When he ceased, exhausted and panting, she repeated in a low voice,—
“Oh my Phoebus!”
The priest dragged himself towards her on his knees.
“I beseech you,” he cried, “if you have any heart, do not repulse me!
Oh! I love you!
I am a wretch!
When you utter that name, unhappy girl, it is as though you crushed all the fibres of my heart between your teeth.
Mercy!
If you come from hell I will go thither with you.
I have done everything to that end.
The hell where you are, shall he paradise; the sight of you is more charming than that of God!
Oh! speak! you will have none of me?
I should have thought the mountains would be shaken in their foundations on the day when a woman would repulse such a love.
Oh! if you only would!
Oh! how happy we might be.
We would flee—I would help you to flee,—we would go somewhere, we would seek that spot on earth, where the sun is brightest, the sky the bluest, where the trees are most luxuriant.
We would love each other, we would pour our two souls into each other, and we would have a thirst for ourselves which we would quench in common and incessantly at that fountain of inexhaustible love.”
She interrupted with a terrible and thrilling laugh.
“Look, father, you have blood on your fingers!”
The priest remained for several moments as though petrified, with his eyes fixed upon his hand.
“Well, yes!” he resumed at last, with strange gentleness, “insult me, scoff at me, overwhelm me with scorn! but come, come. Let us make haste.
It is to be to-morrow, I tell you.
The gibbet on the Greve, you know it? it stands always ready.
It is horrible! to see you ride in that tumbrel!
Oh mercy!
Until now I have never felt the power of my love for you.—Oh! follow me.
You shall take your time to love me after I have saved you.
You shall hate me as long as you will.
But come.
To-morrow! to-morrow! the gallows! your execution!
Oh! save yourself! spare me!”
He seized her arm, he was beside himself, he tried to drag her away.
She fixed her eye intently on him.
“What has become of my Phoebus?”
“Ah!” said the priest, releasing her arm, “you are pitiless.”
“What has become of Phoebus?” she repeated coldly.
“He is dead!” cried the priest.
“Dead!” said she, still icy and motionless “then why do you talk to me of living?”
He was not listening to her.
“Oh! yes,” said he, as though speaking to himself, “he certainly must be dead.
The blade pierced deeply.
I believe I touched his heart with the point.
Oh! my very soul was at the end of the dagger!”
The young girl flung herself upon him like a raging tigress, and pushed him upon the steps of the staircase with supernatural force.
“Begone, monster!
Begone, assassin!
Leave me to die!
May the blood of both of us make an eternal stain upon your brow!
Be thine, priest!
Never! never!