He rose with so sudden a start that Dorsenne drew back.

He seized both of his hands, but with such force that not a quiver of the muscles escaped him: "Yes, Julien, you have the means of consoling me, you have it," said he in a voice again hoarse with emotion.
"What is it ?" asked the novelist.
"What is it?
You are an honest man, Dorsenne; you are a great artist; you are my friend, and a friend allied to me by a sacred bond, almost a brother-in-arms; you, the grandnephew of a hero who shed his blood by the side of my grandfather at Somo-Sierra.

Give me your word of honor that you are absolutely certain Madame Steno is not Maitland's mistress, that you never thought it, have never heard it said, and I will believe you, I will obey you! Come," continued he, pressing the writer's hand with more fervor, "I see you hesitate!" "No," said Julien, disengaging himself from the wild grasp, "I do not hesitate.

I am sorry for you.

Were I to give you that word, would it have any weight with you for five minutes?
Would you not be persuaded immediately that I was perjuring myself to avoid a misfortune ?" "You hesitate," interrupted Boleslas.