“Yes, very much, Ninon.”
“Enough to die for her, perhaps?”
“Oh, yes,” I answered. “To die for her were nothing, Ninon.”
“That is right, M. Pierre,” she whispered, and her voice was shaking. “That is the way to love. I have seen her. She is pretty, oh, so pretty, even though her eyes were red with weeping. Tell me, M. Pierre, must one be pretty to be loved?”
“Oh, no, Ninon,” I said. “One needs only to be good. You are good, Ninon, and there will be somebody some day who will love you and who will make you happy.”
She said nothing for a moment, as though pondering this answer.
“No, there never will be any one, M. Pierre,” she said at last, with a little sigh. “But this Nanette—ah, she is adorable. She heard your voice when you came in that night, calling her name. She thinks you dead, M. Pierre. They have told her that you are dead, that you were killed that night. I believe she loves you also, she has wept so much.”
“Oh, if I am only in time,” I said, trembling with apprehension, and I picked up my chain again.
“Yes, I will go,” said the girl; and then, “will you do something for me, M. Pierre?”
“You have only to name it, Ninon.”