“What? Is it you; is it you? Oh, what fear you caused me! You might have killed yourself!”
He seized her hands; he kissed them.
“How I love you, Francoise!” he murmured. “You are as courageous as good. I had only one dread: that I should die without seeing you again. But you are here, and now they can shoot me. When I have passed a quarter of an hour with you I shall be ready.”
Little by little he had drawn her to him, and she leaned her head upon his shoulder. The danger made them dearer to each other. They forgot everything in that warm clasp.
“Ah, Francoise,” resumed Dominique in a caressing voice, “this is Saint Louis’s Day, the day, so long awaited, of our marriage. Nothing has been able to separate us, since we are both here alone, faithful to the appointment. Is not this our wedding morning?”
“Yes, yes,” she repeated, “it is our wedding morning.”
They tremblingly exchanged a kiss. But all at once she disengaged herself from Dominique’s arms; she remembered the terrible reality.
“You must fly; you must fly,” she whispered. “There is not a minute to be lost!”
And as he stretched out his arms in the darkness to clasp her again, she said tenderly:
“Oh, I implore you to listen to me! If you die I shall die also! In an hour it will be light. I want you to go at once.”