“Ah, what a dreadful thing,” said the young musician; “who would have suspected it? M. Andrea Cavalcanti a murderer—a galley-slave escaped—a convict!”
An ironical smile curled the lip of Eugénie. “In truth, I was fated,” said she. “I escaped the Morcerf only to fall into the Cavalcanti.”
“Oh, do not confound the two, Eugénie.”
“Hold your tongue! The men are all infamous, and I am happy to be able now to do more than detest them—I despise them.”
“What shall we do?” asked Louise.
“What shall we do?”
“Yes.”
“Why, the same we had intended doing three days since—set off.”
“What?—although you are not now going to be married, you intend still—”
“Listen, Louise. I hate this life of the fashionable world, always ordered, measured, ruled, like our music-paper. What I have always wished for, desired, and coveted, is the life of an artist, free and independent, relying only on my own resources, and accountable only to myself. Remain here? What for?—that they may try, a month hence, to marry me again; and to whom?— M. Debray, perhaps, as it was once proposed. No, Louise, no! This evening’s adventure will serve for my excuse. I did not seek one, I did not ask for one. God sends me this, and I hail it joyfully!”
“How strong and courageous you are!” said the fair, frail girl to her brunette companion.