But she stopped him, putting her hand on his lips, and saying, all in a tremor,—
“No, I do not wish to know any thing,—nothing at all. I believe in you. Only you must remember that you are every thing to me,—hope, life, happiness. If you should have deceived me, I know but too well—poor me!—that I would not cease loving you; but I should not have long to suffer.”
Overcome with grief and affection, Jacques repeated,—
“Dionysia, Dionysia, my darling, let me confess to you who this woman is, and why I must see her.”
“No,” she interrupted him, “no! Do what your conscience bids you do. I believe in you.”
And instead of offering to let him kiss her forehead, as usual, she hurried off with her Aunt Elizabeth, and that so quickly, that, when he rushed after her, he only saw, as it were, a shadow at the end of the long passage.
Never until this moment had Jacques found it in his heart really to hate the Countess Claudieuse with that blind and furious hatred which dreams of nothing but vengeance. Many a time, no doubt, he had cursed her in the solitude of his prison; but even when he was most furious against her, a feeling of pity had risen in his heart for her whom he had once loved so dearly; for he did not disguise it to himself, he had once loved her to distraction. Even in his prison he trembled, as he thought of some of his first meetings with her, as he saw before his mind’s eye her features swimming in voluptuous languor, as he heard the silvery ring of her voice, or inhaled the perfume she loved ever to have about her. She had exposed him to the danger of losing his position, his future, his honor even; and he still felt inclined to forgive her. But now she threatened him with the loss of his betrothed, the loss of that pure and chaste love which burnt in Dionysia’s heart, and he could not endure that.
“I will spare her no longer,” he cried, mad with wrath. “I will hesitate no longer. I have not the right to do so; for I am bound to defend Dionysia!”
He was more than ever determined to risk that adventure on the next day, feeling quite sure now that his courage would not fail him.
It was Trumence to-night—perhaps by the jailer’s skilful management—who was ordered to take the prisoner back to his cell, and, according to the jail-dictionary, to “curl him up” there. He called him in, and at once plainly told him what he expected him to do. Upon Blangin’s assurance, he expected the vagabond would jump at the mere idea of escaping from jail. But by no means. Trumence’s smiling features grew dark; and, scratching himself behind the ear furiously, he replied,—