"There is no more freedom for me, I feel that, but I cannot regret it. The chain shall, however, be for me only; you cannot prevent my loving you, or hoping—"
"Ah, no, no, no, monsieur; I do not want love; I do not want promises; and least of all do I want any one to hope for anything from me."
"But, cruel Mask, incomprehensible Mask, what then do you want? What must one do to obtain at least your pity?"
"One must neither rave nor deceive; neither exaggerate a feeling of which he is barely conscious, nor fancy it possible to induce a sensible woman to change her plans for a few romantic words, or hypocritical attentions; one must be humble, discreet, patient. I must have time to make up my mind, to find out exactly what I want, and then, perhaps—"
"Then, perhaps, what? Charming Mask, finish the sentence, let me know my fate. I will be obedient; silence, submission, patience, I promise everything."
As he spoke Léon's face glowed with love and hope, and he gazed eagerly into the large, black eyes, which, soft and sparkling, appeared to be studying him with calm and close scrutiny.
Entirely disregarding his impassioned tones, she went on with a thoughtful air:
"This gold braid must betoken a grade. You are in the service, no doubt?"
Confounded by her self-possession, Léon could only reply by a gesture of assent.
"In what regiment?"