“If you are engaged, Moyse,” said she in a sickening voice, “if I am in your way, I will go.”
“No, no, my love. But I must see your father. Everything may depend upon it.”
“I will go—as soon as I can,” said the poor girl, beginning to sink to the floor.
“You shall not go, my love—my Génifrède,” cried Moyse, supporting her to a sofa. “I did not know—I little thought— Are you all here?”
“No; I came to see you, Moyse. I told you how it would be if we parted.”
“And how will it be, love?”
“Oh, how can you make me say it? How can you make me think it?”
“Why, Génifrède, you cannot suppose anything very serious will happen. What frightens you so? Once more I ask you the old question that we must both be weary of—what frightens you so?”
“What frightens me!” she repeated, with a bewildered look in her face. “Were we not to have been married as soon as you were relieved from your command here? And are you not a prisoner, waiting for trial—and that trial for—for—for your life?”
“Never believe so, Génifrède! Have they not told you that the poor blacks behaved perfectly well from the moment they met me? They did not do a single act of violence after I went to them. Not a hand was raised when they had once seen me; and after I had put them into good-humour, they all went to their homes.”