"Thérèse," he said, "I have caused you bitter pain, but you must give me credit for kindly intentions. I love you, Thérèse, I have always loved you, not with a blind passion, but with all the faith and all the devotion of which I am capable. I can see more plainly than ever that in your case a noble life has been ruined and shattered by the fault of others. You are, in truth, debased in the eyes of the world, but not in mine. On the contrary, your love for Laurent has proved to me that you are a woman, and I love you better so than armed at all points against every human frailty, as I once believed you to be. Listen to me, Thérèse. I am a philosopher; that is to say, I consult common-sense and tolerant ideas rather than the prejudices of society and the romantic subtleties of sentiment. Though you were to plunge into the most deplorable disorders, I should not cease to love you and esteem you, because you are one of those women who cannot be led astray except by the heart. But why should you fall into such a plight? It is perfectly clear to my mind, that if you should meet to-day a devoted, tranquil, and faithful heart, exempt from those mental maladies which sometimes make great artists and often bad husbands--a father, a brother, a friend, in a word, a husband, you would be forever secure against danger and misfortune in the future. Well, Thérèse, I venture to say that I am such a man. There is nothing brilliant about me to dazzle you, but I have a stout heart to love you. My confidence in you is absolute. As soon as you are happy, you will be grateful, and once grateful, you will be loyal and rehabilitated forever. Say yes, Thérèse; consent to marry me and consent at once, without alarm, without scruples, without false delicacy, without distrust of yourself. I give you my life, and ask nothing of you except to believe in me. I feel that I am strong enough not to suffer from the tears which another's ingratitude may still cause you to shed. I shall never reproach you with the past, and I undertake to make the future so pleasant and so secure that no storm will ever tear you from my bosom." Palmer talked for a long while in this strain, with a heartfelt earnestness for which Thérèse was unprepared. She tried to repel his confidence; but this resistance was, in Palmer's eyes, a last remnant of mental disease which she must stamp out herself. She felt that Palmer spoke the truth, but she felt also that he proposed to assume a terrible task. "No," she said, "I am not afraid of myself. I do not love Laurent, and I can never love him again; but what about society, your mother, your country, your social standing, the honor of your name? I am debased, as you have said; I am conscious of it. Ah! Palmer, do not urge me so! I am too dismayed by the thought of what you will have to defy for my sake!"