, still
filled with his excitement, agitated and shaken by the passage of the
god, sunk into a confused and feverish reverie, he was incapable of
reflection. But when, on awakening, he surveyed the situation calmly and
by the plain light of day, and thought over the preceding evening and
its events, he could not fail to recognize the fact that he had been
cruelly duped by his own nervous system. To love Madame de Tecle was
perfectly proper, and he loved her still--for she was a person to be
loved and desired--but to elevate that love or any other as the master
of his life, instead of its plaything, was one of those weaknesses
interdicted by his system more than any other. In fact, he felt that
he had spoken and acted like a school-boy on a holiday. He had uttered
words, made promises, and taken engagements on himself which no one
demanded of him. No conduct could have been more ridiculous. Happily,
nothing was lost. He had yet time to give his love that subordinate
place which this sort of fantasy should occupy in the life of man. He
had been imprudent; but this very imprudence might finally prove
of service to him. All that remained of this scene was a
declaration--gracefully made, spontaneous, natural--which subjected
Madame de Tecle to the double charm of a mystic idolatry which pleased
her sex, and to a manly ardor which could not displease her.

He had, therefore, nothing to regret--although he certainly would have
preferred, from the point of view of his principles, to have displayed a
somewhat less childish weakness.

But what course should he now adopt? Nothing could be more simple. He
would go to Madame de Tecle--implore her forgiveness--throw himself
again at her feet, promising eternal respect, and succeed. Consequently,
about ten o'clock, M. de Camors wrote the following note:

"MADAME

"I can not leave without bidding you adieu, and once more demanding
your forgiveness.

"Will you permit me?

"CAMORS."

This letter he was about despatching, when he received one containing
the following words:

"I shall be happy, Monsieur, if you will call upon me to-day, about
four o'clock.

"ELISE DE TECLE."

Upon which M. de Camors threw his own note in the fire, as entirely
superfluous.

No matter what interpretation he put upon this note, it was an evident
sign that love had triumphed and that virtue was defeated; for, after
what had passed the prev