The fire of his roused passions and the sort of inward conflagration of which many Parisians are conscious (for such situations abound in Paris) brought him finally to a pitch of frenzy and eloquence which found expression, as he turned into the rue des Deux-Eglises, in the words:-- "I will kill him!" "There's a fellow who is not content!" said a passing workman, and the jesting words calmed the incandescent madness to which Theodose was a prey.
As he left Cerizet's the idea came to him to go to Flavie and tell her all.

Southern natures are born thus--strong until certain passions arise, and then collapsed.

He entered Flavie's room; she was alone, and when she saw Theodose she fancied her last hour had come.
"What is the matter ?" she cried.
"I--I--" he said.

"Do you love me, Flavie ?" "Oh! how can you doubt it ?" "Do you love me absolutely ?--if I were criminal, even ?" "Has he murdered some one ?" she thought, replying to his question by a nod.
Theodose, thankful to seize even this branch of willow, drew a chair beside Flavie's sofa, and there gave way to sobs that might have touched the oldest judge, while torrents of tears began to flow from his eyes.
Flavie rose and left the room to say to her maid: "I am not at home to any one." Then she closed all doors and returned to Theodose, moved to the utmost pitch of maternal solicitude.

She found him stretched out, his head thrown back, and weeping.