"Why are you afraid of me? Do you not think me worthy of your love?" he asked, in an altered voice, and, without trying to retain or approach her, he fell upon his knees with a movement of sweet, sad grace. He had analyzed Madame de Bergenheim's character well enough to perceive the least variation in her capricious nature. By the young woman's frightened attitude, her burning cheeks and the flashes which he saw from her eyes through her long, drooping lashes, he saw that a reaction had taken place, and he feared the next outburst; for he knew that women, when overcome with remorse, always smite their lover by way of expiation for themselves. "If I let this recovered virtue have the mastery, I am a lost man for a fortnight at least," he thought. He quickly abandoned the dangerous ground upon which he had taken position, and passed, by an adroit transition, from the most passionate frenzy to the most submissive bearing. When Clemence raised her large eyes, in which was a threatening gleam, she saw, instead of an audacious man to be punished, an imploring slave. 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.