“You are speaking figuratively, I suppose,” said she at length; “and it is a question of a soul in peril, is it not?”
“A soul in peril? Yes,” replied Felix, with a bitter smile.
“Well, I tell you, in a danger of this kind, I would offer no assistance that would inevitably lead to my own destruction.”
Felix rose: “And is this your final decision?”
“Yes, Felix, a decision unhesitatingly made, but not without sorrow, if it afflicts you.”
His only reply was a loud laugh which made Fleurange shudder. She turned towards him, but there was no longer in his look the respect, or the sadness, or the emotion he had so recently shown. His face had resumed its habitual expression of irony and proud assurance.
“I thank you for your frankness, cousin. That is a trait I trust you will retain. It somewhat detracts from the charm you are endowed with, but it will preserve you from some of the dangers to which your eloquent glances expose you. Adieu!”
“Felix, give me your hand as a token you bear me no ill-will,” said Fleurange softly.
“Ill-will?” replied Felix. “Oh! be assured I am too good a player not to bear bad luck cheerfully. Besides, one is not always, and in everything, unfortunate. Certain defeats, they say, are pledges of victory. Come, Gabrielle, forget it all. Give me your hand, and wish me good luck.”
Before Fleurange could make any reply, he was gone. This conversation had been so rapid that the waltz was not yet ended. The noise, motion, and music, added to Fleurange’s agitation, made her dizzy. She went to an open window near the piano. At that moment the music ceased, and all resumed their places. Fleurange found herself nearly alone. Clement was still near, and, observing her, quickly laid down the violin he held in his hand.