"I am astonished at the words which I dare to pronounce, and the sentiments which animate me, to whom you have made clear new truths. Yes, all the rhapsodies of the poets, all the loves of the martyrs, I comprehend in your presence. This is truth itself. I understand those who died for their faith by the torture--because I should like to suffer for you--because I believe in you--because I respect you--I cherish you-- I adore you!" He stopped, shivering, and half prostrating himself before her, seized the end of her veil and kissed it. "Now," he continued, with a kind of grave sadness, "go, Madame, I have forgotten too long that you require repose. Pardon me--proceed. I shall follow you at a distance, until you reach your home, to protect you--but fear nothing from me." Madame de Tecle had listened, without once interrupting him even by a sigh. Words would only excite the young man more. Probably she understood, for the first time in her life, one of those songs of love-- one of those hymns alive with passion, which every woman wishes to hear before she dies. Should she die because she had heard it? She remained without speaking, as if just awakening from a dream, and said quite simply, in a voice as soft and feeble as a sigh, "My God!" After another pause she advanced a few steps on the road. "Give me your arm as far as my house, Monsieur," she said. He obeyed her, and they continued their walk toward the house, the lights of which they soon saw. They did not exchange a word--only as they reached the gate, Madame de Tecle turned and made him a slight gesture with her hand, in sign of adieu. In return, M. de Camors bowed low, and withdrew. CHAPTER X THE PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY The Comte de Camors had been sincere. When true passion surprises the human soul, it breaks down all resolves, sweeps away all logic, and crushes all calculations. In this lies its grandeur, and also its danger. It suddenly seizes on you, as the ancient god inspired the priestess on her tripod--speaks through your lips, utters words you hardly comprehend, falsifies your thoughts, confounds your reason, and betrays your secrets. When this sublime madness possesses you, it elevates you--it transfigures you. It can suddenly convert a common man into a poet, a coward into a hero, an egotist into a martyr, and Don Juan himself into an angel of purity. With women--and it is to their honor--this metamorphosis can be durable, but it is rarely so with men. Once transported to this stormy sky, women frankly accept it as their proper home, and the vicinity of the thunder does not disquiet them. Passion is their element--they feel at home there. There are few women worthy of the name who are not ready to put in action all the words which passion has caused to bubble from their lips. If they speak of flight, they are ready for exile. If they talk of dying, they are ready for death. Men are far less consistent with their ideas.