"It means death, my beloved," he murmured.
"I know," she replied quietly.
"You are not afraid?"
"No."
Questions and answers came in rapid succession. His hand closed upon hers.
"In my heart," he said, "I kiss your exquisite hands, your feet, your hair, your lips. You forgive me?"
"Everything."
There was not a quiver in her voice; for one second her fingers rested in his, and they were firm and warm to his touch. They were made to understand one another, these two; their courage was equally undaunted; they both looked on death without a tremor. He would have given his life bit by bit for her, but at this hour, when the needs of France demanded a sacrifice so sublime that none but an heroic heart could have conceived it, not even the thought of his beloved came between him and his determination.
La Frontenay must be saved for the Emperor and for France at all costs—even at the cost of that one life which was more precious to him than his own, more precious than all the world, save France. And with one pressure of her slender hand she yielded up her will—her life to him. For this one supreme moment—a moment which held in it an infinity of love and passion—they met one another soul to soul. Hand in hand, in the face of death, this second was for them an eternity of ecstasy.
"You love me, Fernande!" he murmured.