“Oh, Agatha, Agatha!” sobbed Adolphe.

“Nonsense, Adolphe,” said Agatha.  “Are you a man, to lie grovelling on the floor like that?  Rise up, or you will lose my esteem for ever, if that be of any value to you.”

“Give me one gleam of hope, and I will rise,” said he, still remaining on his knees, but now looking up into her face; “tell me not to despair, and I will then accomplish any feat of manhood.  Give me one look of comfort, and I will again be the warrior ready for the battle; it is you only who can give me back my courage; it is you only who can restore to me the privilege of standing erect before all mankind.”

“I can tell you nothing, Adolphe, but this—­that, if you continue on your knees, I shall despise you; if you will rise, I will give you at any rate a reasonable answer.”

“Despise me, Agatha! no, you cannot despise me; the unutterable burning love of a true heart is not despicable; the character which I bear before mankind is not despicable.  Man is not despicable when he kneels before the object which he worships; and, Agatha, with all my heart, I worship you!”

“Now you are profane as well as contemptible, and I shall leave you,” and she walked towards the door.

“Stay then,” said he, “stay, and I will rise,” and, suiting the action to the. word, he got up.  “Now speak to me in earnest, Agatha; and, since you will have it so, I also, if possible, will be calm.  Speak to me; but, unless you would have the misery of a disturbed spirit on your conscience, bid me not despair!”

“Is that your calmness, Adolphe?”

“Can a man, rushing towards the brink of a precipice, be calm?  Can a man be calm on the verge of the grave?  I love you, Agatha, with a true and holy love; but still with a love fierce and untameable.  You reviled me when I said I worshipped you, but I adore the ground you tread on, and the air you breathe.  I would shed my last drop of blood to bring you ease; but I could not live and see you give that fair hand to another.  My joy would be to remain ever as your slave; but then the heart that beats beneath your bosom must be my own.  Agatha, I await your answer; one word from your lips can transport me to paradise!”

“If I am to understand that you are asking me for love—­for a warmer love than that which always accompanies true friendship—­I am obliged to say that I cannot give it you.”  Adolphe remained standing in the middle of the room, with his hand still fixed in his bosom, and with a look intended to represent both thunder and lightning.  He had really thought that the little scene which he had gone through, very much to his own satisfaction, would have a strong effect on Agatha, and he was somewhat staggered by the cool and positive tone of her reply.  “It grieves me that I should give you pain,” she continued, “if my answer does pain you; but I should never forgive myself, were I not to speak the truth to you plainly, and at once.”