"How?" he ejaculated. "You do not remember Valpré—and what happened there?"
She saw her mistake on the instant, and hastened to cover it. "Valpré!" she said, frowning a little. "Yes, I remember Valpré, though it is years since I was there. But you—did I meet you at Valpré, Captain Rodolphe?"
He bowed with a gallantry that seemed to her exaggerated. "Only once, madame, but that once was enough to stamp you ineffaceably upon my memory. It was, in fact, a memorable occasion. And I forget—never!" Again with empressement he bowed. "And still you do not remember me?" he said.
There was a mocking glint in his eyes. It was as though with a smile he weighed her resistance, displaying it to herself as a quantity wholly negligible.
"I think you begin to remember now," he suggested.
And quite suddenly Chris saw what he had with subtlety set about teaching her, that to attempt to fence with him was useless.
"Yes, I remember," she said, and there was a hint of most unwonted malice in her capitulation. "Didn't I see you wounded in a duel?"
He smiled, and she saw his teeth. "If my memory be correct it was to madame herself that I owed that wound."
She felt the quick blood rush to her face. He had spoken with double entendre, but she did not perceive it until too late. She only remembered suddenly and overwhelmingly that the duel had been fought on her account, because of some evil word which this man had spoken of her in Bertrand's hearing. She could well believe it of him—the sneering laugh, the light allusion, the hateful insinuation underlying it. She was beginning to look upon the evil of the world with comprehending eyes—she, Chris, the gay of heart, the happy bird of Bertrand's paradise whom no evil had ever touched. And though she shrank from it as one dreading pollution, she dared not turn her back.
He went on with more daring mockery, still with lips that smiled. "Ah! I see you remember. That duel was an affair of interest to you, hein? You were—the woman in the case."