with more delight the thought of destroying the angels.
They dream, like the reckless Epicureans of the Bible, of mingling, in
a new intoxication, the earth with heaven. To these sombre instincts of
depravity were soon united in the feelings of Camors a sentiment more
worthy of her. Seeing her every day with that childlike intimacy
which the country encourages--enhancing the graceful movements of this
accomplished person, ever self-possessed and equally prepared for duty
or for pleasure--as animated as passion, yet as severe as virtue--he
conceived for her a genuine worship. It was not respect, for that
requires the effort of believing in such merits, and he did not wish to
believe. He thought Madame de Tecle was born so. He admired her as he
would admire a rare plant, a beautiful object, an exquisite work,
in which nature had combined physical and moral grace with perfect
proportion and harmony. His deportment as her slave when near her was
not long a mere bit of acting. Our fair readers have doubtless remarked
an odd fact: that where a reciprocal sentiment of two feeble human
beings has reached a certain point of maturity, chance never fails to
furnish a fatal occasion which betrays the secret of the two hearts, and
suddenly launches the thunderbolt which has been gradually gathering
in the clouds. This is the crisis of all love. This occasion presented
itself to Madame de Tecle and M. de Camors in the form of an unpoetic
incident.

It occurred at the end of October. Camors had gone out after dinner to
take a ride in the neighborhood. Night had already fallen, clear and
cold; but as the Count could not see Madame de Tecle that evening, he
began only to think of being near her, and felt that unwillingness to
work common to lovers--striving, if possible, to kill time, which hung
heavy on his hands.

He hoped also that violent exercise might calm his spirit, which never
had been more profoundly agitated. Still young and unpractised in his
pitiless system, he was troubled at the thought of a victim so pure as
Madame de Tecle. To trample on the life, the repose, and the heart of
such a woman, as the horse tramples on the grass of the road, with as
little care or pity, was hard for a novice.

Strange as it may appear, the idea of marrying her had occurred to him.
Then he said to himself that this weakness was in direct contradiction
to his principles, and that she would cause him to lose forever his
mastery over himself