But what course should he now adopt?  Nothing could be more simple.  He would go to Madame de Tecle—­implore her forgiveness—­throw himself again at her feet, promising eternal respect, and succeed.  Consequently, about ten o’clock, M. de Camors wrote the following note: 

   “Madame

   “I can not leave without bidding you adieu, and once more demanding
   your forgiveness.

“Will you permit me?

“Camors.”

This letter he was about despatching, when he received one containing the following words: 

“I shall be happy, Monsieur, if you will call upon me to-day, about
four o’clock. 
“Elise de Tecle.”

Upon which M. de Camors threw his own note in the fire, as entirely superfluous.

No matter what interpretation he put upon this note, it was an evident sign that love had triumphed and that virtue was defeated; for, after what had passed the previous evening between Madame de Tecle and himself, there was only one course for a virtuous woman to take; and that was never to see him again.  To see him was to pardon him; to pardon him was to surrender herself to him, with or without circumlocution.  Camors did not allow himself to deplore any further an adventure which had so suddenly lost its gravity.  He soliloquized on the weakness of women.  He thought it bad taste in Madame de Tecle not to have maintained longer the high ideal his innocence had created for her.  Anticipating the disenchantment which follows possession, he already saw her deprived of all her prestige, and ticketed in the museum of his amorous souvenirs.

Nevertheless, when he approached her house, and had the feeling of her near presence, he was troubled.  Doubt—­and anxiety assailed him.  When he saw through the trees the window of her room, his heart throbbed so violently that he had to sit down on the root of a tree for a moment.

“I love her like a madman!” he murmured; then leaping up suddenly he exclaimed, “But she is only a woman, after all—­I shall go on!”

For the first time Madame de Tecle received him in her own apartment.  This room M. de Camors had never seen.  It was a large and lofty apartment, draped and furnished in sombre tints.

It contained gilded mirrors, bronzes, engravings, and old family jewelry lying on tables—­the whole presenting the appearance of the ornamentation of a church.

In this severe and almost religious interior, however rich, reigned a vague odor of flowers; and there were also to be seen boxes of lace, drawers of perfumed linen, and that dainty atmosphere which ever accompanies refined women.

But every one has her personal individuality, and forms her own atmosphere which fascinates her lover.  Madame de Tecle, finding herself almost lost in this very large room, had so arranged some pieces of furniture as to make herself a little private nook near the chimneypiece, which her daughter called, “My mother’s chapel.”  It was there Camors now perceived her, by the soft light of a lamp, sitting in an armchair, and, contrary to her custom, having no work in her hands.  She appeared calm, though two dark circles surrounded her eyes.  She had evidently suffered much, and wept much.