“You forget the past, Lola, or you had never said these words.”
“I remember it but as a troubled dream, which I will not suffer to darken my waking hours. At last I begin to live, and never till now have I known the sensation of being above fear.”
“You told the Prince, then, of our relations together? You showed him my letters and your own replies?” said D'Esmonde, as he fixed his dark eyes upon her.
“All,—all!” said she, with a haughty smile.
“You, perhaps, told him that I had engaged you to write to me of all you heard or saw at St Petersburg?”
“I said so, in a most unpolished phrase: I called myself a spy.”
“You were probably not less candid when designating your friends, Lola,” said D'Esmonde, with a faint smile. “How, pray, did you name me?”
“It was a better word,——one of cutting reproach, believe me,” said she. “I called you a 'priest,' sir; do you think there is another epithet that can contain as much?”
“In the overflowing of those frank impulses, Lola, of course you spoke of Norwood,—of Gerald Acton, I mean, as you may remember him better by that name. You told the Prince of your marriage to this Englishman,—a marriage solemnized by myself, and of which I retain the written evidence.”
“With the falsehood that for a brief moment imposed upon myself, I would not stoop to cheat another! No, Eustace, this may be priestcraft. To outlive a deception, and then employ it; to tremble at a fallacy first, and to terrorize by means of it after, is excellent Popery, but most sorry womanhood!”