them.

Madame de Bergenheim was seated at the front of this grotto, upon a seat
formed by the base of the rock. She was tracing in the sand, with a
stick which she had picked up on the way, strange figures which she
carefully erased with her foot. Doubtless these hieroglyphics had some
meaning to her, and perhaps she feared lest the slightest marks might be
carelessly forgotten, as they would betray the secret they concealed.
Clemence was plunged into one of those ecstatic reveries which abolish
time and distance. The fibres of her heart, whose exquisite vibrating
had been so suddenly paralyzed by Christian's arrival, had resumed their
passionate thrills. She lived over again in her mind the tete-a-tete in
the drawing-room; she could hear the entrancing waltz again; she felt her
lover's breath in her hair; her hand trembled again under the pressure of
his kiss. When she awoke from this dream it was a reality; for Octave
was seated by her side without her having seen him arrive, and he had
taken up the scene at the piano just where it had been interrupted.

She was not afraid. Her mind had reached that state of exaltation which
renders imperceptible the transition from dreaming to reality. It seemed
to her that Octave had always been there, that it was his place, and for
a moment she no longer thought, but remained motionless in the arms which
embraced her. But soon her reason came back to her. She arose
trembling, and drew away a few steps, standing before her lover with
lowered head and face suffused with blushes.

"Why are you afraid of me? Do you not think me worthy of your love?"
he asked, in an altered voice, and, without trying to retain or approach
her, he fell upon his knees with a movement of sweet, sad grace.