“Next,” said Vera slowly and anxiously, “that the will of my father and his should be fulfilled before his departure.”
Fleurange shuddered. An icy chill struck to her heart, and her head swam as if with dizziness. But she remained perfectly motionless.
“His pardon is at this price?” said she in a low voice.
“Yes; the emperor has taken an interest in me from my childhood; he loved my father, and it has pleased him to make this act of clemency depend on the accomplishment of my father's wish.”
There was a long silence. Vera herself trembled at seeing Fleurange's pale lips, and colorless cheeks, and her eyes looking straightforward, lost in space.
“And he?”—she said at last. “He accepts his pardon on this condition—without hesitation?”
“Without hesitation!” repeated Vera, blushing with new emotion. “That is what I cannot say. It is this doubt that humiliates and alarms me, for the emperor would regard the least hesitation as fresh ingratitude, and perhaps would annul his pardon.”
“But why should he hesitate?” said Fleurange, in an almost inaudible tone.
“Fleurange,” said Vera, in that passionate tone she had used two or three times during this interview, “let us rend each other's hearts, if need be, but let us go on to the end. Have you had permission to see George since you came?”
“No.”