“Lucienne, my love, my love!” murmured the young man passionately. “Oh, I never thought . . . I never meant to tell you. . . . Shut your eyes, and let me kiss them . . . your hair smells of violets. . . .”
“Louis, Louis!” said the girl, trying, after a moment, to free herself, “what are we doing?—Oh, what are we doing?”
“What we were always meant to do, my heart,” said he hardily. “No, I shall not let you go. I will never let you go again, little love. But we will both leave France—and in England——”
“Louis, Louis, don’t break my heart! You know we can’t!” And, abandoning her attempt at loosing herself, and clinging all the closer, she broke into pitiful sobbing.
His arms only closed round her the firmer. “Don’t cry, my darling! Of course we can. The Abbé Moustier—you remember him—is in Paris just now; I know where he lodges. He can marry us at once—to-morrow, if you like, at the Recollets. Then, when I have procured a passport, which is the only obstacle to getting away at once——”
“Louis . . . you know that there is another!” she gasped. “Gilbert . . . we can’t—you know we can’t!”
A change passed over her lover’s face; it set and hardened. “My God!” he broke out fiercely, “why should we consider Gilbert? What is his claim compared to mine? What is his happiness compared to yours—his, who has never known what it is to love, else he could never have left you so long unclaimed? Gilbert is nothing to us.” And he kissed her again.
“O Louis . . . for God’s sake let me go! You don’t know what you are doing!”
“I do know very well,” returned the young man. “I am going to take you away from Gilbert. . . . Have I frightened you, my heart? You know that for Heaven itself I would not harm you. There!” He loosed his hold, and she was free.
“Louis . . . you cannot, you dare not do such a thing!”