“You promised me,” she said, taking his hand which she held between her own magnetic palms, “to tell me the secret of your researches. Admit, dear friend, that I am worthy to know it, since I have had the courage to study a science condemned by the Church that I might be able to understand you. I am curious; hide nothing from me. Tell me first how it happened, that you rose one morning anxious and oppressed, when over night I had left you happy.” “Is it to hear me talk of chemistry that you have made yourself so coquettishly delightful?” “Dear friend, a confidence which puts me in your inner heart is the greatest of all pleasures for me; is it not a communion of souls which gives birth to the highest happiness of earth? Your love comes back to me not lessened, pure; I long to know what dream has had the power to keep it from me so long. Yes, I am more jealous of a thought than of all the women in the world. Love is vast, but it is not infinite, while Science has depths unfathomed, to which I will not let you go alone. I hate all that comes between us. If you win the glory for which you strive, I must be unhappy; it will bring you joy, while I--I alone--should be the giver of your happiness.” “No, my angel, it was not an idea, not a thought; it was a man that first led me into this glorious path.” “A man!” she cried in terror. “Do you remember, Pepita, the Polish officer who stayed with us in 1809?” “Do I remember him!” she exclaimed; “I am often annoyed because my memory still recalls those eyes, like tongues of fire darting from coals of hell, those hollows above the eyebrows, that broad skull stripped of hair, the upturned moustache, the angular, worn face!--What awful impassiveness in his bearing! Ah! surely if there had been a room in any inn I would never have allowed him to sleep here.”