"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 waiting for better. This word is very pleasant to hear when spoken in these siren's accents, and when at the same time the eyes say 'lover!'"
"Will you always love me thus?" Octave asked, whose face beamed with virtuous pledges.
"Always!" sighed Clemence, without lowering eyes under the burning glance which met hers.
"You will be the soul of my soul; the angel of my heaven?"
"Your sister," she said, with a sweet smile, as she caressed her lover's cheek with her hand.
He felt the blood mount to his face at this caress, and turned his eyes away with a dreamy air.
"I probably am one of the greatest fools that has ever existed since the days of Joseph and Hippolytus," thought he.
He remained silent and apparently indifferent for several moments.
"Of what are you thinking?" asked Madame de Bergenheim, surprised by
Octave's silence and rather listless air.
He gave a start of surprise at this question.