"Cecily! Cecily!" murmured a voice, which was plaintive though coarse. And through the wicket was visible the pale and flat face of Jacques Ferrand.
Cecily, silent until then, began to hum a creole air; the words of this melody were sweet and expressive. Although repressed, the full contra-alto of Cecily was heard above the noise of the torrents of the rain and gusts of wind, which seemed to shake the old house to its very foundation.
"Cecily! Cecily!" repeated Jacques Ferrand, in a tone of supplication.
The creole paused suddenly and turned her head around quickly, as if, for the first time, she then heard the notary's voice; and going towards the door,--
"What, dear master (she called him so in derision), you there?" she said, with a slight foreign accent, which gave additional charm to her full and sarcastic voice.
"Oh, how beautiful you are!" murmured the notary.
"You think so?" said Cecily. "Doesn't my head-dress become me?"
"Monster, begone! Begone!" shouted Jacques Ferrand, furious.
Cecily burst into a loud fit of laughter.
"No, no, it is too much to suffer! Oh, if I were not afraid of death!" said the notary, gloomily. "But to die is to renounce you altogether, and you are so beautiful! I would rather, then, suffer--and look at you."
"Look at me? Why, that's what the wicket was made for; and so we can thus chat, like two friends in our solitude, which really is not irksome to me, you are such a good master! What a dangerous confession I make through the door!"
"Will you never open this door? You see how submissive I am; this evening I might have tried to enter into your chamber with you, but I did not do so."
"You are submissive for two reasons: in the first place, because you know that, having, from the necessity of my wandering life, always had the precaution to carry a stiletto, I can manage with a strong hand this inestimable jewel, whose tooth is sharper than a viper's; and you know, too, that, from the day in which I have to complain of you, I will quit this roof for ever, leaving you a thousand times more enamoured than ever,--since you have so greatly honoured your unworthy servant as to say that you are enamoured of her."
"My servant? It is I who am your slave,--your mocked, derided, despised slave!"