“In short, nobody could wile away my heart.  All those men together would not equal such a one as you, whom I loved and longed for.  I do not wish to live—­I was really ill in Paris, though you will not believe a word of it, and will not trouble to learn that I speak the truth—­so ill that I sat at death’s door and the peeping in terrified me.  In that black cavern there was no love-light, and I crave for love!  Then I discovered that I could not live without you, and that I was right to forgive you so much, though you will not forgive me heartily a little.  See how abject I am!  You are the master, but do not abuse your power.  If I have no soul—­inspire me with one—­animate the statue of white clay—­or share with me your own.  We are bound to each other by sacred ties, and the marriage law must have been made by those who forsaw that the noblest and most generous of men might be wedded to the most guilty of women, but that he would save her.  Rescue me!” she cried, sinking upon her knees.

“I am ready; what do you want?” he said in moved voice so that at last she began to hope.

“Forget my faults and the wrong they have caused you.  I want you to forgive me everything up to the present minute—­proudly hurl the past into dead eternity and make all that ought not to have been like what never was.  Lastly, I crave for our departure for a change of sun and air and sky, so that the woman I mean to become henceforward should never be reminded for a single instant of the wretch that I was.  Oh, let us live no more but for each other—­you entirely mine as I entirely your own!”

Almost carried away by the eloquent outburst, Clemenceau had but one thought to cling to and hold him in the flood.  His work of patriotism!

“Your work? well, there should be no work where love presides! after all,” she continued, rising and venturing to slide her arms upon his shoulders, “you only toiled because you believed I did not love you.  You tried to become celebrated only because you were not happy.  You were a student when I opened the book of love to you and the little I showed you to read gave you the yearning for more.  Labor came after love.  When I caused you pain, you looked for consolation and you owe your genius to me.  Genius understands or divines everything, and knows what human weakness is.  Ah, if you had been weak and I mighty, how gladly I would have pardoned you!  Had you done any wrong—­if you were wrung by remorse like most of us—­what joy to make you forget it.  But no, you are honor itself, and I lose all hope?”

“Poor creature!” sighed he, but still like marble though her arms enfolded him and palpitate warm unlike serpents whose coils their curves resembled.

“You pity me?” she murmured coaxingly, although he did not thaw under her tightening clasp; “then, you agree?”

He shook his head.  As usual, when perversity defends, the pleading reached the judge too late.  Her pressure became irksome, he thought of the devilfish tightening its rings till fatal, and, by an effort, irresistible while gentle, he disengaged himself from her arms.  They dropped inert by her panting sides as if broken.  But only for an instant her defeat overpowered her.