“And it were best, Monsieur le Comte,” he concluded abruptly, “if you went back to Paris after this. It is not fair to the child.”
“Not fair to Nicolette!” Bertrand exclaimed. “Then she has told you?”
“Yes, she told me,” he rejoined coldly, “that you and your family have thought of a way of paying your debts.”
An angry flush rose to Bertrand’s forehead. “Monsieur Deydier!” he protested, and jumped to his feet.
“Eh! what?” the father retorted loudly. “What else had you in mind, when, fresh from the smart which one woman dealt you, you sought another whose wealth would satisfy the creditors who were snapping like dogs at your heels?”
“I swear that this is false! I love Nicolette——”
“Bah! you loved Rixende a week ago——”
“I love Nicolette,” he reiterated firmly, “and she loves me.”
“Nicolette is a child who has mistaken pity for love, as many wenches do. You were her friend, her playmate; she saw you floundering in a morass of debt and disgrace, and instinctively she put out her hand to save you. She will get over that love. I’ll see to it that she forgets you.”
“I don’t think you will be able to do that, Monsieur Deydier,” Bertrand put in more quietly. “Nicolette is as true as steel.”