"Oh, it is you," she said calmly, with a cold smile. She had completely recovered her self-possession, so much was evident; and apparently she was determined to play the game to the end, accepting defeat with an air of ironical and gay indifference. Yvette was by no means an ordinary woman. Her face was at once sinister and attractive, with lines of strength about it; she moved with a certain distinction; she had brains and various abilities; and I imagined her to have been capable of some large action, a first-class sin or a really dramatic self-sacrifice—she would have been ready for either. But of her origin I am to this day as ignorant as of her ultimate fate.
A current of air told me that a window was open.
"I noticed a suspicious-looking man outside just now," I said. "Is he one of your confederates? Have you been communicating with him?"
She sat down in an armchair, leaned backwards, and began to hum an air—la, la, la.
"Answer me. Come!"
"And if I decline?"
"You will do well to behave yourself," I said; and, going to the window, I closed it, and slipped the catch.
"I hope the gendarmes will be here soon," she murmured amiably; "I am rather tired of waiting." She affected to stifle a yawn.
"Yvette," I said, "you know as well as I do that you have committed a serious crime. Tell me all about Deschamps' jealousy of your mistress; make a full confession, and I will see what can be done for you."