"I think so," I answered.
"And I, I will not live when you are gone."
I pleaded with her for her own life. I used all the arguments I could think of about the wickedness of self-destruction; nought was of avail.
"But, carissima mia, your father was killed in battle, and your mother, who loved him fondly, did not kill herself."
"Ah, mon Jean, I was born at the time. Her baby made her live."
"And Giulia,"—I took her in my arms and kissed her,—"do you not understand? Is it not so?" She broke down into a flood of tears.
"O Jean, Jean, I must live, I must live, even though one half of my life goes out with you."
I caressed and comforted her—we were in full view of the gate, but we minded not. She grew calm at last, and looked at me with a new look in her eyes—a look that I had seen but once before, when the English corporal had called her madame, but then it meant rather bashful hope and half-afraid longing, now it showed knowledge and certainty and free confession.
"I am very happy now," I told her as we approached the gate where the men relieved from duty as sentinels were standing. "I care not now what may happen to myself, and for you half, and more than half, of my anxiety has left me. There is only, one thing that I must do now, I must look for Père Michel at once. You will go to your quarters; he will come with me there. Tell the sergeant and his wife to expect us. Do not be afraid, they will not be surprised."
Giulia said nothing in reply; a closer clinging to my arm, one quick glance, a sudden heaving of the breast, these told me more than any words could tell.