Then, reclining at her feet, he laid his clasped hands in her lap and resting his chin upon them, gazed up at her.
"Do you really love me, Leonore?
Can you, the proud, petted, much courted Baroness de Simonie, really love the poor adventurer, who has nothing, is nothing, calls nothing his own, not even his heart, for that belongs to you." "I love you, because you are what you are," she said, smiling, stroking his black hair lightly with her little white hand.
"I love you because you are different from every one else; because what attracts others does not charm you; what terrifies others does not intimidate you; I love you precisely because you are the poor adventurer you call yourself.

Thank heaven that you are no sensible, prudent, deliberate gentleman, who longs for titles and orders, for money and position, but the clever adventurer who calls nothing his own save his honor, seeks nothing save peril, loves nothing save--" "Loves nothing save Leonore," he ardently interrupted.

"Believe me, it is so! I love nothing save you, and, until I knew you, I did not know even love, only hate." "Hate ?" she asked, smiling.

"And whom did you hate, my loved one ?" "The foes of my native land," he cried, while a dark, angry flush swept over his handsome, expressive face, and his dark eyes flashed more brightly.
"The foes of your native land ?" she repeated, smiling.

"And who are these hated foes ?" "The Prussians and the Emperor Napoleon.