"I am going to shut this wicket--instead of opening the door--"

"Mercy! listen--remain--I have found it," cried Jacques Ferrand, after a
moment's pause, with an expression of joy impossible to describe. The
wretch was seized with a vertigo. He lost all prudence, all reserve; the
instinct of moral preservation abandoned him.

"Well! this proof of your love?" said the Creole: who, having approached
the chimney, took hold of her knife, and returned slowly toward the wicket.

Then, without being seen by the notary, she assured herself of the action
of a small chain, one end of which was fastened to the door, the other to
the door-post.

"Listen," said Jacques Ferrand, in a hoarse and broken voice; "listen. If I
place my honor, my fortune, my life, at your mercy--here--on the spot--will
you then believe I love you? This proof of an insane passion, will it
suffice?"

"Your honor, your fortune, your life? I do not comprehend."

"If I confide to you a secret which would place me on the scaffold?"

"You a criminal? You jest. And your austerity?"

"A lie."

"Your probity?"

"A lie."