"You must fly," resumed Francoise excitedly. "I have come to beg you to
do so and to bid you farewell."
But he did not seem to hear her. He repeated:
"What? Is it you; is it you? Oh, what fear you caused me! You might have
killed yourself!"
He seized her hands; he kissed them.
"How I love you, Francoise!" he murmured. "You are as courageous as
good. I had only one dread: that I should die without seeing you again.
But you are here, and now they can shoot me. When I have passed a
quarter of an hour with you I shall be ready."
Little by little he had drawn her to him, and she leaned her head upon
his shoulder. The danger made them dearer to each other. They forgot
everything in that warm clasp.
"Ah, Francoise," resumed Dominique in a caressing voice, "this is Saint
Louis's Day, the day, so long awaited, of our marriage. Nothing has
been able to separate us, since we are both here alone, faithful to the
appointment. Is not this our wedding morning?"
"Yes, yes," she repeated, "it is our wedding morning."
They tremblingly exchanged a kiss. But all at once she disengaged
herself from Dominique's arms; she remembered the terrible reality.
"You must fly; you must fly," she whispered.
Pages:
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805