Felix conducted Fleurange back to her seat. She was breathless, pale, and annoyed. While waltzing, he had uttered words she wished had never been said. Scarcely seated, her first impulse was to leave the spot where he stood, and even the room, but she could not. Felix’s hand, placed on hers, forced her to sit down again. Then Fleurange rose above her embarrassment. She comprehended that the time had come to be firm, calm, and decided--not a difficult thing when the heart and the will are perfectly in accord. That was the case in this instance, and Fleurange almost coolly awaited what her cousin had to say. “I only beseech you for one word, Gabrielle,” said Felix, with more emotion and respect than usual--“one word, and, if you understood me, an answer.” “I heard you,” said Fleurange. “And understood?” “Yes; and with regret, Felix.” “Tell me plainly, Gabrielle, do you understand that I love you?” Fleurange blushed and made no reply. “That I love you to such a degree, my happiness, my future prospects, and my life are in your hands?” continued he vehemently. “And this is true, literally true.” Fleurange frowned. “Do you wish to frighten me?” she said coldly, turning her large eyes toward him. “No; I have told you the truth without thinking I could frighten you; but, since you ask the question, here is my sincere reply: Only promise to accept my hand, promise it through fear or love, terror or joy, I will be satisfied, and ask for no more.” “Then,” said Fleurange slowly, “it is all the same to you whether I esteem or despise you, love or detest?” “No woman can for ever detest a man who endeavors to win her love--when that man is her husband, and could be her master, but only wishes to be her slave.” “There is great fatuity in your humility, Felix; but you are frank, and I wish to be so too. I shall never--mark my words--never be your wife!” Felix turned pale, and his face assumed a frightful expression. “Take more time, Gabrielle,” said he--“take more time to think of it. But, first, listen to me. I am going to say something that may touch you more than a threat or a declaration--” He stopped an instant and then continued: “If you saw a man on the edge of a precipice, would you stretch forth a hand to save him?” “What do you mean?” said Fleurange, affected in spite of herself, and suddenly recalling the words she heard that morning in the church. “I ask if you would put out your hand to aid a man in such peril?” He had, in truth, found the means of making her hesitate, but it was only for a moment. “You are speaking figuratively, I suppose,” said she at length; “and it is a question of a soul in peril, is it not?” “A soul in peril? Yes,” replied Felix, with a bitter smile. “Well, I tell you, in a danger of this kind, I would offer no assistance that would inevitably lead to my own destruction.” Felix rose: “And is this your final decision?”