"Here--take my poniard; you
disarm me."
Jacques Ferrand took, through the wicket the dangerous weapon with
precaution, and threw it from him into the corridor.
"Verily--you believe me, then?" cried he, in transport.
"I believe you?" said the Creole, leaning with force her charming hands on
those of Jacques Ferrand. "Yes, I believe you; for I see again your look of
just now--that look which fascinated me. Your eyes sparkle with savage
ardor; Jacques, I love your eyes!"
"Cecily!"
"You should speak the truth."
"I speak the truth! Oh! you shall see."
"Your countenance is lowering. Your expression formidable. Hold, you are as
fearful and beautiful as a mad tiger. But you speak the truth, do you not?"
"I have committed crimes, I tell you."
"So much the better, if by their avowal you prove your love."
"And if I tell you all?"
"I grant all; for if you have this blind confidence in me--do you see,
Jacques--it will no longer be the ideal lover of the song I call. It is to
you, my tiger, you, that I shall say come--come--come."
"Oh, you will be mine. I shall be your tiger," cried he; "and then, if you
will, you shall dishonor me--my head shall fall. My honor, my life, all is
yours now,"
"Your honor?"
"My honor! Listen; ten years since an infant was confided to my care, and
two hundred thousand francs for its support; I have abandoned this child.
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