And Cerizet patted Theodose on the shoulder, with a cynicism that seemed to brand him more than the iron of the galleys.

“Well, give me till to-morrow at mid-day,” replied the Provencal, “for there’ll be, as you said, some manipulation to do.”

“I’ll try to keep Claparon quiet; he’s in such a hurry, that man!”

“To-morrow then,” said Theodose, in the tone of a man who decides his course.

“Good-night, friend,” said Cerizet, in his nasal tone, which degraded the finest word in the language.  “There’s one who has got a mouthful to suck!” thought Cerizet, as he watched Theodose going down the street with the step of a dazed man.

When la Peyrade reached the rue des Postes he went with rapid strides to Madame Colleville’s house, exciting himself as he walked along, and talking aloud.  The fire of his roused passions and the sort of inward conflagration of which many Parisians are conscious (for such situations abound in Paris) brought him finally to a pitch of frenzy and eloquence which found expression, as he turned into the rue des Deux-Eglises, in the words:—­

“I will kill him!”

“There’s a fellow who is not content!” said a passing workman, and the jesting words calmed the incandescent madness to which Theodose was a prey.

As he left Cerizet’s the idea came to him to go to Flavie and tell her all.  Southern natures are born thus—­strong until certain passions arise, and then collapsed.  He entered Flavie’s room; she was alone, and when she saw Theodose she fancied her last hour had come.

“What is the matter?” she cried.

“I—­I—­” he said.  “Do you love me, Flavie?”

“Oh! how can you doubt it?”

“Do you love me absolutely?—­if I were criminal, even?”

“Has he murdered some one?” she thought, replying to his question by a nod.

Theodose, thankful to seize even this branch of willow, drew a chair beside Flavie’s sofa, and there gave way to sobs that might have touched the oldest judge, while torrents of tears began to flow from his eyes.

Flavie rose and left the room to say to her maid:  “I am not at home to any one.”  Then she closed all doors and returned to Theodose, moved to the utmost pitch of maternal solicitude.  She found him stretched out, his head thrown back, and weeping.  He had taken out his handkerchief, and when Flavie tried to move it from his face it was heavy with tears.

“But what is the matter?” she asked; “what ails you?”

Nature, more impressive than art, served Theodose well; no longer was he playing a part; he was himself; this nervous crisis and these tears were the winding up of his preceding scenes of acted comedy.

“You are a child,” she said, in a gentle voice, stroking his hair softly.

“I have but you, you only, in all the world!” he replied, kissing her hands with a sort of passion; “and if you are true to me, if you are mine, as the body belongs to the soul and the soul to the body, then—­” he added, recovering himself with infinite grace, “Then I can have courage.”