"Oh, please, dear colonel," she begged and prayed, "give them up. They are only two or three sheets of paper covered with music, the music of songs--nothing else, I swear. Please let me have them, dear colonel."
Her innocent pleading touched him, and the comical unconscious humility of her "dear colonel" made him laugh again. Besides, as the daughter of a professional, she might cherish musical ambitions.
"Do you compose yourself?" he asked.
"No, no, no! It's not my composition, but don't look at it," she entreated, "or I'll jump out of the window. I swear I will by all the saints."
He was so delighted with the picture she made, her eyes wide with alarm, her hair loosened and dishevelled, the tragic mute expression on her sweet childlike face with its clear-cut features, that he wanted to prolong the struggle for a few minutes. So he looked very black and pretended to be what he really had been a little while ago--full of jealous suspicion.
Then she fell on her knees, and, clasping his legs, she whispered in a voice half suffocated by her emotions of shame and distress:
"If only you give it back to me, I won't mind what you do. I won't attempt to defend myself."
The bargain struck him as advantageous.
"Your hand on it," he said.
"Yes, here is my hand on it," she replied. "And you'll never ask any questions? Promise."