“And do you mean that for your final, and only answer to me?”

“Certainly, my only answer; for I can give you no other.  I know you will be too kind, too sensible, to make it necessary that I should repeat it.”

“This is dreadful,” said Denot, putting his hand to his brow, “this is very dreadful!” and he commenced pacing up and down the room.

“Come,” said she, good naturedly, “let us go down—­let us forget this little episode—­you have so much of happiness, and of glory before you, that I should grieve to see you mar your career by a hopeless passion.  Take the true advice of a devoted friend,” and she put her hand kindly on his arm, “let us both forget this morning’s scene—­let us only remember our childhood’s friendship; think, Adolphe, how much you have to do for your King and your country, and do hot damp your glorious exertion by fostering a silly passion.  Am not I the same to you as a sister?  Wait till these wars are over, and then I will gather flowers for you to present to some mistress who shall truly love you.”

“No, Agatha, the flowers you gather for me shall never leave my own bosom.  If it be the myrtle, I will wear it with joy to my dying day, next my heart:  if it is to be a cyprus branch, it shall soon be laid with me in the tomb.”

“You will think less sadly in a short time,” said Agatha; “your spirits will recover their proper tone amid the excitement of battle.  We had better part now, Adolphe;” and she essayed to leave the room, but he was now leaning against the door, and did not seem inclined to let her depart so easily.

“You will not, I hope, begrudge me a few moments,” said he, speaking between his teeth.

“You may reject me with scorn, but you can hardly refuse me the courtesy which any gentleman would have a right to expect from your hands.”

“You know that I will refuse you nothing which, either in courtesy or kindness, I can do for you,” said she, again sitting down.  He, however, seeing her once more seated, did not appear much inclined to conclude what he had to say to her, for he continued walking up and down the room, in a rather disturbed manner; “but you should remember,” she added, “how soon Henri is going to leave me, and how much we have all to think and to talk of.”

“I see my presence is unwelcome, and it shall not trouble you long.  I would soon rid your eyes of my hated form, but I must first say a few words, though my throat be choked with speaking them.  My passion for you is no idle boyish love; it has grown with my growth, and matured itself with my manhood.  I cannot now say to myself that it shall cease to be.  I cannot restore calmness to my heart or rest to my bosom.  My love is a fire which cannot now be quenched; it must be nourished, or it will destroy the heart which is unable to restrain it.  Think, Agatha, of all the misery you are inflicting; think also of the celestial joy one word of yours is capable of giving.”