"To possess you," cried the wretch, "I could commit a crime—"
"Ah, master," said Cecily, suddenly, and withdrawing her hand, "go—go,—in my turn I scarcely know you,—you do not seem to me so ugly as you did just now. But go—go!" and she left the aperture abruptly.
The artful creature gave to her gestures and these last words an appearance of truth so perfect, and a look of such surprise, as if angry and disappointed with herself for having for an instant only appeared to forget the ugliness of Jacques Ferrand, that he, transported by frenzied hope, cried, as he clung convulsively to the ledge of the aperture:
"Cecily, come back,—come back! Bid me do what you will, I will be your tiger."
"No, no, master!" said Cecily, still retreating. "And in order to forget you, I will sing a song of my country."
"Cecily, return!" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, in a supplicating tone.
"No, no! Later, when I can without danger. But the light of this lamp hurts my eyes,—a soft languor overcomes my senses!" and Cecily extinguished the lamp, took down a guitar, and made up the fire, whose increased blaze then lighted up the whole apartment.
From the narrow window, where he stood motionless, such was the picture that Jacques Ferrand perceived. In the midst of the luminous circle formed by the flickering blaze on the fire Cecily, in a position full of softness and abandonnement, half reclining on a large sofa of garnet damask, held a guitar, on which she ran over several harmonious preludes. The fire-light threw its red tints on the creole, who appeared thus in strong relief. To complete the tableau, the reader must call to mind the mysterious and singular appearance of a room in which the fire from the grate struggles with the deep and large black shadows, which tremble on the ceiling and the walls. The storm without increased, and roared loudly.
Whilst she preludised on her guitar, Cecily fixed her eyes immovably on Jacques Ferrand, who, fascinated, could not take his look from her.
"Now, master mine," said the creole, "listen to a song of my country. We do not understand how to make verses, but have a simple recitative, without rhyme, and between each rest we improvise, as well as we can, a symphony appropriate to the idea of the couplet; it is very simple and pastoral, and I am sure, master, it will please you."