“Monsieur,” said the young woman, “you weary me very much, I assure you, with your questions.”
“But you, Madame, prudent as you are, think, if you were to be arrested with that handkerchief, and that handkerchief were to be seized, would you not be compromised?”
“In what way? The initials are only mine— C. B. , Constance Bonacieux.”
“Or Camille de Bois-Tracy.”
“Silence, Monsieur! Once again, silence! Ah, since the dangers I incur on my own account cannot stop you, think of those you may yourself run!”
“Me?”
“Yes; there is peril of imprisonment, risk of life in knowing me.”
“Then I will not leave you.”
“Monsieur!” said the young woman, supplicating him and clasping her hands together, “Monsieur, in the name of heaven, by the honor of a soldier, by the courtesy of a gentleman, depart! There, there midnight sounds! That is the hour when I am expected.”
“Madame,” said the young man, bowing; “I can refuse nothing asked of me thus. Be content; I will depart.”
“But you will not follow me; you will not watch me?”
“I will return home instantly.”