He remained silent and apparently indifferent for several moments.

“Of what are you thinking?” asked Madame de Bergenheim, surprised by Octave’s silence and rather listless air.

He gave a start of surprise at this question.

“May I die if I tell her!” he thought; “she must think me ridiculous enough as it is.”

“Tell me, I wish you to speak out,” she continued, in that despotic tone which a woman assumes when sure of her empire.

Instead of replying, as she demanded, he gave her a long, questioning glance, and it would have been impossible at that moment for her to keep a single secret from her lover.  Madame de Bergenheim felt the magnetic influence of his penetrating glance so deeply that it seemed to her these sharp eyes were fathoming her very heart.  She felt intensely disturbed to be gazed at in that way, and, in order to free herself from this mute questioning, she leaned her head upon Octave’s shoulder, as she said softly: 

“Do not look at me like that or I shall not love your eyes any more.”

Her straw hat, whose ribbons were not tied, slipped and fell, dragging with it the comb which confined her beautiful hair, and it fell in disorder over her shoulders.  Gerfaut passed his hand behind the charming head which rested upon his breast, in order to carry this silky, perfumed fleece to his lips.  At the same time, he gently pressed the supple form which, as it bent toward him, seemed to ask for this caress.

Clemence made a sudden effort and arose, fastening her hair at the back of her head with an almost shamed haste.

“Will you refuse me one lock of your hair as a souvenir of this hour?” said Octave, stopping her gently as she was about to replace her comb.

“Do you need any souvenir?” she replied, giving him a glance which was neither a reproach nor a refusal.

“The souvenir is in my heart, the hair will never leave my bosom!  We live in an unworthy age.  I can not boast of wearing your colors in everybody’s eyes, and yet I should like to wear a sign of my bondage.”

She let her hair fall down her back again, but seemed embarrassed as to how to execute his wish.

“I can not cut my hair with my teeth,” she said, with a smile which betrayed a double row of pearls.

Octave took a stiletto from his pocket.

“Why do you always carry this stiletto?” asked the young woman, in a changed voice; “it frightens me to see you armed thus.”

“Fear nothing,” said Gerfaut, who did not reply to her question, “I will respect the hair which serves you as a crown.  I know where I must cut it, and, if my ambition is great, my hand shall be discreet.”

Madame de Bergenheim had no confidence in his moderation, and, fearing to leave her beautiful hair to her lover’s mercy, she took the stiletto and cut off a little lock which she drew through her fingers and then offered to him, with a loving gesture that doubled the value of the gift.  At this moment, hunting-horns resounded in the distance.