She arose and extended her hand; he took it, but, thinking to profit by the emotion betrayed by Madame de Bergenheim’s voice, he exclaimed in a sort of transport: 

“No!  I will not wait until next winter to see you.  I was about to submit to your will; if you repulse me I will consult only myself; if you repulse me, Clemence, I warn you that tomorrow I shall be in your house, seated at your table and admitted to your drawing-room.”

“You?”
“I!”

“To-morrow?”

“To-morrow.”

“And how will you do it, pray?” said she, defiantly.

“That is my secret, Madame,” he replied, coldly.

Although her curiosity was greatly aroused, Clemence felt that it would be beneath her to ask any more questions.  She replied with an affectation of mocking indifference: 

“Since I am to have the pleasure of seeing you tomorrow, I hope you will permit me to leave you today.  You know that I am not well, and it is showing me very little attention to allow me to stand here in this wet grass.”

She raised her skirt a trifle and extended her foot, showing her slipper, which was really covered with pearly drops of rain.  Octave threw himself quickly upon his knees, and, taking a silk handkerchief from his pocket, began to wipe away all traces of the storm.  His action was so rapid that Madame de Bergenheim stood for a moment motionless and speechless, but when she felt her foot imprisoned in the hand of the man who had just declared war against her, her surprise gave place to a mingled feeling of impatience and anger.  She drew her foot back with a sudden movement, but unfortunately the foot went one way and the slipper another.  A fencing-master, who sees his foil carried ten steps away from him by a back stroke, could not feel more astonishment than that felt by Madame de Bergenheim.  Her first movement was to place her foot, so singularly undressed, upon the ground; an instinctive horror of the damp, muddy walk made her draw it quickly back.  She stood thus with one foot lifted; the movement which she had started to make threw her off her balance and as she was about to fall she extended her hand to find some support.  This support proved to be Octave’s head, for he still remained upon his knees.  With the usual presumption of lovers, he believed that he had the right to give her the assistance which she seemed to ask for, and passed his arm about the slender waist which was bent toward him.

Clemence drew herself up at once, and with frowning brow regained her coolness, standing upright upon one foot, like Cupid in the painting by Gerard; like him, also, she seemed about to fly away, there was so much airy lightness in her improvised attitude.