The
wretch was seized with a vertigo. He lost all prudence, all reserve; the
instinct of moral preservation abandoned him.
"Well! this proof of your love?" said the Creole: who, having approached
the chimney, took hold of her knife, and returned slowly toward the wicket.
Then, without being seen by the notary, she assured herself of the action
of a small chain, one end of which was fastened to the door, the other to
the door-post.
"Listen," said Jacques Ferrand, in a hoarse and broken voice; "listen. If I
place my honor, my fortune, my life, at your mercy--here--on the spot--will
you then believe I love you? This proof of an insane passion, will it
suffice?"
"Your honor, your fortune, your life? I do not comprehend."
"If I confide to you a secret which would place me on the scaffold?"
"You a criminal? You jest. And your austerity?"
"A lie."
"Your probity?"
"A lie."
"Your piety?"
"A lie."
"You pass for a saint, and you would be a demon! You are a boaster! No;
there is no man quite cunning enough, bold enough, thus to insinuate
himself into the confidence and respect of men. It would be a frightful
defiance cast in the face of society."
"I am this man! I have thrown this taunt, this defiance, in the teeth of
society!" cried the monster, in an access of frightful pride.
"Jacques! Jacques! do not speak thus," said Cecily. "You will make me mad!"
"My head for your love--do you wish it?"
"Oh! this is love, indeed!" cried Cecily.
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