The quay was absolutely deserted. She heard no sound， she felt no people moving save in the tumultuous and glowing city， from which she was separated only by an arm of the Seine， and whence her name reached her， mingled with cries of "Death！" The rest of Paris was spread around her in great blocks of shadows.
Meanwhile， the stranger continued to drag her along with the same silence and the same rapidity. She had no recollection of any of the places where she was walking.
As she passed before a lighted window， she made an effort， drew up suddenly， and cried out， "Help！"The bourgeois who was standing at the window opened it， appeared there in his shirt with his lamp， stared at the quay with a stupid air， uttered some words which she did not understand， and closed his shutter again. It was her last gleam of hope extinguished.
The man in black did not utter a syllable； he held her firmly， and set out again at a quicker pace. She no longer resisted， but followed him， completely broken.
From time to time she called together a little strength， and said， in a voice broken by the unevenness of the pavement and the breathlessness of their flight， "Who are you？ Who are you？" He made no reply.
They arrived thus， still keeping along the quay， at a tolerably spacious square. It was the Grève. In the middle， a sort of black， erect cross was visible； it was the gallows. She recognized all this， and saw where she was.
The man halted， turned towards her and raised his cowl.
"Oh！" she stammered， almost petrified， "I knew well that it was he again！"It was the priest. He looked like the ghost of himself；that is an effect of the moonlight， it seems as though one beheld only the spectres of things in that light.
"Listen！" he said to her； and she shuddered at the sound of that fatal voice which she had not heard for a long time.
He continued speaking with those brief and panting jerks， which betoken deep internal convulsions. "Listen！ we are here. I am going to speak to you. This is the Grève. This is an extreme point. Destiny gives us to one another. I am going to decide as to your life； you will decide as to my soul.
Here is a place， here is a night beyond which one sees nothing.
Then listen to me. I am going to tell you...In the first place， speak not to me of your Phoebus. (As he spoke thus he paced to and fro， like a man who cannot remain in one place， and dragged her after him.) Do not speak to me of him. Do you see？ If you utter that name， I know not what I shall do， but it will be terrible."Then， like a body which recovers its centre of gravity， he became motionless once more， but his words betrayed no less agitation. His voice grew lower and lower.
"Do not turn your head aside thus. Listen to me. It is a serious matter. In the first place， here is what has happened.--All this will not be laughed at. I swear it to you.--What was I saying？ Remind me！ Oh！--There is a decree of Parliament which gives you back to the scaffold. I have just rescued you from their hands. But they are pursuing you.
Look！"
He extended his arm toward the City. The search seemed， in fact， to be still in progress there. The uproar drew nearer；the tower of the lieutenant's house， situated opposite the Grève， was full of clamors and light， and soldiers could be seen running on the opposite quay with torches and these cries， "The gypsy！ Where is the gypsy！ Death！ Death！""You see that they are in pursuit of you， and that I am not lying to you. I love you.--Do not open your mouth；refrain from speaking to me rather， if it be only to tell me that you hate me. I have made up my mind not to hear that again.--I have just saved you.--Let me finish first. I can save you wholly. I have prepared everything. It is yours at will. If you wish， I can do it."He broke off violently. "No， that is not what I should say！"As he went with hurried step and made her hurry also， for he did not release her， he walked straight to the gallows， and pointed to it with his finger，--"Choose between us two，" he said， coldly.
She tore herself from his hands and fell at the foot of the gibbet， embracing that funereal support， then she half turned her beautiful head， and looked at the priest over her shoulder.
One would have said that she was a Holy Virgin at the foot of the cross. The priest remained motionless， his finger still raised toward the gibbet， preserving his attitude like a statue.
At length the gypsy said to him，--
"It causes me less horror than you do."
Then he allowed his arm to sink slowly， and gazed at the pavement in profound dejection.
"If these stones could speak，" he murmured， "yes， they would say that a very unhappy man stands here.
He went on. The young girl， kneeling before the gallows， enveloped in her long flowing hair， let him speak on without interruption. He now had a gentle and plaintive accent which contrasted sadly with the haughty harshness of his features.
"I love you. Oh！ how true that is！ So nothing comes of that fire which burns my heart！ Alas！ young girl， night and day--yes， night and day I tell you，--it is torture. Oh！ Isuffer too much， my poor child. 'Tis a thing deserving of compassion， I assure you. You see that I speak gently to you. I really wish that you should no longer cherish this horror of me.--After all， if a man loves a woman， 'tis not his fault！--Oh， my God！--What！ So you will never pardon me？
You will always hate me？ All is over then. It is that which renders me evil， do you see？ and horrible to myself.--You will not even look at me！ You are thinking of something else， perchance， while I stand here and talk to you， shuddering on the brink of eternity for both of us！ Above all things， do not speak to me of the officer！--I would cast myself at your knees， I would kiss not your feet， but the earth which is under your feet； I would sob like a child， I would tear from my breast not words， but my very heart and vitals， to tell you that I love you；--all would be useless， all！--And yet you have nothing in your heart but what is tender and merciful. You are radiant with the most beautiful mildness；you are wholly sweet， good， pitiful， and charming. Alas！
