reach other ears. Not a moment was to be
lost in hesitation. The young woman quickly descended the stairs and drew
the bolt. The door opened softly and closed with the same precaution. The
lamp from the parlor threw a feeble light upon the upper steps of the
staircase, but the lower ones were in complete darkness. It was with her
heart rather than her eyes that she recognized Octave; he could
distinguish Madame de Bergenheim only in an indistinct way by her white
dress, which was faintly outlined in the darkness; she stood before him
silent and trembling with emotion, for she had not yet thought of a
speech that would send him away.

He also felt the embarrassment usual in any one guilty of so foolhardy an
action. He had expected to surprise Clemence, and he found her upon her
guard; the thought of the disloyal part he was playing at this moment
made the blood mount to his cheeks and took away, for the time being, his
ordinary assurance. He sought in vain for a speech which might first
justify him and then conquer her. He had recourse to a method often
employed in the absence of eloquence. He fell on his knees before the
young woman and seized her hands; it seemed as if the violence of his
emotions rendered him incapable of expressing himself except by silent
adoration. As she felt his hands touch hers, Clemence drew back and said
in a low voice:

"You disgust me!"

"Disgust!" he repeated, drawing himself up to his full height.

"Yes, and that is not enough," she continued, indignantly, "I ought to
say scorn instead of disgust. You deceived me when you said you loved
me--you infamously deceived me!"

"But I adore you!" he exclaimed, with vehemence; "what proof do you wish
of my love?"

"Go! go away at once! A proof, did you say? I will accept only one: go, I
order it, do you understand?"

Instead of obeying her, he seized her in his arms in spite of her
resistance.

"Anything but that," he said; "order me to kill myself at your feet, I
will do it, but I will not go."

She tried for a moment to disengage herself, but although she used all
her strength, she was unable to do so.

"Oh, you are without pity," she said, feebly, "but I abhor you; rather, a
thousand times rather, kill me!"

Gerfaut was almost frightened by the agonized accent in which she spoke
these words; he released her, but as he removed his arms, she reeled and
he was obliged to support her.

"Why do you persecute me, then?" she murmured, a