ious evening between Madame de Tecle and
himself, there was only one course for a virtuous woman to take; and
that was never to see him again. To see him was to pardon him; to pardon
him was to surrender herself to him, with or without circumlocution.
Camors did not allow himself to deplore any further an adventure which
had so suddenly lost its gravity. He soliloquized on the weakness of
women. He thought it bad taste in Madame de Tecle not to have maintained
longer the high ideal his innocence had created for her. Anticipating
the disenchantment which follows possession, he already saw her
deprived of all her prestige, and ticketed in the museum of his amorous
souvenirs.

Nevertheless, when he approached her house, and had the feeling of her
near presence, he was troubled. Doubt--and anxiety assailed him. When
he saw through the trees the window of her room, his heart throbbed so
violently that he had to sit down on the root of a tree for a moment.

"I love her like a madman!" he murmured; then leaping up suddenly he
exclaimed, "But she is only a woman, after all--I shall go on!"

For the first time Madame de Tecle received him in her own apartment.
This room M. de Camors had never seen. It was a large and lofty
apartment, draped and furnished in sombre tints.

It contained gilded mirrors, bronzes, engravings, and old family
jewelry lying on tables--the whole presenting the appearance of the
ornamentation of a church.

In this severe and almost religious interior, however rich, reigned a
vague odor of flowers; and there were also to be seen boxes of lace,
drawers of perfumed linen, and that dainty atmosphere which ever
accompanies refined women.

But every one has her personal individuality, and forms her own
atmosphere which fascinates her lover. Madame de Tecle, finding herself
almost lost in this very large room, had so arranged some pieces
of furniture as to make herself a little private nook near the
chimneypiece, which her daughter called, "My mother's chapel." It was
there Camors now perceived her, by the soft light of a lamp, sitting in
an armchair, and, contrary to her custom, having no work in her hands.
She appeared calm, though two dark circles surrounded her eyes. She had
evidently suffered much, and wept much.

On seeing that dear face, worn and haggard with grief, Camors forgot the
neat phrases he had prepared for his entrance. He forgot all except that
he really adored her.

He advanced hasti