"Then, my own dear girl," said the youth, "this marriage is not a forced union on your part, but as full of love and willingness as on mine? Oh, speak, Lucette!"
"Can you doubt it, Edward?" she answered. "I only feared for a moment that our own feelings might have led us to seize upon the cardinal's proposal too eagerly for our duty and respect toward others; but, on reflection, I think we could not avoid it. It was our only chance of safety."
"I think so too," answered her young husband. "But yet it is almost cruel of the cardinal not to have carried his kindness one step further, and suffered me to take you with me, as my wife, wherever fate may lead me. But yet, dear girl, perhaps he was wise. We are both too young."
"But, if we are too young, is this marriage binding? Can they not break it?" asked Lucette, with a look of apprehension which was of very sweet assurance to Edward Langdale.
"Oh, no," he replied: "the cardinal made sure of that. I could see he took especial pains at every point of the ceremony, that there might not be a flaw now nor a quibble hereafter. Did you not remark how he corrected two words in the act with his own hand? They cannot break it, Lucette,—except, perhaps, with your consent."
"That they shall never have," replied Lucette. "Oh, Edward, let us both swear to each other never to consent that this contract shall be broken between us. Let us do it solemnly; let us go down upon our knees before the God who sees all hearts, and be married again by our own holy promises."
As she spoke, she knelt, holding the youth's hand in hers, and, carried away by her simple love, he knelt beside her; and, with the confidence of early youth, they repeated the vows of everlasting faith to each other, and solemnly promised never to consent to a dissolution of their union, but each to seek the other at the first call.
Had Lucette known more of the world and worldly things, had her heart or her thoughts been less pure and spotless, Edward might have had a difficult task that day; for the cardinal had bound him by a promise similar to the injunction which the King of the Genii imposed upon Prince Zeyn Alasnum in the book which has enchanted all young and imaginative brains. But her innocence saved him from all suspicion of coldness; and the very undisguised love with which she rested on his bosom or received his kisses—warmer though not more affectionate than her own—spared all explanation, and gave to hope all the coloring of joy.
But they had much else to discuss,—how to communicate with each other when they were separated, how they were to act toward the Prince de Soubise when they found him, what they were to tell and what they were to conceal. Just let the reader sit down and fancy all that could and might be said by two people who had passed through so much during the last few hours, who had so much to pass through still, who were so strangely situated, who knew so little of each other and yet who loved each other so well, and his imagination will supply much more of their conversation than I am skilled to tell. That conversation lasted long. One hour went away after another: they were left totally alone; (and for that, too, Richelieu had his reasons;) and two o'clock had passed ere any one disturbed them. Then a servant came to announce to them that their mid-day meal was served in an adjoining chamber, and they proceeded thither, with feelings very strange:—happy, and yet not fully; composed, in comparison with their feelings not many hours before, yet agitated; with warm hope for the future, but many a bewildering doubt and some apprehension.