“Surer than is assurance itself I am yours. Say that you are mine, and every further word shall seem only to be redundant and apochryphal; for when love's lips have made their revelation, what more is wanting to complete the canon.”
“Believe that I have said it,” she half whispered; then, starting, and changing color, “hist, hist,” she added, “once more I hear it: heard you nothing?”
“I nothing heard but you,” replied Montigny: “Proceed; for your voice is sweeter to me than plashing fountain's, or than Saint Laurent's chimes, or than would be—could we hear it—the fabulous music of those night-hung spheres, coming harmonious to our listening ears, borne on the shoulders of the cherub winds. Why are you silent?”
“Listen,” she said, looking still more alarmed.
“I do,” he answered.
“Yet heard you nothing?”
“Nothing but ourselves.”
“Nothing besides?”
“What further should I hear?” he asked.
“And yet it seemed as if I heard another,” she continued. “Are we watched? speak, tell me,” she demanded,—“I hear it again; listen.”