“You know very well that I am not going to Germany or Switzerland, and that Bergenheim is the end of my journey, as it has been its aim.”

“Then will you be so good as to tell me what your intention was in taking such a step, and whether you have realized how strange, inconsiderate, and in every way extravagant your conduct is?”

“I have realized it; I know it.  You were here, I came because there is a loadstone within you, that is my heart’s sole attraction, and I must follow my heart.  I came because I wanted to see your beautiful eyes again, to be intoxicated by your sweet voice, because to live away from you is impossible for me; because your presence is as necessary to my happiness as air to my life; because I love you.  That is why I came.  Is it possible that you do not understand me, that you will not pardon me?”

“I do not wish to believe that you are speaking seriously,” said Clemence, with increased severity.  “What sort of an idea can you have of me, if you think I will allow such conduct?  And then, even if I were foolish enough for that-which I never shall be—­to what would it lead?  You know perfectly well that it is impossible for you to come to the castle, as you are not acquainted with Monsieur de Bergenheim, and I certainly shall not introduce you to him.  My aunt is here, and she would persecute me the whole day long with questions!  Mon Dieu! how you disturb me! how unhappy you make me!”

“Your aunt never goes out, so she will not see me, unless I am officially received at the chateau, and then there could be no danger.”

“But the servants she brought with her, and mine, who have seen you in her house!  I tell you, the whole thing is as perilous as it is crazy, and you will make me die of fright and chagrin.”

“If one of those servants should chance to meet me, how could he ever recognize me in this costume?  Do not fear, I shall be prudent!  I would live in a log cabin, if necessary, for the joy of seeing you occasionally.”

Madame de Bergenheim smiled disdainfully.

“That would be quite pastoral,” she replied; “but I believe that such disguises are seldom seen now except upon the stage.  If this is a scene out of a play, which you wish to rehearse in order to judge its effect, I warn you that it is entirely lost upon me, and that I consider the play itself very ill-timed, improper, and ridiculous.  Besides, for a man of talent and a romantic poet you have not exhibited any very great imagination.  It is a classical imitation, nothing better.  There is something like it in mythology, I believe.  Did not Apollo disguise himself as a shepherd?”

Nothing more is to be feared by a lover than a witty woman who does not love or loves but half; he is obliged to wear velvet gloves in all such sentimental controversies; he owes it to himself out of propriety first, out of prudence afterward.  For it is not a question of taking part in a conversation for the simple pleasure of brilliant repartee; and while he applies himself carefully to play his part well, he feels that he has been dexterously cut to pieces with a well-sharpened knife.