she awoke from this dream it was a reality;
for Octave was seated by her side without her having seen him arrive,
and he had taken up the scene at the piano just where it had been
interrupted.

She was not afraid. Her mind had reached that state of exaltation which
renders imperceptible the transition from dreaming to reality. It seemed
to her that Octave had always been there, that it was his place, and
for a moment she no longer thought, but remained motionless in the arms
which embraced her. But soon her reason came back to her. She arose
trembling, and drew away a few steps, standing before her lover with
lowered head and face suffused with blushes.

"Why are you afraid of me? Do you not think me worthy of your love?" he
asked, in an altered voice, and, without trying to retain or approach
her, he fell upon his knees with a movement of sweet, sad grace.

He had analyzed Madame de Bergenheim's character well enough to perceive
the least variation in her capricious nature. By the young woman's
frightened attitude, her burning cheeks and the flashes which he saw
from her eyes through her long, drooping lashes, he saw that a reaction
had taken place, and he feared the next outburst; for he knew that
women, when overcome with remorse, always smite their lover by way of
expiation for themselves.

"If I let this recovered virtue have the mastery, I am a lost man for a
fortnight at least," he thought.

He quickly abandoned the dangerous ground upon which he had taken
position, and passed, by an adroit transition, from the most passionate
frenzy to the most submissive bearing. When Clemence raised her large
eyes, in which was a threatening gleam, she saw, instead of an audacious
man to be punished, an imploring slave.

There was something so flattering in this attitude of humility that she
was completely disarmed. She approached Octave, and took him by the
hand to raise him, seated herself again and allowed him to resume his
position beside her. She softly pressed his hand, of which she had
not let go, and, looking her lover in the eyes, said in that deep,
penetrating voice that women sometimes have:

"My friend!"

"Friend!" he thought; "yes, certainly. I will raise no dispute as to
the word, provided the fact is recognized. What matters the color of
the flag? Only fools trouble themselves about that. 'Friend' is not the
throne I aspire to, but it is the road that leads to it. So then, let
it be 'friend,' while wai