Two weeks later Solange received a letter announcing her father’s safe arrival in England.
The next day I brought her a passport.
When Solange received it she burst into tears.
“You do not love me!” she exclaimed.
“I love you better than my life,” I replied; “but I pledged your father my word, and I must keep it.”
“Then, I will break mine,” she said. “Yes, Albert; if you have the heart to let me go, I have not the courage to leave you.”
Alas, she remained!
Three months had passed since that night on which we talked of her escape, and in all that time not a word of parting had passed her lips.
Solange had taken lodgings in the Rue Turenne. I had rented them in her name. I knew no other, while she always addressed me as Albert. I had found her a place as teacher in a young ladies’ seminary solely to withdraw her from the espionage of the revolutionary police, which had become more scrutinizing than ever.
Sundays we passed together in the small dwelling, from the bedroom of which we could see the spot where we had first met. We exchanged letters daily, she writing to me under the name of Solange, and I to her under that of Albert.