“Wish it! You must—you shall,” cried he, passionately. “You are mine—mine for ever; and I will not let you go. Do not you see—do not you feel,” he said, moderating his tone, “that you will die a slow death of anguish, pining away, from the moment that cursed firing in the Place strikes upon your ear? You cannot live without love—you know you cannot—and you shall not live by any other love than mine. This little sign,” said he, producing a small carved ivory ring from his pocket-book, “This little sign will save you from the anguish of a thousand sleepless nights, from the wretchedness of a thousand days of despair. Take it. If shown at Number 9, in the Rue Espagnole, in my name, you will receive what will suffice for us both. Take it, Génifrède.”
She took the ring, but it presently dropped from her powerless hands.
“You do not care for me,” said Moyse, bitterly. “You are like all women. You love in fair weather, and would have us give up everything for you; and when the hurricane comes, you will fly to shelter, and shut out your lover into the storm.”
Génifrède was too wretched to remind her lover what was the character of his love. It did not, indeed, occur to her. She spoke, however:—
“If you had remembered, Moyse, what a coward I am, you would have done differently, and not have made me so wretched as I now am. Why did you not bid me bring the red water, without saying what it was, and what for? If you had put it to my lips—if you had not given me a moment to fancy what is to come afterwards, I would have drunk it—oh, so thankfully! But now—I dare not.”
“You are not afraid to live without me.”
“Yes, I am. I am afraid of living, of dying—of everything.”
“You once asked me about—”
“I remember—about your spirit coming.”
“Suppose it should come, angry at your failing me in my last desire?”