As she spoke she fell into my arms, and sobbed as though her heart was breaking. As for me, my transports knew no bounds. I dropped at her feet; I vowed and swore a thousand times that not only my life, but that my fame, my honor, were all hers; that to deserve her there was no trial I would not dare. Oh, the glorious ecstasy of that moment comes back like a flood of youth once more upon this old and shattered heart; and, as I write these lines, the hot tears are falling on the paper, and my lips are murmuring a name I have not strength to write.
“I will put your loyalty to the test at once,” said she, gayly, and with a degree of wild joyousness the very opposite to her late emotion. “Sit down there, and write as I dictate.”
I obeyed, and she began:—
“'Mademoiselle De La Veronie begs to acknowledge, with a gratitude suitable to the occasion, the polite note of the Vicomte Déchaîne, and to accept—'”
“What!” cried I, dropping the pen.
“Go on,” said she, calmly; “write as I tell you: 'to accept his box this evening at the Français.'”
“Margot, you are not in earnest!” said I, entreatingly.
“I am resolved, sir,” said she, with a voice of determination and a look of almost reproving sternness. “I hope it is not from you, at least, will come any doubts of my courage!”
These words seemed to indicate the spirit in which her resolution had been taken, and to show that she preferred accepting, as it were, this challenge, to the humbler alternative of an escape from it.
I wrote as she bade me, and despatched the letter.