“Kiss me good-by, Monsieur. You may not have time in the morning.”
“But I am coming back for you, Ninon,” I cried. “It is not good-by. You are to live with us always.”
“No, no,” and she was sobbing again. “That cannot be. I am not of your world, Monsieur. I am of the darkness. I could not bear the light. I am hideous, Monsieur—I know it.”
“Come here, Ninon,” I whispered. “I will kiss you good-night, not good-by. You shall be pretty, Ninon, when you live surrounded by our love, as you are going to live.”
She pressed her lips to mine, and then went away, still sobbing softly. As the door closed, I set to work again at my chain, knowing that no sound I might make could penetrate those massive walls. The hours passed, my hands were torn and bleeding, but still I urged the file back and forth across the iron. The cut in the link was slowly growing deeper—but, oh, so slowly. At last it was almost through, and I paused from sheer exhaustion. My brain was reeling and my hands were shaking like those of a man with palsy. I laid my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. Tired nature conquered and I fell asleep.
“Oh, M. Pierre,” cried a voice in my ear, “you have slept!”
I opened my eyes with a start. It was Ninon, this time with a lantern.
“You have slept!” she cried again. “You have not severed the chain. It is morning, and you will be too late!”
“Too late, yes, too late!” I cried. “And all because of my accursed weakness!” and I picked up my chain and tore at it like a madman.
“She has gone away,” cried Ninon. “She said she would be back in an hour. She took Nanette with her. When she returns we are to leave Paris.”