"What, Madame?" he demanded, in a strange tone. "Heavens!--in fact-nothing!" said she, "for this is a declaration of friendship, I suppose--and your friendship gives me much pleasure." He let go her arm at once, and in a hoarse and angry voice said-- "I am not your friend!" "What are you then, Monsieur?" Her voice was calm, but she recoiled a few steps, and leaned against one of the trees which bordered the road. The explosion so long pent up burst forth, and a flood of words poured from the young man's lips with inexpressible impetuosity. "What I am I know not! I no longer know whether I am myself--if I am dead or alive--if I am good or bad--whether I am dreaming or waking. Oh, Madame, what I wish is that the day may never rise again--that this night would never finish--that I should wish to feel always--always--in my head, my heart, my entire being--that which I now feel, near you--of you --for you! I should wish to be stricken with some sudden illness, without hope, in order to be watched and wept for by you, like those children--and to be embalmed in your tears; and to see you bowed down in terror before me is horrible to me! By the name of your God, whom you have made me respect, I swear you are sacred to me--the child in the arms of its mother is not more so!" "I have no fear," she murmured. "Oh, no!--have no fear!" he repeated in a tone of voice infinitely softened and tender. "It is I who am afraid--it is I who tremble--you see it; for since I have spoken, all is finished. I expect nothing more --I hope for nothing--this night has no possible tomorrow. I know it. Your husband I dare not be--your lover I should not wish to be. I ask nothing of you--understand well! I should like to burn my heart at your feet, as on an altar--this is all. Do you believe me? Answer! Are you tranquil? Are you confident? Will you hear me? May I tell you what image I carry of you in the secret recesses of my heart? Dear creature that you are, you do not--ah, you do not know how great is your worth; and I fear to tell you; so much am I afraid of stripping you of your charms, or of one of your virtues. If you had been proud of yourself, as you have a right to be, you would be less perfect, and I should love you less. But I wish to tell you how lovable and how charming you are. You alone do not know it. You alone do not see the soft flame of your large eyes--the reflection of your heroic soul on your young but serene brow. Your charm is over everything you do--your slightest gesture is engraven on my heart. Into the most ordinary duties of every-day life you carry a peculiar grace, like a young priestess who recites her daily devotions. Your hand, your touch, your breath purifies everything--even the most humble and the most wicked beings--and myself first of all!