“Well, he mayn’t be. But how about her?”
Cartouche stopped, and took the girl’s soft chin in his hand.
“Talk about what you understand, you little village wench,” he said. “You was bred in a cottage, and think in pence. A guinea is your standard of corruption. Noble natures are not bought with gold.”
She did not move: but her eyes, unwinking, filled with tears.
“Thank you for reminding me,” she whispered.
Remorse smote him; but still an angrier, or a worthier, feeling made him stubborn.
“Pish, Mollinda!” he said; “we’ve agreed to compromise there on a better sentiment. That proves you noble too, my girl.”
She looked him fearlessly in the eyes, though her own were like wet forget-me-nots.
“Do you know she’s here—in Turin?” she said.
“No.”