“Yes,” said Madame Ghita, “it is so my husband plays—and he always loses his last franc.”
Again it seemed to Selden that there was a trace of defiance in the way she uttered those words—“mon mari”—my husband. It was the third time she had used them since she entered the room.
“He does not always lose, madame,” Selden corrected. “I saw him winning the bank’s last franc a few nights ago.”
“But by this time the bank has them all back again. I sometimes think it is even worse for a gambler to win than to lose. He is encouraged to go on—to commit new follies. You should be thankful you have not the temperament, M. Selden.”
“And you, madame?” he asked.
“Ah, I too gamble sometimes, it is true, not because I have the temperament but because I have great need to distract my thoughts. What would you, monsieur! Here am I the wife of a prince, but not recognized because I have no money; in a position the most equivocal, knowing that schemes are constantly afoot to marry him to some other woman. Is it strange that I become a little mad sometimes and do foolish things? I tremble myself at the things I think of doing—plan out to the last little detail as I lie awake at night staring at the ceiling. I have been to him a faithful wife—I have been discreet—I have asked nothing—I have worked for his interest whenever I could. And what is my reward? That fat Lappo comes to me and insults me!”
“Surely he did not insult you, madame!” protested the countess.
“Is it not an insult to offer a woman a price for her love?” demanded Madame Ghita. “And such a price!”
“If it is only a question of price,” began the countess.
“It is not!” broke in Madame Ghita. “After all, I have my pride! And I have also perhaps more power than they think.”