“Don’t speak like this,” she said.  “It’s too much for me.  And there is a whole long night before us.”

“You don’t think that I dealt with you sentimentally enough perhaps?  But the sentiment was there; as clear a flame as ever burned on earth from the most remote ages before that eternal thing which is in you, which is your heirloom.  And is it my fault that what I had to give was real flame, and not a mystic’s incense?  It is neither your fault nor mine.  And now whatever we say to each other at night or in daylight, that sentiment must be taken for granted.  It will be there on the day I die—­when you won’t be there.”

She continued to look fixedly at the red embers; and from her lips that hardly moved came the quietest possible whisper:  “Nothing would be easier than to die for you.”

“Really,” I cried.  “And you expect me perhaps after this to kiss your feet in a transport of gratitude while I hug the pride of your words to my breast.  But as it happens there is nothing in me but contempt for this sublime declaration.  How dare you offer me this charlatanism of passion?  What has it got to do between you and me who are the only two beings in the world that may safely say that we have no need of shams between ourselves?  Is it possible that you are a charlatan at heart?  Not from egoism, I admit, but from some sort of fear.  Yet, should you be sincere, then—­listen well to me—­I would never forgive you.  I would visit your grave every day to curse you for an evil thing.”

“Evil thing,” she echoed softly.

“Would you prefer to be a sham—­that one could forget?”

“You will never forget me,” she said in the same tone at the glowing embers.  “Evil or good.  But, my dear, I feel neither an evil nor a sham.  I have got to be what I am, and that, amigo, is not so easy; because I may be simple, but like all those on whom there is no peace I am not One.  No, I am not One!”

“You are all the women in the world,” I whispered bending over her.  She didn’t seem to be aware of anything and only spoke—­always to the glow.

“If I were that I would say:  God help them then.  But that would be more appropriate for Therese.  For me, I can only give them my infinite compassion.  I have too much reverence in me to invoke the name of a God of whom clever men have robbed me a long time ago.  How could I help it?  For the talk was clever and—­and I had a mind.  And I am also, as Therese says, naturally sinful.  Yes, my dear, I may be naturally wicked but I am not evil and I could die for you.”

“You!” I said.  “You are afraid to die.”

“Yes.  But not for you.”

The whole structure of glowing logs fell down, raising a small turmoil of white ashes and sparks.  The tiny crash seemed to wake her up thoroughly.  She turned her head upon the cushion to look at me.

“It’s a very extraordinary thing, we two coming together like this,” she said with conviction.  “You coming in without knowing I was here and then telling me that you can’t very well go out of the room.  That sounds funny.  I wouldn’t have been angry if you had said that you wouldn’t.  It would have hurt me.  But nobody ever paid much attention to my feelings.  Why do you smile like this?”