"Will you be my wife? I will espouse you." "I am married." "But what do you wish, then! what _do_ you wish?" "Prove to me that your passion for me is blind, furious, that you will sacrifice everything for me!" "All! yes, all! But how?" "I do not know; but there was a moment when the glance of your eye bewildered me. If now you give me some proof of your love, I do not know of what I should be capable! Hasten! I am capricious; to-morrow the impression of this hour will perhaps be effaced." "But what proof can I give you on the moment?" cried the wretch. "It is an atrocious torment! What proof? speak! What proof?" "You are only a fool!" answered Cecily, retreating from the wicket with an appearance of extreme irritation. "I am mistaken! I thought you capable of energetic devotion! Good-night. It is a pity--" "Cecily! oh! do not go--return. But what must I do? tell me, at least. Oh! my senses wander. What must I do? what do?" "Guess!" "But, in fine--speak! what do you wish?" cried the notary, quite beside himself. "Guess." "Explain--command." "Ah! if you love me as passionately as you say, you will find the means. Good-night." "Cecily!" "I am going to shut this wicket--instead of opening the door--" "Mercy! listen--remain--I have found it," cried Jacques Ferrand, after a moment's pause, with an expression of joy impossible to describe. 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. "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.