“And how should I have meant otherwise?” she answered.  “Is not a woman dishonoured by giving herself to a man who is not her husband?  I do not wish to dishonour myself; and, since you love me, you would not wish it either.  You would not do me an irreparable wrong.  If such were your intention you would be my deadliest enemy.”

“Stay, Edmee, stay!” I answered.  “I can tell you nothing about my intentions in regard to you, for I have never had any very definite.  I have felt nothing but wild desires, nor have I ever thought of you without going mad.  You wish me to marry you?  But why—­why?”

“Because a girl who respects herself cannot be any man’s except with the thought, with the intention, with the certainty of being his forever.  Do you not know that?”

“There are so many things I do not know or have never thought of.”

“Education will teach you, Bernard, what you ought to think about the things which must concern you—­about your position, your duties, your feelings.  At present you see but dimly into your heart and conscience.  And I, who am accustomed to question myself on all subjects and to discipline my life, how can I take for master a man governed by instinct and guided by chance?”

“For master!  For husband!  Yes, I understand that you cannot surrender your whole life to an animal such as myself . . . but that is what I have never asked of you.  No, I tremble to think of it.”

“And yet, Bernard, you must think of it.  Think of it frequently, and when you have done so you will realize the necessity of following my advice, and of bringing your mind into harmony with the new life upon which you have entered since quitting Roche-Mauprat.  When you have perceived this necessity you must tell me, and then we will make several necessary resolutions.”

She withdrew her hand from mine quickly, and I fancy she bade me good-night; but this I did not hear.  I stood buried in my thoughts, and when I raised my head to speak to her she was no longer there.  I went into the chapel, but she had returned to her room by an upper gallery which communicated with her apartments.

I went back into the garden, walked far into the park, and remained there all night.  This conversation with Edmee had opened a new world to me.  Hitherto I had not ceased to be the Roche-Mauprat man, nor had I ever contemplated that it was possible or desirable to cease to be so.  Except for some habits which had changed with circumstances, I had never moved out of the narrow circle of my old thoughts.  I felt annoyed that these new surroundings of mine should have any real power over me, and I secretly braced my will so that I should not be humbled.  Such was my perseverance and strength of character that I believed nothing would ever have driven me from my intrenchment of obstinacy, had not Edmee’s influence been brought to bear upon me.  The vulgar comforts of life, the satisfactions of luxury, had