“And when will you be away? Wherever you go, I will follow you. If we once part, we shall not meet again.”
“We think so, and we say so, each time that we part; and yet we meet again. Once more, only the one time when I am to distinguish myself, to gain you—only that once will we be parted; and then we will be happy for over.”
“Then you will be killed—or you will be sent to France, or you will love some one else and forget me—”
“Forgot you!—love some one else! Oh! Heaven and earth!” cried Moyse, clasping her in his arms, and putting his whole soul into the kisses he impressed on her forehead. “And what,” he continued, in a voice which thrilled her heart, “what would you do if I were killed?”
“I would die. Oh, Moyse! if it should be so, wait for me! Let your spirit wait for mine! It shall not be long.”
“Shall my spirit come—shall I come as a ghost, to tell you that I am dead? Shall I come when you are alone, and call you away?”
“Oh! no, no!” she cried, shuddering. “I will follow—you need not fear. But a ghost—oh! no, no!” And she looked up at him, and clasped him closer.
“And why?” said Moyse. “You do not fear me now—you cling to me. And why fear me then? I shall be yours still. I shall be Moyse. I shall be about you, haunting you, whether you see and hear me or not. Why not see and hear me?”
“Why not?” said Génifrède, in a tone of assent. “But I dare not—I will not. You shall not die. Do not speak of it.”
“It was not I, but you, love, that spoke of it. Well, I will not die. But tell me—if I forget you—if I love another—what then?” And he looked upon her with eyes so full of love, that she laughed, and withdrew herself from his arms, saying, as she sauntered on along the blossom-strewn path—