“What has happened?” said she, “and how is it that you are here?  Ah! this is dreadful indeed; you have cruelly punished me for my weakness.”

This sudden severity after her delicious abandon, changed Octave’s pleasure into angry vexation.

“You are the one,” he replied, “who are cruel!  Why allow me so much bliss, if you intended to take it away from me so soon?  Since you love me only in your dreams, I beg of you to go to sleep again and never awaken.  I will stay near you.  Your words were so sweet, but a moment ago, and now you deny them!”

“What did I say?” she asked, with hesitation, a deep blush suffusing her face and neck.

These symptoms, which he considered a bad augury, increased Octave’s irritation.  He arose and said in a bitter tone: 

“Fear nothing!  I will not abuse the words which have escaped you, however flattering or charming they may have been; they told me that you loved me.  I do not believe it any longer; you are agitated, I can see; but it is from fear and not love.”

Clemence drew herself up upon the divan, crossed her arms over her breast and gazed at him for a few moments in silence.

“Do you believe these two sentiments incompatible?” she asked at last; “you are the only one whom I fear.  Others would not complain.”

There was such irresistible charm in her voice and glance that Gerfaut’s ill-humor melted away like ice in the sun’s rays.  He fell upon his knees before the divan, and tried to pass her arms about his neck as before; but instead of lending herself to this project, she attempted to rise.

“I am so happy at your feet,” he said, gently preventing her.  “Everybody else can sit beside you; I only have the right to kneel.  Do not take this right away from me.”

Madame de Bergenheim extricated one of her hands, and, raising her finger with a threatening gesture, she said: 

“Think a little less of your rights, and more of your duties.  I advise you to obey me and to profit by my kindness, which allows you to sit by my side for a moment.  Think that I might be more severe, and that if I treated you as you merited—­if I told you to go away, would you obey me?”

Gerfaut hesitated a moment and looked at her supplicatingly.

“I would obey,” said he; “but would you have the courage to order it?”

“I allow you to remain until just half past twelve,” said she, as she glanced at the clock, which she could see through the half-open door.  Gerfaut followed her glance, and saw that she accorded him only a quarter of an hour:  but he was too clever to make any observation.  He knew that the second quarter of an hour is always less difficult to obtain than the first.

“I am sure,” said she, “that you have thought me capricious to-day; you must pardon me, it is a family fault.  You know the saying:  ’Caprice de Corandeuil?”

“I wish it to be said:  Amour de Gerfaut,” said he, tenderly.