velled in the remembrance of the previous evening, and dark
forebodings were rising in my mind, I sat down at the table to write to
Madame Bertollon, to describe to her the danger to which we should both
expose ourselves by further intercourse, and to tell her that to
continue worthy of her friendship I must leave her and Montpellier.

But while reason dictated her precepts, and I wished to make the first
heavy sacrifice to virtue, I wrote to Madame Bertollon the most solemn
oaths of my attachment, declaring falsely that a secret passion for her
had long consumed me, and that I saw my happiness only in her love. I
entreated and conjured her not to let me despair, and unrolled to her
imagination a vivid picture of our bliss.

I started up, read the letter over and over, tore it, and wrote
another, repeating only what I had written, and then again destroyed
it. As if by an unknown power I was drawn against my will to a crime
at which my soul vainly shuddered. While vowing to myself, in a
half-suppressed voice, that I would start for Nismes, and never again
see the walls of Montpellier, I also vowed unconsciously I would never
leave the charming though unhappy woman; but that I would cling to her,
although my passion should lead to inevitable death.

It was as if two distinct souls were struggling within me with equal
power and skill. But consciousness became more dim, and the feeling of
duty expired in the feeling of the all-engrossing desire. I resolved
to hasten to Madame Bertollon, thinking that she was perhaps tormenting
herself with reproaches at the weakness she had shown, or that she also
might be determined to leave me and Monpellier. I intended to detain
her to reason away her fears, and to endeavour to persuade her of the
lawfulness of our love.

I started up and ran to the door. A voice within me again cried, "You
are going to sin then?--to lose the long guarded feeling of innocence?"
I hesitated, and stepped back, saying to myself, "Be pure as God and
continue so. One day more and this storm will pass over, and then you
are safe."

This holy feeling exalted me; the words, "Be pure as God," sounded
above the tumult of my agitated feelings, and deterred me, for the time
at least, from hastening to Madame Bertollon. But the struggle
remained undecided; my yearnings became more impetuous, and I scorned
my own virtuous intentions.

At this moment the door of my room opened, and M. Bertollon entered.