ish to be. I ask nothing
of you--understand well! I should like to burn my heart at your feet, as
on an altar--this is all. Do you believe me? Answer! Are you tranquil?
Are you confident? Will you hear me? May I tell you what image I carry of
you in the secret recesses of my heart? Dear creature that you are, you
do not--ah, you do not know how great is your worth; and I fear to tell
you; so much am I afraid of stripping you of your charms, or of one of
your virtues. If you had been proud of yourself, as you have a right to
be, you would be less perfect, and I should love you less. But I wish to
tell you how lovable and how charming you are. You alone do not know it.
You alone do not see the soft flame of your large eyes--the reflection of
your heroic soul on your young but serene brow. Your charm is over
everything you do--your slightest gesture is engraven on my heart. Into
the most ordinary duties of every-day life you carry a peculiar grace,
like a young priestess who recites her daily devotions. Your hand, your
touch, your breath purifies everything--even the most humble and the most
wicked beings--and myself first of all!

"I am astonished at the words which I dare to pronounce, and the
sentiments which animate me, to whom you have made clear new truths. Yes,
all the rhapsodies of the poets, all the loves of the martyrs, I
comprehend in your presence. This is truth itself. I understand those who
died for their faith by the torture--because I should like to suffer for
you--because I believe in you--because I respect you--I cherish you--I
adore you!"

He stopped, shivering, and half prostrating himself before her, seized
the end of her veil and kissed it.

"Now," he continued, with a kind of grave sadness, "go, Madame, I have
forgotten too long that you require repose. Pardon me--proceed. I shall
follow you at a distance, until you reach your home, to protect you--but
fear nothing from me."

Madame de Tecle had listened, without once interrupting him even by a
sigh. Words would only excite the young man more. Probably she
understood, for the first time in her life, one of those songs of
love--one of those hymns alive with passion, which every woman wishes to
hear before she dies. Should she die because she had heard it? She
remained without speaking, as if just awakening from a dream, and said
quite simply, in a voice as soft and feeble as a sigh, "My God!" After
another pause she advanced a few steps on the roa