He also felt the embarrassment usual in any one guilty of so foolhardy an action. He had expected to surprise Clemence, and he found her upon her guard; the thought of the disloyal part he was playing at this moment made the blood mount to his cheeks and took away, for the time being, his ordinary assurance. He sought in vain for a speech which might first justify him and then conquer her. He had recourse to a method often employed in the absence of eloquence. He fell on his knees before the young woman and seized her hands; it seemed as if the violence of his emotions rendered him incapable of expressing himself except by silent adoration. As she felt his hands touch hers, Clemence drew back and said in a low voice:
“You disgust me!”
“Disgust!” he repeated, drawing himself up to his full height.
“Yes, and that is not enough,” she continued, indignantly, “I ought to say scorn instead of disgust. You deceived me when you said you loved me—you infamously deceived me!”
“But I adore you!” he exclaimed, with vehemence; “what proof do you wish of my love?”
“Go! go away at once! A proof, did you say? I will accept only one: go, I order it, do you understand?”
Instead of obeying her, he seized her in his arms in spite of her resistance.
“Anything but that,” he said; “order me to kill myself at your feet, I will do it, but I will not go.”
She tried for a moment to disengage herself, but although she used all her strength, she was unable to do so.
“Oh, you are without pity,” she said, feebly, “but I abhor you; rather, a thousand times rather, kill me!”