He drew from his pocket the purse of jewels, and, handing them to Valentine, added:
“These jewels belonged to my poor mother; you, my angel, are alone worthy of wearing them. I thought of you when I accepted them from my father. I felt that you, as my affianced wife, were the proper person to have them.”
Valentine refused to accept them.
“Take them, my darling, as a pledge of my return. If I do not come back within three years, you may know that I am dead, and then you must keep them as a souvenir of him who so much loved you.”
She burst into tears, and took the purse.
“And now,” said Gaston, “I have a last request to make. Everybody believes me dead, but I cannot let my poor old father labor under this impression. Swear to me that you will go yourself to-morrow morning, and tell him that I am still alive.”
“I will tell him, myself,” she said.
Gaston felt that he must now tear himself away before his courage failed him; each moment he was more loath to leave the only being who bound him to this world; he enveloped Valentine in a last fond embrace, and started up.
“What is your plan of escape?” she asked.
“I shall go to Marseilles, and hide in a friend’s house until I can procure a passage to America.”