“I’m afraid something might happen to you.”
“What! So you believe in ghosts, do you?” he asked, looking fixedly into Amélie’s eyes.
Amélie lowered her glance, and Roland felt his sister’s hand tremble in his.
“Come,” said Roland; “Amélie, at least the one I used to know, General de Montrevel’s daughter and Roland’s sister, is too intelligent to yield to these vulgar terrors. It’s impossible that you can believe these tales of apparitions, chains, flames, spectres, and phantoms.”
“If I did believe them, Roland, I should not be so alarmed. If ghosts do exist, they must be souls without bodies, and consequently cannot bring their material hatred from the grave. Besides, why should a ghost hate you, Roland; you, who never harmed any one?”
“Good! You forget all those I have killed in war or in duels.”
Amélie shook her head. “I’m not afraid of them.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
The young girl raised her beautiful eyes, wet with tears, to Roland, and threw herself in his arms, saying: “I don’t know, Roland. But I can’t help it, I am afraid.”
The young man raised her head, which she was hiding in his breast, with gentle force, and said, kissing her eyelids softly and tenderly: “You don’t believe I shall have ghosts to fight with to-morrow, do you?”