"Then tell us now!" said the veiled lady, inexorably.
"Very well, madame!" cried the girl, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, and speaking in a mixture of French and English which I shall not attempt to transcribe. "I will tell; I will tell everything. After all, I was not to blame. It was that creature. I did not love him—but I feared him. He possessed a power over me. He could make me do anything. He even beat me! And still I went back to him!"
"What was his name?" asked the veiled lady.
"Georges Drouet—he lived in the Rue de la Huchette, just off the Rue Saint Jacques—on the top floor, under the gutters. He was bad—bad; —he lived off women. I met him six months ago. He knew how to fascinate one; I thought he loved me. Then he began to borrow money from me, until he had taken all that I had saved; then my rings —every one!" She held up her hands to show their bareness. "Then…."
She stopped and glanced at her mistress.
"Continue!" said the latter. "Tell what you have to tell."
"I knew that madame also…."
She stopped again. I walked over to the window and stood staring at the wooden shutter, strangely moved.
"Well, why not?" she demanded fiercely, and I felt that she was addressing my turned back. "Why not? Shall a woman not be loved? Shall a woman endure what madame endured…."
"That will do, Julie," broke in the veiled lady, her voice cold as ice. "Tell your story."