in his palace."

As I spoke these words, Madame Pierson fixed her humid eyes on mine; I
saw the happiness of my life come to me in the flash of those orbs.
I crossed the road and knelt before her. How little he loves who can
recall the words he uses when he confesses that love!

CHAPTER VII. THE VENUSBERG AGAIN

If I were a jeweler and had in stock a pearl necklace that I wished to
give a friend, it seems to me I should take great pleasure in placing it
about her neck with my own hands; but were I that friend, I would rather
die than snatch the necklace from the jeweler's hand. I have seen many
men hasten to give themselves to the woman they love, but I have
always done the contrary, not through calculation, but through natural
instinct. The woman who loves a little and resists does not love enough,
and she who loves enough and resists knows that she is not sincerely
loved.

Madame Pierson gave evidence of more confidence in me, confessing that
she loved me when she had never shown it in her actions. The respect I
felt for her inspired me with such joy that her face looked to me like a
budding rose. At times she would abandon herself to an impulse of sudden
gayety, then she would suddenly check herself; treating me like a child,
and then look at me with eyes filled with tears; indulging in a thousand
pleasantries as a pretext for a more familiar word or caress, she would
suddenly leave me, go aside and abandon herself to revery. Was ever a
more beautiful sight? When she returned she would find me waiting for
her in the same spot where I had remained watching her.

"Oh! my friend!" I said, "Heaven itself rejoices to see how you are
loved."

Yet I could conceal neither the violence of my desires nor the pain I
endured struggling against them. One evening I told her that I had
just learned of the loss of an important case, which would involve a
considerable change in my affairs.

"How is it," she asked, "that you make this announcement and smile at
the same time?"

"There is a certain maxim of a Persian poet," I replied: "'He who is
loved by a beautiful woman is sheltered from every blow.'"

Madame Pierson made no reply; all that evening she was even more
cheerful than usual. When we played cards with her aunt and I lost she
was merciless in her scorn, saying that I knew nothing of the game, and
she bet against me with so much success that she won all I had in my
purse. When the old lady retired, she stepp