outlined in the darkness; she stood before him silent and trembling with emotion, for she had not yet thought of a speech that would send him away. He also felt the embarrassment usual in any one guilty of so foolhardy an action. He had expected to surprise Clemence, and he found her upon her guard; the thought of the disloyal part he was playing at this moment made the blood mount to his cheeks and took away, for the time being, his ordinary assurance. He sought in vain for a speech which might first justify him and then conquer her. He had recourse to a method often employed in the absence of eloquence. He fell on his knees before the young woman and seized her hands; it seemed as if the violence of his emotions rendered him incapable of expressing himself except by silent adoration. As she felt his hands touch hers, Clemence drew back and said in a low voice: “You disgust me!” “Disgust!” he repeated, drawing himself up to his full height. “Yes, and that is not enough,” she continued, indignantly, “I ought to say scorn instead of disgust. You deceived me when you said you loved me--you infamously deceived me!” “But I adore you!” he exclaimed, with vehemence; “what proof do you wish of my love?” “Go! go away at once! A proof, did you say? I will accept only one: go, I order it, do you understand?” Instead of obeying her, he seized her in his arms in spite of her resistance. “Anything but that,” he said; “order me to kill myself at your feet, I will do it, but I will not go.” She tried for a moment to disengage herself, but although she used all her strength, she was unable to do so. “Oh, you are without pity,” she said, feebly, “but I abhor you; rather, a thousand times rather, kill me!”