He could no longer control himself. His pupil had become his master. The fact itself did not surprise him. Woman is more exalted than man in morality. There is no virtue, no devotion, no heroism in which she does not surpass him; but once impelled to the verge of the abyss, she falls faster and lower than man. This is attributable to two causes: she has more passion, and she has no honor. For honor is a reality and must not be underrated. It is a noble, delicate, and salutary quality. It elevates manly attributes; in fact, it constitutes the modesty of man. It is sometimes a force, and always a grace. But to think that honor is all-sufficient; that in the face of great interests, great passions, great trials in life, it is a support and an infallible defence; that it can enforce the precepts which come from God--in fact that it can replace God--this is a terrible mistake. It exposes one in a fatal moment to the loss of one’s self-esteem, and to fall suddenly and forever into that dismal ocean of bitterness where Camors at that instant was struggling in despair, like a drowning man in the darkness of midnight.
He abandoned himself, on this evil night, to a final conflict full of agony; and he was beaten.
The next evening at six o’clock he was at the house of the Marquise. He found her in her boudoir, surrounded by all her regal luxury. She was half buried in a fauteuil in the chimney-corner, looking a little pale and fatigued. She received him with her usual coldness and self-possession.
She opened her large eyes wide with surprise, but did not reply.
“I entreat you, Madame,” continued Camors, smiling--“no more music, the curtain is raised, and the drama has begun.”
“Do you love me?” he continued; “or were you simply acting, to try me, last night? Can you, or will you, tell me?”
“I certainly could, but I do not wish to do so.”
“Well, then,” said Camors, “if your hours of frankness have passed, mine have begun.”
“That would be compensation,” she replied.
“And I will prove it to you,” continued Camors.
“I shall make a fete of it,” said the Marquise, throwing herself back on the sofa, as if to make herself comfortable in order to enjoy an agreeable conversation.
“I love you, Madame; and as you wish to be loved. I love you devotedly and unto death--enough to kill myself, or you!”