“I beseech you, Dionysia,” he said, “do not insist, do not deprive me of my courage.”

She was evidently suffering agonies.  Her eyes shone with unbearable fire.  Her dry lips were trembling.

“You will submit to being brought up in court?” she asked.

“Yes!”

“And if you are condemned?”

“I may be, I know.”

“This is madness!” cried the young girl.

In her despair she was wringing her hands; and then the words escaped from her lips, almost unconsciously,—­

“Great God,” she said, “inspire me!  How can I bend him?  What must I say?  Jacques, do you love me no longer?  For my sake, if not for your own, I beseech you, let us flee!  You escape disgrace; you secure liberty.  Can nothing touch you?  What do you want?  Must I throw myself at your feet?”

And she really let herself fall at his feet.

“Flee!” she repeated again and again.  “Oh, flee!”

Like all truly energetic men, Jacques recovered in the very excess of his emotion all his self-possession.  Gathering his bewildered thoughts by a great effort of mind, he raised Dionysia, and carried her, almost fainting, to the rough prison bench; then, kneeling down by her side, and taking her hands he said,—­

“Dionysia, for pity’s sake, come to yourself and listen to me.  I am innocent; and to flee would be to confess that I am guilty.”

“Ah! what does that matter?”

“Do you think that my escape would stop the trial?  No.  Although absent, I should still be tried, and found guilty without any opposition:  I should be condemned, disgraced, irrevocably dishonored.”

“What does it matter?”

Then he felt that such arguments would never bring her back to reason.  He rose, therefore, and said in a firm voice,—­

“Let me tell you what you do not know.  To flee would be easy, I agree.  I think, as you do, we could reach England readily enough, and we might even take ship there without trouble.  But what then?  The cable is faster than the fastest steamer; and, upon landing on American soil, I should, no doubt, be met by agents with orders to arrest me.  But suppose even I should escape this first danger.  Do you think there is in all this world an asylum for incendiaries and murderers?  There is none.  At the extreme confines of civilization I should still meet with police-agents and soldiers, who, an extradition treaty in hand, would give me up to the government of my country.  If I were alone, I might possibly escape all these dangers.  But I should never succeed if I had you near me, and Grandpapa Chandore, and your two aunts.”

Dionysia was forcibly struck by these objections, of which she had had no idea.  She said nothing.

“Still, suppose we might possibly escape all such dangers.  What would our life be!  Do you know what it would mean to have to hide and to run incessantly, to have to avoid the looks of every stranger, and to tremble, day by day, at the thought of discovery?  With me, Dionysia, your existence would be that of the wife of one of those banditti whom the police are hunting down in his dens.  And you ought to know that such a life is so intolerable, that hardened criminals have been unable to endure it, and have given up their life for the boon of a night’s quiet sleep.”