A gleam of hatred, quickly extinguished, shone in Martial’s eye.
“Always Maurice!” said he.
“Always.”
She expected an angry outburst, but he remained perfectly calm.
“Then,” said he, with a forced smile, “I must believe this and other evidence. I must believe that you have forced me to play a most ridiculous part. Until now I doubted it.”
The poor girl bowed her head, crimsoning with shame to the roots of her hair; but she made no attempt at denial.
“I was not my own mistress,” she stammered; “my father commanded and threatened, and I—I obeyed him.”
“That matters little,” he interrupted; “your role has not been that which a pure young girl should play.”
It was the only reproach he had uttered, and still he regretted it, perhaps because he did not wish her to know how deeply he was wounded, perhaps because—as he afterward declared—he could not overcome his love for Marie-Anne.
“Now,” he resumed, “I understand your presence here. You come to ask mercy for Monsieur d’Escorval.”