"As a brother! You could love poor Boniface as a brother, and he might love you as a sister; he might sometimes hold your hand as he holds it now, and embrace you as he sometimes embraces Mélie and Naïs? Oh! speak, Mademoiselle Bathilde, what must I do for that?"
"My friend—" said Bathilde.
"She has called me her friend," said Boniface, "she has called me her friend—I, who have said such things about her. Listen, Mademoiselle Bathilde: do not call me your friend, I am not worthy of the name. You do not know what I have said—I said that you lived with an old man; but I did not believe it, Mademoiselle Bathilde, on my honor I did not—it was anger, it was rage. Mademoiselle Bathilde, call me beggar, rascal; it will give me less pain than to hear you term me your friend."
"My friend," recommenced Bathilde, "if you have said all that, I pardon you, for now not only can you make up for it, but also acquire eternal claims upon my gratitude."
"And what shall I do? Speak! Let me see! Must I go through the fire? Shall I jump out of the second-floor window? Shall I—What shall I do? Tell me! Everything is alike."
"No, no, my friend, something much easier."
"Speak, Mademoiselle Bathilde, speak!"
"First it is necessary that you should swear to do it."
"I swear by Heaven!"
"Whatever they may say to hinder you?"