He breathed fast as he gazed on her expressive eyes. It was a hard struggle to him to preserve his self-control.
"No one can help me," he answered, hurriedly. "I have made my own fate—leave me to it."
"I will not!" cried Valérie, passionately. "Do not send me away—do not refuse me. What happiness would there be for me so great as serving you—you to whom I owe all the pleasure I have known! Take them. Count Waldemar—pray take them; they have often told me they are worth a good deal, and I will thank Heaven every hour for having enabled me to aid you ever so little." She pressed into his hands a jewel-case.
Falkenstein could not answer her. He stood looking down at her, his lips white as death. She mistook his silence for displeasure, and laid her hands on his arm.
"Do not be offended—do not be annoyed with me. They are my own—an old heirloom of the L'Estranges that only came to me the other day. Take them, Count Waldemar. Do, for Heaven's sake. I spoke passionately to you last night; I have been unhappy ever since. If you will not take them, I shall think you have not yet forgiven me?"
He seized her hands and drew her close to him: "Good Heavens! do you love me like this?"
She did not answer, but she looked up at him. That look shivered to atoms Falkenstein's resolves, and cast his pride and prudence to the winds. He pressed her fiercely against his heart, he kissed her again and again, bitter tears rushing to his burning eyes.
"Valérie! Valérie!" he whispered, wildly, "my fate is at its darkest. Will you share it?"
She leaned her brow on his shoulder, trembling with hysterical joy.
"You do care for me, then?" she murmured, at last.