"If my lover were here, and his hand touched my bare shoulder, I should tremble and die. If he were here, and his curly hair touched my cheek, my pale cheek would become purple--my pale cheek would be on fire. Soul of my Soul, if thou wert here, my parched lips would not utter a word. Life of my Life, if thou wert here, I should expiring ask thy pardon. 'Tis sweet to die for and with those we love. Angel, come--come to my heart--come--come--come!" If the creole had rendered the first strophe with languid pleasure, she put in her last words all the enthusiasm of antique love; and as if the music had been powerless to express her intense passion, she threw her guitar from her, and, half rising and extending her arms towards the door, where Jacques Ferrand stood, she repeated, in a faltering, dying tone, "Oh, come--come--come!" It would be impossible to depict the electric look with which she accompanied these words. Jacques Ferrand uttered a terrible cry. "Oh, death! Death to him whom you could thus love!" he cried, shaking the door in a burst of jealousy and furious rage. Agile as a panther, Cecily was at the door with one bound; and, as if she with difficulty repressed her feigned transports, she said to Jacques Ferrand, in a low, concentrated, palpitating voice: "Well, then, I will confess I am excited by my song. I did not mean to approach the door again, yet here I am, in spite of myself; for I hear still the words you said just now, 'If you bade me strike, I would strike.' You love me, then?" "Will you have gold,--all my gold?" "No, I have enough." "Have you an enemy? I will kill him." "I have no enemy." "Will you be my wife? I'll marry you." "I am married." "What would you, then? Oh, what would you?" "Prove to me that your passion for me is blind,--furious! And that you would sacrifice all to it." "Ah!--yes--all. But how?" "I do not know,--but a moment since your eyes fascinated me. If again you give me one of those marks of intense love, which excite the imagination of a woman to madness, I know not of what I should not be capable. Make haste, then, for I am capricious, and to-morrow, perhaps, all the impression will be effaced." "But what proof can I give you at this moment?" cried the notary. "You are but a fool, after all!" replied Cecily, retreating from the aperture with an air of disdain. "I was deceived,--I believed you capable of energetic devotion. Goodnight! It's a pity!" "Cecily, do not leave me! Return! What can I do?" "I was but too much disposed to listen to you; you will never have such another opportunity." "But oh, tell me what you would have!" cried the notary, half mad. "Eh! If you were as passionately in love as you say, you would find means to persuade me. Good night!" "Cecily." "I will shut the door, instead of opening it." "Cecily,--listen! I will give you yet another proof of my devotion."