His senses and imagination had been
hypnotized by all this fracas and by the beauty of the girl. With such a
mate and such formidable music, he could conquer the earth! His brain
was afire with the sweetness of the odour that enveloped them, an odour
as penetrating as the music of the nocturnal Chopin.
"Debora," he whispered, "you must never go away from me." She hung her
head. The old man was not to be seen; the darkness had swallowed him.
Ferval quietly passed his arm about the waist of the silent woman and
slowly they walked in the tender night. She was the first to speak:--
"You did not hear a madman's story," she asserted in her clear, candid
voice, which had for him the hue of a cleft pomegranate. "It is the
history of my father's soul. It is his own sin he expiates."
"But you, you!" Ferval cried unsteadily. "Why must your life be
sacrificed to gratify the bizarre egotism of such a--" He cut short the
phrase, fearful of wounding her. He felt her body tremble and her arm
contract. They reached the marble staircase of the Jeanne d'Arc
memorial.
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