CHAPTER X

THE PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY

The Comte de Camors had been sincere.  When true passion surprises the human soul, it breaks down all resolves, sweeps away all logic, and crushes all calculations.

In this lies its grandeur, and also its danger.  It suddenly seizes on you, as the ancient god inspired the priestess on her tripod—­speaks through your lips, utters words you hardly comprehend, falsifies your thoughts, confounds your reason, and betrays your secrets.  When this sublime madness possesses you, it elevates you—­it transfigures you.  It can suddenly convert a common man into a poet, a coward into a hero, an egotist into a martyr, and Don Juan himself into an angel of purity.

With women—­and it is to their honor—­this metamorphosis can be durable, but it is rarely so with men.  Once transported to this stormy sky, women frankly accept it as their proper home, and the vicinity of the thunder does not disquiet them.

Passion is their element—­they feel at home there.  There are few women worthy of the name who are not ready to put in action all the words which passion has caused to bubble from their lips.  If they speak of flight, they are ready for exile.  If they talk of dying, they are ready for death.  Men are far less consistent with their ideas.

It was not until late the next morning that Camors regretted his outbreak of sincerity; for, during the remainder of the night, still filled with his excitement, agitated and shaken by the passage of the god, sunk into a confused and feverish reverie, he was incapable of reflection.  But when, on awakening, he surveyed the situation calmly and by the plain light of day, and thought over the preceding evening and its events, he could not fail to recognize the fact that he had been cruelly duped by his own nervous system.  To love Madame de Tecle was perfectly proper, and he loved her still—­for she was a person to be loved and desired—­but to elevate that love or any other as the master of his life, instead of its plaything, was one of those weaknesses interdicted by his system more than any other.  In fact, he felt that he had spoken and acted like a school-boy on a holiday.  He had uttered words, made promises, and taken engagements on himself which no one demanded of him.  No conduct could have been more ridiculous.  Happily, nothing was lost.  He had yet time to give his love that subordinate place which this sort of fantasy should occupy in the life of man.  He had been imprudent; but this very imprudence might finally prove of service to him.  All that remained of this scene was a declaration—­gracefully made, spontaneous, natural—­which subjected Madame de Tecle to the double charm of a mystic idolatry which pleased her sex, and to a manly ardor which could not displease her.

He had, therefore, nothing to regret—­although he certainly would have preferred, from the point of view of his principles, to have displayed a somewhat less childish weakness.