“That you were paralysed and imbecile when you made it,” replied the Marquise, dryly.
Monsieur le Curé, who up to now had been fidgeting nervously with his hat, now raised his hands and eyes up to the ceiling to emphasise the horror which he felt at this callous suggestion. Lady Molly no longer desired to go; the half-paralysed grip on her wrist had relaxed, but she sat there quietly, interested with every fibre of her quick intelligence in the moving drama which was being unfolded before her.
There was a pause now, a silence broken only by the monotonous ticking of a monumental, curious-looking clock which stood in an angle of the room. Miss de Genneville had made no reply to her sister’s cruel taunt, but a look, furtive, maniacal, almost dangerous, now crept into her eyes.
“Confronting the old woman, with a look of hate gleaming in his eyes”
Then she addressed the Curé.
“I pray you pen, ink and paper—here, on this table,” she requested. Then as he complied with alacrity, she once more turned to her nephew, and pointing to the writing materials:
“Sit down and write, Amédé,” she commanded.
“Write what?” he queried.
“A confession, my nephew,” said the old woman, with a shrill laugh. “A confession of those little peccadilloes of yours, which, unless I come to your rescue now, will land you for seven years in a penal settlement, if I mistake not. Eh, my fine nephew?”