"Hélène! Hélène! have pity on me!"
"Than to pass in the eyes of the world as infamous," she added; "therefore, that reparation which you have offered me, I accept it."
"Hélène, my dear child," said her mother, throwing herself into Hélène's arms, "Arthur, too, is generous and good; he has been out of his senses; have pity on him."
"Hélène," said I, with exaltation, "I know your character,—you would have preferred dishonour to that life with a man you despise, if your instinct had not told you that, in spite of a moment of frightful error, I was still worthy of your love!"
Hélène shook her head, and, blushing with the recollection of the indignity put upon her, added:
"Do not believe it. At such a solemn time, I neither wish to deceive you, nor ought to do so. The wound is incurable; never, no, never, shall I forget that once you suspected me of being vile."
"Yes, yes! you will forget it, Hélène, and I know in the depths of my heart that the future will be as happy as the past."
"I shall never forget it, I tell you," said Hélène, with her habitual firmness. "So reflect upon what you are about to do. There is still time; nothing binds you, except your honour. You can still refuse me what I have required you to do; but do not believe that I shall ever change. I tell you that for all the remainder of my life my heart is separated from yours by a dreadful abyss."
"Believe it then, be it so," said I to Hélène, for I felt reassured by the promptings of all my former tenderness. "Believe it if you must! What does it matter to me? But your hand,—but the right to make you forget all the misery that I was the cause of, this is what I claim, this what I desire, what I accept, what I beg of you on my knees."
"You really wish this?" said Hélène, fixing a penetrating look on me, and seeming for a moment to hesitate.