“My friend!” she said, although rather uncertain.

“Yes, your friend,” muttered the man with a hollow voice; “yes, your friend.”

He could not continue, his mouth worked as if in a convulsion, suppressed weeping shook his frame; he then threw himself on his knees, and they saw a shower of tears force themselves through the hands clasped over his face.

“Take her away, Monsieur,” said the old doctor.

Camors gently pushed her out of the but and followed her.  She took his arm and descended the rugged path which led to her home.

It was a walk of twenty minutes from the wood.  Half the distance was passed without interchanging a word.  Once or twice, when the rays of the moon pierced through the clouds, Camors thought he saw her wipe away a tear with the end of her glove.  He guided her cautiously in the darkness, although the light step of the young woman was little slower in the obscurity.  Her springy step pressed noiselessly the fallen leaves—­avoided without assistance the ruts and marshes, as if she had been endowed with a magical clairvoyance.  When they reached a crossroad, and Camors seemed uncertain, she indicated the way by a slight pressure of the arm.  Both were no doubt embarrassed by the long silence—­it was Madame de Tecle who first broke it.

“You have been very good this evening, Monsieur,” she said in a low and slightly agitated voice.

“I love you so much!” said the young man.

He pronounced these simple words in such a deep impassioned tone that Madame de Tecle trembled and stood still in the road.

“Monsieur de Camors!”

“What, Madame?” he demanded, in a strange tone.

“Heavens!—­in fact-nothing!” said she, “for this is a declaration of friendship, I suppose—­and your friendship gives me much pleasure.”

He let go her arm at once, and in a hoarse and angry voice said—­“I am not your friend!”

“What are you then, Monsieur?”

Her voice was calm, but she recoiled a few steps, and leaned against one of the trees which bordered the road.  The explosion so long pent up burst forth, and a flood of words poured from the young man’s lips with inexpressible impetuosity.

“What I am I know not!  I no longer know whether I am myself—­if I am dead or alive—­if I am good or bad—­whether I am dreaming or waking.  Oh, Madame, what I wish is that the day may never rise again—­that this night would never finish—­that I should wish to feel always—­always—­in my head, my heart, my entire being—­that which I now feel, near you—­of you—­for you!  I should wish to be stricken with some sudden illness, without hope, in order to be watched and wept for by you, like those children—­and to be embalmed in your tears; and to see you bowed down in terror before me is horrible to me!  By the name of your God, whom you have made me respect, I swear you are sacred to me—­the child in the arms of its mother is not more so!”