"He is an infant," said she to Julie, when young Garron had closed the door behind him. "He has no courage. You know the fix we are in—the Commissaire of Police in Paris already has word of it."
Julie did not reply; she still sat with her clenched fists outstretched on the table.
"He has forged his uncle's check," snapped the girl.
Julie did not reply.
"Ah, c'est comme ça!" sneered the girl with a cool laugh—"and when he is in jail," she cried aloud, "Eh, bien—quoi?"
"He will not have you, then," returned Julie faintly.
"Ah——" she exclaimed. She slipped her tense little body into her thick automobile coat and with a contemptuous toss of her chin passed out into the night, leaving the door open.
"Jacques!" she called shrilly—"Jacques!—Attends."
"Bon!" came his voice faintly in reply from afar on the marsh.
After some moments Julie got slowly to her feet, crossed the dirt floor of the hut and closing the door dropped the bar through the staples. Then for the space of some minutes she stood by the table struggling with a jealous rage that made her strong knees tremble. She who had saved his life, who had loved him from babyhood—she told herself—and what had he done for her in return? The great Paris that she knew nothing of had stolen him; Paris had given him her—that little viper with her red mouth; Paris had ruined him—had turned him into a thief like his father. Silently she cursed his uncle. Then her rage reverted again to the girl. She thought too, of her own life with Garron—of all its miserly hardships. "They have given me nothing—" she sobbed aloud—"nothing."