She made no reply.
“Fleurange!” continued he impetuously, “your silence wounds and chills me. Have I not, at least, a right to some answer?”
“But have you any right to question me? Ah! Monsieur le Comte, you would be more noble and generous were you more mindful of what you are and who I am.”
“Fleurange,” said the count with a grave accent of sincerity, far more dangerous than that of passion, “you shall be my wife if you will consent to be—if you will accept this hand I offer you.”
“With your mother’s consent?” said Fleurange slowly, and in a low tone. “Can you assure me of that?”
After a moment’s hesitation, George replied: “No, not to-day; but she will yield her consent, I assure you.”
Fleurange hesitated in her turn. She knew only too well to what a degree this hope was illusory, but this was her last opportunity of conversing with him. The next day would commence their lifelong separation, which time, distance, and prolonged absence would continually widen. There was no longer any danger in telling the truth—the truth, alas! so devoid of importance now, but which would, perhaps, second the duty she had to accomplish quite as well as contradiction.
“Ah! well,” she at last replied with simplicity. “Yes, why should I deny it? Should life prove more favorable to us; if by some unforeseen circumstance, impossible to conceive, your mother should cheerfully consent to receive me as a daughter, oh! then—what answer I would make you know without my telling you. You are likewise perfectly aware that until that day I will never listen to you.”
“But that day will come,” cried George vehemently, “and that speedily.”
“Perhaps—” said Fleurange. “Who knows what time has in store for us? And who knows that in time the obstacle may not come from yourself?”