"Are you afraid?"
"No"—she hesitated—"not with you. I can be brave when I am with you—but when you are not here—"
"They shall not part us again," Angelot said.
"But how are we to get out?"
Though her lover was there, still holding her, the girl trembled as she asked the question.
"I can unbar the door," he said. "Come to the top of the stairs and wait there till I whistle; then come down to me."
This seemed enough for the moment, and the wild fellow had no further plan at all. To have her outside these prison walls, in the free air he loved, under the trees in the starlight, to make a right to her, as he vaguely thought, by running off with her in this fashion—that was all that concerned him at the moment. Where was he to take her? Would Uncle Joseph receive them? Such thoughts just flashed through the tumult of his brain, but seemed of no present importance. Angelot was mad that night, mad with love of his cousin, with the desperate necessity which needed to be met by desperate daring.
Hélène followed him, trembling very much, to the top of the stairs.
"You have a candle there? Fetch it for me," he said.
She obeyed him, slipping through the tapestry into her own room. Once there, she looked round with a wild wonder. Could this be herself—Hélène de Sainfoy—about to escape into the wide world with her lover—and empty-handed? She looked down vaguely at her white evening gown and thin shoes, snatched up her watch and chain and a diamond ring, which were lying on the table, and slipped them into her pocket. It was the work of a moment, yet when she carried the candle to Angelot, he was white as death, and stamping with impatience; the flame in his eyes frightened her.