“Besides,” she added, “the commissary had no need of my explanations to understand what abject inspirations the Fortins were following. The wretches had in their pocket the wages of their infamy. In refusing me my key, in throwing me out in the street at ten o’clock at night, they hoped to drive me to seek the assistance of the base coward who paid their odious treason. And we know the price which men demand for the slightest service they render to a woman.”
Maxence turned pale. The idea flashed upon his mind that it was to him, perhaps, that these last words were addressed.
“Ah, I swear it!” he exclaimed, “it is without after-thought that I tried to help you. You do not owe me any thanks even.”
“I do not thank you any the less, though,” she said gently, “and from the bottom of my heart.”
“It was so little!”
“Intention alone makes the value of a service, neighbor. And, besides, do not say that a hundred and fifty francs are nothing to you: perhaps you do not earn much more each month.”
“I confess it,” he said, blushing a little.
“You see, then? No, it was not to you that my words were addressed, but to the man who has paid the Fortins. He was waiting on the Boulevard, the result of the manoeuvre, which, they thought, was about to place me at his mercy. He ran quickly to me when I went out, and followed me all the way to the office of the commissary of police, as he follows me everywhere for the past month, with his sickening gallantries and his degrading propositions.”
The eye flashing with anger,
“Ah, if I had known!” exclaimed Maxence. “If you had told me but a word!”