She puffed delicately at her cigarette. "He stayed with me two weeks at Melcourt-le-Danois. That is, he stayed at the inn in the village. It was the same thing. I was very angry with my niece before that. It was he who made me see differently. If it were not for him I shouldn't be here. He traveled to France expressly to beg my help—how shall I say?—on your behalf—in simplifying things—so that you and Olivia might be free from your sense of obligation to him—and might marry—"
"Did he say he was in love with her himself?"
She ignored the hoarse suffering in his voice to take another puff or two at her cigarette. "Ma foi, Col-on-el, he didn't have to."
"Did he say—" He swallowed hard, and began again, more hoarsely: "Did he say she was—in love with—with him?"
There was a hint of rebuke in her tone. "He's a very loyal gentleman. He didn't."
"Did he make you think—?"
"What he made me think, Col-on-el, is my own affair."
He jumped to his feet, throwing his cigar violently into the fire. For a minute or two he stood glaring at the embers. When he turned on her it was savagely.
"May I ask your motive in springing this on me, Marquise?"
"Mon Dieu, Col-on-el, I thought you'd like to know what a friend you have."