“And you think yourself well-informed, sir?” he inquired. “You know Lucienne?”
“Enough to know that she is not what she seems to be, and what almost any other would have been in her place; enough to be certain, that, if she shows herself two or three times a week riding around the lake, it is not for her pleasure; enough, also, to be persuaded, that, despite appearances, she is not your mistress, and that, far from having disturbed your life, and compromised your prospects, she set you back into the right road, at the moment, perhaps, when you were about to branch off into the wrong path.”
Marius de Tregars was assuming fantastic proportions in the mind of Maxence.
“How did you manage,” he stammered, “thus to find out the truth?”
“With time and money, every thing is possible.”
“But you must have had grave reasons to take so much trouble about Lucienne.”
“Very grave ones, indeed.”
“You know that she was basely forsaken when quite a child?”
“Perfectly.”
“And that she was brought up through charity?”