“When you asked me to meet you here, your purpose was not to reproach me with coldness—­was it Adolphe?  Perhaps it will be better for both of us that this interview should terminate now.  We shall part friends, dear friends; and I will rejoice at your triumphs, when you are victorious; and will lament at your reverses, should you be unlucky.  I shall do the same for my own dear Henri, and I know that you two will not be separated.  There is my hand,” she added, thinking that he appeared to hesitate; “and now let us go down to our friends, who are expecting us.”

“Are you so soon weary of hearing the few words I wish to say to you?” said Adolphe, who had taken her hand, and who seemed inclined to keep it.

“No, I am not weary.  I will hear anything you wish to say.”  And Agatha having withdrawn her hand, sat down, and again found herself in a position to take advantage of Marie’s good advice.

Adolphe remained silent for a minute or two, with his head supported on his hand, and gazing on the lady of his love with a look that was intended to fascinate her.  Agatha sat perfectly still; she was evidently mindful of the lesson she had received:  at last, Adolphe started up from his position, walked a step or two into the middle of the room, thrust his right hand into his bosom; and said abruptly, “Agatha, this is child’s play; we are deceiving each other; we are deceiving ourselves; we would appear to be calm when there is no calm within us.”

“Do not say we.  I am not deceiving myself; I trust I am not deceiving you.”

“And is your heart really so tranquil?” said he.  “Does that fair bosom control no emotion?  Is that lovely face, so exquisitely pale, a true index of the spirit within?  Oh!  Agatha! it cannot be; while my own heart is so torn with love; while I feel my own pulses beat so strongly; while my own brain burns so fiercely, I cannot believe that your bosom is a stranger to all emotion!  Some passion akin to humanity must make you feel that you are not all divine!  Speak, Agatha; if that lovely form has within it ought that partakes of the weakness of a woman, tell me, that at some future time you will accept the love I offer you; tell me, that I may live in hope.  Oh, Agatha! bid me not despair,” and M. Denot in bodily reality fell prostrate at her feet.

When Agatha had gone up to her room, she had prepared herself for a most disagreeable interview, but she had not expected anything so really dreadful as this.  Adolphe had not contented himself with kneeling at her feet on one knee, and keeping his head erect in the method usual in such cases; but he had gone down upon both knees, had thrown his head upon her feet, and was now embracing her shoes and stockings in a very vehement manner; her legs were literally caught in a trap; she couldn’t move them; and Adolphe was sobbing so loudly that it was difficult to make him hear anything.

“Adolphe, Adolphe, get up!” she almost screamed, “this is ridiculous in the extreme; if you will not get up, I must really call for some one.  I cannot allow you to remain there!”