“It is like a pool of fire,” she said.
“Won’t you try it on?” he asked.
She did so, and held out her hand for him to see. The ring might have been made to the measure of her finger.
“You will never take it off again,” he said. “You will keep it for a souvenir—for a remembrance.”
She shook her head. “Indeed, I will not,” she returned, with a smile. “Besides, is it not to be preserved for your fiancée? You cannot disregard your mother’s wish.”
“Why should we pretend to one another?” he broke out. “You know why I offer it to you, mademoiselle. It would be an insult for me to say I love you—I, a convict, a man disgraced and ruined past redemption. But I can ask you to keep my poor ring. Wear it as you might that of some one dead, some one of whom you once thought with kindness, some one who had greatly suffered.”
The girl looked away.
“What you ask is impossible,” she said at length, in a voice so low and sweet that it was like a caress. “I don’t think you understand.”
“It is your pride that prevents!” he cried. “I understand very well. If I left it you in a testament you would not scruple to take it; you would see a difference! Yet, am I not dead? Is this not my grave you see around me? Am I not the corpse of the man I once was? Trample on your pride for once, for the sake of one that loves the very ground you tread upon. Take my ring, although it is worth much money, although the convenances forbid. If questions are asked, say that it belonged to a man long ago passed away, whose last wish it was that you should wear it.”
“I shall say it was given me by the bravest and most eloquent of men, the Comte de Charruel!” she exclaimed, with a deep blush. “You have convinced me against my will.”