Fanchette fell upon her knees in the coach with a suppressed scream. She knew enough to know that offended Spain, in so small a matter as the castigation of a servant, could find easy means to have its threats fulfilled to the letter, even in the face of obvious injustice. It would be the “question” first, and exoneration, if any, after. She shook with terror.
“I will confess,” she cried: “O, I will confess!”
“It was a lie?”
“Yes—yes.”
The Infanta’s red lip curled.
“Who urged you to it?—tell me.”
“O, mistress!”
“Tell me, I say.”
Fanchette choked and battled for breath, writhing her fingers about her face.
“Was it your own mean jealousy of one too noble to stoop to an understanding of your designs upon him? In that case——”