Fleurange blushed and made no reply.
“That I love you to such a degree, my happiness, my future prospects, and my life are in your hands?” continued he vehemently. “And this is true, literally true.”
Fleurange frowned. “Do you wish to frighten me?” she said coldly, turning her large eyes toward him.
“No; I have told you the truth without thinking I could frighten you; but, since you ask the question, here is my sincere reply: Only promise to accept my hand, promise it through fear or love, terror or joy, I will be satisfied, and ask for no more.”
“Then,” said Fleurange slowly, “it is all the same to you whether I esteem or despise you, love or detest?”
“No woman can for ever detest a man who endeavors to win her love—when that man is her husband, and could be her master, but only wishes to be her slave.”
“There is great fatuity in your humility, Felix; but you are frank, and I wish to be so too. I shall never—mark my words—never be your wife!”
Felix turned pale, and his face assumed a frightful expression. “Take more time, Gabrielle,” said he—“take more time to think of it. But, first, listen to me. I am going to say something that may touch you more than a threat or a declaration—” He stopped an instant and then continued: “If you saw a man on the edge of a precipice, would you stretch forth a hand to save him?”
“What do you mean?” said Fleurange, affected in spite of herself, and suddenly recalling the words she heard that morning in the church.
“I ask if you would put out your hand to aid a man in such peril?” He had, in truth, found the means of making her hesitate, but it was only for a moment.