"But I tell you, old as you are, if I were in your place I would undertake to engage the affections of a young and handsome woman, and once having achieved this result, what had been against me would turn to my advantage. What pride, what triumph to say to oneself, I have made my age and ugliness forgotten! The love that is shown me I do not owe to pity, but to my spirit, my courage, and my skill. Yes, and now if there were here some handsome young fellows, brilliant with grace and attractions, the lovely woman, whom I have subdued by proofs of a resistless and unbounded devotion, would not deign to cast a look at them. No; for she would know that these elegant effeminates would fear to compromise the tie of their cravat, or a curl of their hair, in obedience to her caprices; whilst if she cast her handkerchief in the midst of flames, on a signal from her her old tiger would rush into the furnace with a roar of ecstasy." "Yes, I would do it! Try! Try!" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, more and more excited. Cecily continued drawing nearer to the aperture, and fixing on Jacques Ferrand a steadfast and penetrating look. "For this woman would well know," continued the creole, "that she would have some exorbitant caprice to satisfy,--that these dandies would look at their money, if they had any, or, if they had not, at some other low consideration, whilst her old tiger--" "Would consider nothing,--nothing, I tell you. Fortune,--honour,--he--he--would sacrifice all!" "Really?" said Cecily, putting her lovely fingers on the bony fingers of Jacques Ferrand, whose clutched hands, passed through the small glass door, were clasping the top of the ledge. "Would not this woman be ardently loved?" added Cecily. "If she had an enemy, and with a gesture pointed him out to her old tiger, and said to him, Strike--" "And he would strike!" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, attempting to press Cecily's fingers with his parched lips. "Really, the old tiger would strike?" said the creole, placing her hand gently on the hand of Jacques Ferrand. "To possess you," cried the wretch, "I could commit a crime--" "Ah, master," said Cecily, suddenly, and withdrawing her hand, "go--go,--in my turn I scarcely know you,--you do not seem to me so ugly as you did just now. But go--go!" and she left the aperture abruptly. The artful creature gave to her gestures and these last words an appearance of truth so perfect, and a look of such surprise, as if angry and disappointed with herself for having for an instant only appeared to forget the ugliness of Jacques Ferrand, that he, transported by frenzied hope, cried, as he clung convulsively to the ledge of the aperture: "Cecily, come back,--come back! Bid me do what you will, I will be your tiger." "No, no, master!" said Cecily, still retreating. "And in order to forget you, I will sing a song of my country." "Cecily, return!" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, in a supplicating tone.