"Oh! come a thousand deaths, and I'd dare them!" cried the notary, in an
intoxication impossible to describe. "Yes, you are right; were I young and
charming, I should not experience this triumphant joy. The key! throw me
the key! draw the bolt!"

The Creole took the key from the lock, and handed it to the notary through
the wicket, saying, "Jacques, I am mad!"

"You are mine, at length!" cried he, with a savage roar, turning the key in
the lock. But the door, fastened with a bolt, did not open.

"Come, my tiger! come," said Cecily, in an expiring voice.

"The bolt! the bolt!" cried Jacques Ferrand.

"But, if you deceive me," cried the Creole, suddenly, "if these secrets are
an invention, to cajole me---"

The notary remained for a moment, struck with stupor; he thought he had
succeeded: this last difficulty raised his impatient fury to its climax.

He thrust his hand quickly in his bosom, opened his waistcoat, broke with
violence a small chain of steel, to which was suspended a small, thin
pocket-book, took it, and showing it through the wicket to Cecily, he said,
in an oppressed and breathless tone,

"Here is what would cause my head to fall! draw the bolt--the book is
yours."