"What is your motive, then?" said the old man, affected by such undisguised accents of despair.
"Hearken!" said the Chevalier, whose soul seemed to speak from his lips; "she was my benefactress; she is attached to me; to see me in her last moments will I feel sure prove a consolation to her."
"And this is all that you desire?" demanded the curé, yielding to these irresistible accents.
"Absolutely all."
"And you have woven no plot to attempt to rescue the condemned?"
"None. I am a Christian, Father; and if there rests in my heart a shadow of deceit; if I entertain any hope of her life, or try in any way to save it,—may God visit me with eternal damnation!"
"No, no!" said the curé; "I can promise nothing," as the innumerable dangers attendant on an act so imprudent returned to his mind.
"Now listen to me, Father!" said the Chevalier, in a voice hoarse with emotion; "I have spoken like a submissive child; I have not uttered one bitter word or uncharitable sentiment; no menace has escaped my lips. Yet now my head whirls; fever burns in my veins; now despair gnaws my heart; now I am armed. Behold! here is my dagger." And the young man drew from his bosom a polished blade which threw a livid reflection on his trembling hand. The curé drew back quickly.
"Fear nothing," said the Chevalier, with a mournful smile; "others, knowing you to be so strict an observer of your word, would have terrified you into an oath. But no! I have supplicated, and I still continue to supplicate, with hands clasped, my forehead in the dust, that I may see her for a single moment. Look! here is your guarantee!" And he drew from his pocket a billet which he presented to Girard, who opened it and read as follows:—