I felt in the twilight that I loved Camille as I imagine one must love after death, if anything of our poor heart survives in the great mute darkness. I told myself that I ought to go and see her, that there was in the excess of my discretion apparent indifference. I evoked her and spoke to her, telling her what I had never told her, and what I should not dare to tell her. It was at the moment, when this opium of my dream-passion most deeply engulfed me, that I was snatched with a start from my dream by the sudden arrival of her who was its chief character. My servant, whom I had told that I could see no one, entered the room to tell me, with an air of embarrassment, that Mademoiselle Favier was asking for me, that he had answered her according to his instructions, and that she had sat down in the anteroom, declaring that she would not go without seeing me. “Is she alone?” I asked. “Quite alone,” he answered with the familiarity of a bachelor’s servant who has been in the same situation for twenty years—he saw my father die and I am quite familiar with him. “I must tell you though, sir, that she seems to be in great trouble. She is as white as a sheet; her voice is changed, broken, and choked. One would think she cannot talk. It is a great shame, considering how young and pretty she is!” “Ah, well, show her in,” I said, “but no one else, you understand.” “Even if M. Molan comes to see you too, sir?” he inquired. “Even if M. Molan calls,” I replied. The good fellow smiled the smile of an accomplice, which on any other occasion I should have interpreted as a proof that he had guessed the ill-concealed secret of my feelings. I did not have time to reflect upon his greater or less penetration. Camille was already in the studio, and the image of despair was before me, a despair verging on madness. I said to her as I made her sit down: “Whatever is the matter?” and sat down myself. She signed to me to ask her no questions, as it was impossible for her to reply. She put her hand upon her breast and closed her eyes, as if internal anguish there in her breast was inflicting upon her suffering greater than she could bear. For a moment I thought she was about to expire, so frightful was the convulsive pallor of her face. When her eyes opened I could see that no tear moistened her blue eyes, eyes which were now quite sombre. The flame of the most savage passion burned in them. Then in a raucous and almost bass voice, as if a hand had clutched her throat, she said to me as she pressed her fingers on her forehead in bewilderment— “There is a God, as I have found you. If you had not been at home I think I should have lost my reason. Give me your hand, I want to clasp it, to feel that I am not dreaming, that you are there, a friend. My sufferings are so great.” “Yes, a friend,” I replied, trying to calm her, “a true friend ready to help you, to listen to you, to advise you, and to prevent you, too, from giving way to your fancies.”