In his transports of joy, Clindor unconsciously made a declaration of love to the clever gypsy. She paid no heed whatever. She concealed herself behind the head of the bed so that Mario might not see her. She was well aware that her appearance would agitate him. Two days later, Mario felt so fully restored that he ordered Clindor to look about for a post-chaise which he could purchase, so that they might continue their journey. Clindor, seeing that it was too soon, pretended that he could not find one, whereupon Mario bade him bring horses for them to ride. Clindor was driven to despair by his persistence; Pilar interposed. Mario nearly fell ill again with anger when he saw her and learned that he owed his life to her. But he soon became calm and said to her in a mild tone: "Whence do you come? where have you been since you made those threats?" "Ah! you are afraid for _her_!" rejoined Pilar with a bitter smile. "Set your mind at rest; I have had no time to go thither. I will not go, if you will cease to hate me." "I will, Pilar, if you abandon all thought of vengeance; but, if you persist in it, I shall hate you as much as I hate the life I owe to you." "Let us not speak of that for the moment; you can safely remain quiet and not return to your province, since my presence with you is a guaranty that everything is well." Therein Pilar touched the crucial point of the situation. Mario restrained his impatience and consented to remain at Grenoble until he should be fully cured. He had to consent also to allow Pilar to wait upon him. He could not dream of turning over to the strong arm of the law the woman who had just saved his life and whom it was his duty to try to convert from her evil ways by gentleness. He dared not irritate her by displaying his contempt, and despite the unconquerable repugnance she inspired in him, he was reduced to the necessity of being perturbed in mind when she was long absent and of rejoicing when she returned. This state of affairs became intolerable after two or three days. Pilar, incapable of any sort of moral reasoning, was determined to be loved; she described her passion with a species of wild eloquence, saying and believing that it was chaste, because it was not governed by the senses, and sublime, because it had all the fervor of an unbridled imagination and a wilful temper. She heaped curses upon Lauriane and bitter reproaches upon Mario, exhibiting her mad passion shamelessly before poor Clindor, who took fire beside that volcano. Mario soon wearied of the absurd rôle he was compelled to play. In vain did he try to transform that nature, incapable as it was of loving the right for the right's sake, or even of conceiving that Mario or anyone else on earth could so love it. "If you did not love that Lauriane so madly," she said to him with appalling frankness, "you would entrust me with your vengeance; for she always has despised you and always will." LXXIII