d.

"Give me your arm as far as my house, Monsieur," she said.

He obeyed her, and they continued their walk toward the house, the lights
of which they soon saw. They did not exchange a word--only as they
reached the gate, Madame de Tecle turned and made him a slight gesture
with her hand, in sign of adieu. In return, M. de Camors bowed low, and
withdrew.

CHAPTER X

THE PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY

The Comte de Camors had been sincere. When true passion surprises the
human soul, it breaks down all resolves, sweeps away all logic, and
crushes all calculations.

In this lies its grandeur, and also its danger. It suddenly seizes on
you, as the ancient god inspired the priestess on her tripod--speaks
through your lips, utters words you hardly comprehend, falsifies your
thoughts, confounds your reason, and betrays your secrets. When this
sublime madness possesses you, it elevates you--it transfigures you. It
can suddenly convert a common man into a poet, a coward into a hero, an
egotist into a martyr, and Don Juan himself into an angel of purity.

With women--and it is to their honor--this metamorphosis can be durable,
but it is rarely so with men. Once transported to this stormy sky, women
frankly accept it as their proper home, and the vicinity of the thunder
does not disquiet them.

Passion is their element--they feel at home there. There are few women
worthy of the name who are not ready to put in action all the words which
passion has caused to bubble from their lips. If they speak of flight,
they are ready for exile. If they talk of dying, they are ready for
death. Men are far less consistent with their ideas.

It was not until late the next morning that Camors regretted his outbreak
of sincerity; for, during the remainder of the night, still filled with
his excitement, agitated and shaken by the passage of the god, sunk into
a confused and feverish reverie, he was incapable of reflection. But
when, on awakening, he surveyed the situation calmly and by the plain
light of day, and thought over the preceding evening and its events, he
could not fail to recognize the fact that he had been cruelly duped by
his own nervous system. To love Madame de Tecle was perfectly proper, and
he loved her still--for she was a person to be loved and desired--but to
elevate that love or any other as the master of his life, instead of its
plaything, was one of those weaknesses interdicted by his system more
than any other. In