I had caught Edmee in my arms; she freed herself and said, in a sharp tone: 

“You are very brutal, Bernard; and I hate these ways of yours.  What is the matter with you?”

Perplexed and confused, I told her that I thought her mare was bolting, and that I was afraid some accident might happen to her if she allowed herself to be carried away by the excitement of the ride.

“And to save me,” she replied, “you make me fall, at the risk of killing me!  Really, that was most considerate of you.”

“Let me help you to mount again,” I said.

And without waiting for her permission, I took her in my arms and lifted her off the ground.

“You know very well that I do not mount in this way!” she exclaimed, now quite irritated.  “Leave me alone; I don’t want your help.”

But I was no longer in a state to obey her.  I was losing my head; my arms were tightening around her waist, and it was in vain that I endeavoured to take them away.  My lips touched her bosom in spite of myself.  She grew pale with anger.

“Oh, how unfortunate I am!” I said, with my eyes full of tears; “how unfortunate I am to be always offending you, and to be hated more and more in proportion as my love for you grows greater!”

Edmee was of an imperious and violent nature.  Her character, hardened by trials, had every year developed greater strength.  She was no longer the trembling girl making a parade of courage, but in reality more ingenuous than bold, whom I had clasped in my arms at Roche-Mauprat.  She was now a proud, fearless woman, who would have let herself be killed rather than give the slightest countenance to an audacious hope.  Besides, she was now the woman who knows that she is passionately loved and is conscious of her power.  She repulsed me, therefore, with scorn; and as I followed her distractedly, she raised her whip and threatened to leave a mark of ignominy on my face if I dared to touch even her stirrup.

I fell on my knees and begged her not to leave me thus without forgiving me.  She was already in her saddle, and, as she looked round for the way back, she exclaimed: 

“That was the one thing wanting—­to behold this hateful spot again!  Do you see where we are?”

I looked in my turn, and saw that we were on the edge of the forest, quite close to the shady little pond at Gazeau.  A few yards from us, through the trees which had grown denser since Patience left, I perceived the door of the tower, opening like a big black mouth behind the green foliage.

I was seized with a fresh dizziness.  A terrible struggle was taking place between two instincts.  Who shall explain the mysterious workings of man’s brain when his soul is grappling with the senses, and one part of his being is striving to strangle the other?  In an organization like mine, such a conflict, believe me, was bound to be terrible; and do not imagine that the will makes but a feeble resistance in natures carried away by passion; it is idiotic to say to a man who lies spent with such struggles, “You ought to have conquered yourself.”