“Come,” he said. “You and I must escape the tragedy of our existence. Together we will fly away from it. You will forget that room, and I—I shall forget myself.”
She drew away from him a little—from his impetuosity. “I don’t love you, that way,” she said.
“Great heaven! Nor do I love you that way, any more. You are too idealistic, Marie. Marriage, for you and me, is no longer an ideal, but a necessity. We will escape, that way. We will rest in peace and Hanaré’s death will be forgotten.”
She made no reply, but sat there as though meditating. Suddenly, from far out in the city, came the boom of a clock—a lonely thing beating the hour of midnight. It awoke Paul to realities. And, although he had so far been master of the situation, he now lost control of himself, and cried: “Twelve o’clock! You must go now, you must go!” And as she stared at him, mystified, he cried again, “You must go, you must go!”
He took her arm, and she arose. They stood facing each other.
“Promise me,” he said, “that you will marry me—to-morrow.”
She dropped her eyes. Impulsively he took her in his arms and kissed her—not passionately, but as he would a little child. And then he led her toward the vestibule.
Even then there was a knock at the door. He did not answer. He looked at Marie, and she at him.
“Who is that?” she asked.
He turned bitterly away. “Nobody! Fate!”