DIANE.
[_Leading him with nervous intensity to a chair_.]
Sit here--sit here!
[_She sits beside him_.]
Let me look at your face, and listen to your voice, while I can--while
I can!
PAUL.
How strangely you say this!
DIANE.
Do you remember the old days--before this reign of terror darkened all
our lives--the sunny room in my father's chateau, where you taught
me to paint the flowers we had gathered--oh! so gaily!--from the
quaintest corners of the garden?
PAUL.
Ah! those were ideal days.--You, almost a child--a girl just blooming
into womanhood, like those rosebuds in your hair.
DIANE.
Oh, how happy I was!--So happy, earth seemed heaven! So happy, sorrow
seemed almost a myth!--I little dreamed that I would ever drink the
bitterest dregs of that black cup.--The Revolution rushed upon us--and
then, oh then!--
[_Hides her face on_ PAUL'S _breast_.
PAUL.
Then we parted, I thought forever.
DIANE.
You came no longer. The sunshine lost its smile--the flowers faded.
PAUL.
And yet, amidst the fearful tumult of these distracted times, we met
once more.
DIANE.
[_Starting up_.]
Oh, my God! That meeting! I see the frightful scene again! My father
there before me--old--helpless, dragged from his own house by a horde
of brutal beasts.
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