"Will you believe me now?" asked Bibi-Ri.
As the child in the fairy tale when the ice fell away from about her heart: so with Zelie. The steeled, unnatural restraint dropped from her. The generous, quivering pulse sprang in her veins. She groped: she swayed toward him.
"Bibi—what have you done? Your chance!... Fly while you can!"
"Too late," he said, in his turn.
"But the heritage—your great future! Your riches! Your happiness! Nothing counts but that!... Name of God, you've lost it!"
"I find this better: to have you think kindly of it once—and of me."
"What else should I think of?" And oh, the impassioned miracle of her voice! "... It is your right. You should have it—you must have it, yourself, in freedom, without hindrance! For that I would have given anything—everything. For that I tried to drive you away!"
"Zelie!" he cried, in wonder. "Is this true? Did you feel so?... It was for my sake!"
"What else?... Though it tore me: though I died for it! I was not fit for you, but you should have your desire and I could help—a little, however little—to set you on the road. I could free you from danger of Maman—her blackmailing. For always. It was my own hope. But now—!... Oh Bibi!... Bibi!..."
She must have fallen if he had not caught her. And that was the way of it at long end. She loved him. They loved. The convict and the daughter of convicts: lovers of New Caledonia. With what somber consummation!