Jacques Ferrand took, through the wicket, the dangerous weapon, with due precaution, and flung it from him to a distance in the corridor.
"Cecily, you believe me, then!" he exclaimed with transport.
"Do I believe you?" said the creole, energetically pressing her beautiful fingers on the clasped hands of Jacques Ferrand. "Oh, yes, I do! For now, again, you look as you did a short time since, when my very soul seemed fascinated by your gaze."
"Cecily, you will speak the words of, truth—and truth only—to me?"
"And can you doubt it for a moment? Ah, you will soon have ample proof of my sincerity. But what you are about to tell me is quite true,—is it not?"
"I repeat that you may believe each word I utter."
"So much the better, since you are enabled to prove your passion by the avowal of them."
"And if I tell you all?"
"Then will I, in return, withhold nothing from you; for if, indeed, you have this blind, this courageous confidence in me, Jacques, I will call no more for the ideal lover of my song, but you,—my hero, my tiger! to whom I will sing, 'Come—come—oh, come!'"
As Cecily uttered these words, with an air and voice of seductive tenderness, she drew so close to the wicket that Jacques Ferrand could feel the hot breath of the creole pass over his cheek, while her fresh, full lip lightly touched his coarse, vulgar hand. "Call me your tiger,—your slave,—what you will,—and if after that you but divulge what I entrust to you, my life will be the consequence. Yes, enchantress, a word from you, and I perish on a scaffold. My honour, reputation, nay, my very existence, are henceforward in your hands."