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.