“O, my heart, is it time already?”
“It wants five minutes, beloved.”
In that black night Valentine had determined that, if it killed her, she would not fail him at the moment of parting. “I must get up, then, and give you your scarf,” she said, raising herself.
“You must fasten it on for me,” said he.
“No, Gaston, not over your uniform—and you without an escort! It is too conspicuous . . . I wish now that I had not worked the ends in gold. No; hide it in your breast, and put it on when you are back!” She had slipped out of bed, had found the symbol, and was holding it close to her.
“Very well, most dear,” said he, smiling. “I wanted your fingers to knot it round me, but perhaps you are right. It is from your hands that I receive it, which is all that matters.” He knelt and took it from her, kissed the folded silk, and opening the breast of his uniform, put it over his heart. She stooped over him suddenly.
“I am not worthy of you, my dearest, for last night . . . if I could have kept you back, I would. This morning I . . . I desire you to go. But I am weak, Gaston; only promise me that you will think of me as I wish to be in this, and not as I . . . as I am!”
Still kneeling, he caught her hands. “Have you then so little knowledge of what you are to me, Valentine—you, my star, my standard with the Lilies, my oriflamme itself!”