Little by little her emotion passed away.  Her fright appeared childish to her, as soon as she believed herself sheltered from danger; she promised herself to give Octave a good scolding the next morning; then she renounced this little pleasure, when she remembered that it would force her to admit the discovery of the pin, and of course to return it to him, for she had resolved to keep it.  She had always had a particular fancy for this pin, but she would never have dared to ask him for it, and besides, it was the fact that Octave usually wore it that made it of infinite value to her.  The desire to appropriate it was irresistible, since chance had thrown it into her hands.  She tied a black satin ribbon about her white neck, and pinned it with the precious ruby.  After kissing it as devotedly as if it were a relic, she ran to her mirror to judge of the effect of the theft.

“How pretty, and how I love it!” said she; “but how can I wear it so that he will not see it?”

Before she could solve this problem, she heard a slight noise, which petrified her as she stood before her glass.

“It is he!” she thought; after standing for a moment half stunned, she dragged herself as far as the stairs, and leaning over, listened with fear and trembling.  At first she could hear nothing but the beating of her heart; then she heard the other noise again, and more distinctly.  Somebody was turning the handle of the door, trying to open it.  The unexpected obstacle of the bolt doubtless exasperated the would-be visitor, for the door was shaken and pushed with a violence which threatened to break the lock or push down the door.

Madame de Bergenheim’s first thought was to run into her chamber and lock the door behind her;—­the second showed her the danger that might result if the slightest noise should reach other ears.  Not a moment was to be lost in hesitation.  The young woman quickly descended the stairs and drew the bolt.  The door opened softly and closed with the same precaution.  The lamp from the parlor threw a feeble light upon the upper steps of the staircase, but the lower ones were in complete darkness.  It was with her heart rather than her eyes that she recognized Octave; he could distinguish Madame de Bergenheim only in an indistinct way by her white dress, which was faintly outlined in the darkness; she stood before him silent and trembling with emotion, for she had not yet thought of a speech that would send him away.

He also felt the embarrassment usual in any one guilty of so foolhardy an action.  He had expected to surprise Clemence, and he found her upon her guard; the thought of the disloyal part he was playing at this moment made the blood mount to his cheeks and took away, for the time being, his ordinary assurance.  He sought in vain for a speech which might first justify him and then conquer her.  He had recourse to a method often employed in the absence of eloquence.  He fell on his knees before the young woman and seized her hands; it seemed as if the violence of his emotions rendered him incapable of expressing himself except by silent adoration.  As she felt his hands touch hers, Clemence drew back and said in a low voice: