ong that you require repose. Pardon me--proceed. I shall
follow you at a distance, until you reach your home, to protect you--but
fear nothing from me."

Madame de Tecle had listened, without once interrupting him even by
a sigh. Words would only excite the young man more. Probably she
understood, for the first time in her life, one of those songs of
love--one of those hymns alive with passion, which every woman wishes
to hear before she dies. Should she die because she had heard it? She
remained without speaking, as if just awakening from a dream, and said
quite simply, in a voice as soft and feeble as a sigh, "My God!" After
another pause she advanced a few steps on the road.

"Give me your arm as far as my house, Monsieur," she said.

He obeyed her, and they continued their walk toward the house, the
lights of which they soon saw. They did not exchange a word--only as
they reached the gate, Madame de Tecle turned and made him a slight
gesture with her hand, in sign of adieu. In return, M. de Camors bowed
low, and withdrew.

CHAPTER X. THE PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY

The Comte de Camors had been sincere. When true passion surprises the
human soul, it breaks down all resolves, sweeps away all logic, and
crushes all calculations.

In this lies its grandeur, and also its danger. It suddenly seizes on
you, as the ancient god inspired the priestess on her tripod--speaks
through your lips, utters words you hardly comprehend, falsifies your
thoughts, confounds your reason, and betrays your secrets. When this
sublime madness possesses you, it elevates you--it transfigures you. It
can suddenly convert a common man into a poet, a coward into a hero, an
egotist into a martyr, and Don Juan himself into an angel of purity.

With women--and it is to their honor--this metamorphosis can be durable,
but it is rarely so with men. Once transported to this stormy sky, women
frankly accept it as their proper home, and the vicinity of the thunder
does not disquiet them.

Passion is their element--they feel at home there. There are few women
worthy of the name who are not ready to put in action all the words
which passion has caused to bubble from their lips. If they speak of
flight, they are ready for exile. If they talk of dying, they are ready
for death. Men are far less consistent with their ideas.

It was not until late the next morning that Camors regretted his
outbreak of sincerity; for, during the remainder of the night