I thought it judicious, therefore, to frighten her a little; and when the due moment came I asked, significantly: "Have you the proofs yet of M. Constan's death?"
"You are not going to talk of disagreeable things directly you get back, are you?"
"His death would not be disagreeable to you, Henriette?"
"You cannot guess what I have endured from that man. I tell you, Christabel, he is a man to raise the devil in a woman."
"A good many men can do that," I said, sententiously. "But if he is dead he can raise no more devils in either man or woman. Where did he die and when?"
"It does not matter to me now whether he is dead or living. You have had your way. I shall not marry Count Karl."
"And your gratitude to me for this is the reason of your kisses and caresses on my return?"
She was very easy to stab; and her eyes flashed with sudden anger. She was too angry indeed to reply at once.
"You are a very singular girl, Christabel—very difficult to love," she said, as if to reproach me.
"Easier to hate, perhaps; but you should not pretend to love me. We need not make believe to love each other, Henriette. I do not love you. I saved your life in Paris, and when I found you here you wished me to come into your house because you thought you could more easily prevent my saying what I knew about you. That has more to do with fear than love—much more. And it does not seem to have occurred to you that I too might have a selfish motive in coming."