“I have no fear,” she murmured.

“Oh, no!—­have no fear!” he repeated in a tone of voice infinitely softened and tender.  “It is I who am afraid—­it is I who tremble—­you see it; for since I have spoken, all is finished.  I expect nothing more—­I hope for nothing—­this night has no possible tomorrow.  I know it.  Your husband I dare not be—­your lover I should not wish to be.  I ask nothing of you—­understand well!  I should like to burn my heart at your feet, as on an altar—­this is all.  Do you believe me?  Answer!  Are you tranquil?  Are you confident?  Will you hear me?  May I tell you what image I carry of you in the secret recesses of my heart?  Dear creature that you are, you do not—­ah, you do not know how great is your worth; and I fear to tell you; so much am I afraid of stripping you of your charms, or of one of your virtues.  If you had been proud of yourself, as you have a right to be, you would be less perfect, and I should love you less.  But I wish to tell you how lovable and how charming you are.  You alone do not know it.  You alone do not see the soft flame of your large eyes—­the reflection of your heroic soul on your young but serene brow.  Your charm is over everything you do—­your slightest gesture is engraven on my heart.  Into the most ordinary duties of every-day life you carry a peculiar grace, like a young priestess who recites her daily devotions.  Your hand, your touch, your breath purifies everything—­even the most humble and the most wicked beings—­and myself first of all!

“I am astonished at the words which I dare to pronounce, and the sentiments which animate me, to whom you have made clear new truths.  Yes, all the rhapsodies of the poets, all the loves of the martyrs, I comprehend in your presence.  This is truth itself.  I understand those who died for their faith by the torture—­because I should like to suffer for you—­because I believe in you—­because I respect you—­I cherish you—­I adore you!”

He stopped, shivering, and half prostrating himself before her, seized the end of her veil and kissed it.

“Now,” he continued, with a kind of grave sadness, “go, Madame, I have forgotten too long that you require repose.  Pardon me—­proceed.  I shall follow you at a distance, until you reach your home, to protect you—­but fear nothing from me.”

Madame de Tecle had listened, without once interrupting him even by a sigh.  Words would only excite the young man more.  Probably she understood, for the first time in her life, one of those songs of love—­one of those hymns alive with passion, which every woman wishes to hear before she dies.  Should she die because she had heard it?  She remained without speaking, as if just awakening from a dream, and said quite simply, in a voice as soft and feeble as a sigh, “My God!” After another pause she advanced a few steps on the road.

“Give me your arm as far as my house, Monsieur,” she said.

He obeyed her, and they continued their walk toward the house, the lights of which they soon saw.  They did not exchange a word—­only as they reached the gate, Madame de Tecle turned and made him a slight gesture with her hand, in sign of adieu.  In return, M. de Camors bowed low, and withdrew.