softened and tender. "It is I who am afraid--it is I who tremble--you
see it; for since I have spoken, all is finished. I expect nothing more
--I hope for nothing--this night has no possible tomorrow. I know it.
Your husband I dare not be--your lover I should not wish to be. I ask
nothing of you--understand well! I should like to burn my heart at your
feet, as on an altar--this is all. Do you believe me? Answer! Are you
tranquil? Are you confident? Will you hear me? May I tell you what
image I carry of you in the secret recesses of my heart? Dear creature
that you are, you do not--ah, you do not know how great is your worth;
and I fear to tell you; so much am I afraid of stripping you of your
charms, or of one of your virtues. If you had been proud of yourself,
as you have a right to be, you would be less perfect, and I should love
you less. But I wish to tell you how lovable and how charming you are.
You alone do not know it. You alone do not see the soft flame of your
large eyes--the reflection of your heroic soul on your young but serene
brow. Your charm is over everything you do--your slightest gesture is
engraven on my heart. Into the most ordinary duties of every-day life
you carry a peculiar grace, like a young priestess who recites her daily
devotions. Your hand, your touch, your breath purifies everything--even
the most humble and the most wicked beings--and myself first of all!

"I am astonished at the words which I dare to pronounce, and the
sentiments which animate me, to whom you have made clear new truths.
Yes, all the rhapsodies of the poets, all the loves of the martyrs,
I comprehend in your presence. This is truth itself. I understand those
who died for their faith by the torture--because I should like to suffer
for you--because I believe in you--because I respect you--I cherish you--
I adore you!"

He stopped, shivering, and half prostrating himself before her, seized