“There’s a fellow who is not content!” said a passing workman, and the jesting words calmed the incandescent madness to which Theodose was a prey. As he left Cerizet’s the idea came to him to go to Flavie and tell her all. Southern natures are born thus--strong until certain passions arise, and then collapsed. He entered Flavie’s room; she was alone, and when she saw Theodose she fancied her last hour had come. “What is the matter?” she cried. “I--I--” he said. “Do you love me, Flavie?” “Oh! how can you doubt it?” “Do you love me absolutely?--if I were criminal, even?” “Has he murdered some one?” she thought, replying to his question by a nod. Theodose, thankful to seize even this branch of willow, drew a chair beside Flavie’s sofa, and there gave way to sobs that might have touched the oldest judge, while torrents of tears began to flow from his eyes. Flavie rose and left the room to say to her maid: “I am not at home to any one.” Then she closed all doors and returned to Theodose, moved to the utmost pitch of maternal solicitude. She found him stretched out, his head thrown back, and weeping. He had taken out his handkerchief, and when Flavie tried to move it from his face it was heavy with tears. “But what is the matter?” she asked; “what ails you?” Nature, more impressive than art, served Theodose well; no longer was he playing a part; he was himself; this nervous crisis and these tears were the winding up of his preceding scenes of acted comedy. “You are a child,” she said, in a gentle voice, stroking his hair softly. “I have but you, you only, in all the world!” he replied, kissing her hands with a sort of passion; “and if you are true to me, if you are mine, as the body belongs to the soul and the soul to the body, then--” he added, recovering himself with infinite grace, “_Then_ I can have courage.” He rose, and walked about the room.