“Yes,” said the mask-maker, “I think you must go. You have brought on me and my son even worse dangers than you dream of. You must go. When you spoke of hating yesterday, I thought it might come to that, but I foolishly let sympathy overrule my judgment.”
In the room above them, Mme. Kaja struck a chord on her music, and after one false beginning, launched into the bride’s aria from “The Disinherited.” Lalette looked at the floor and there were tears in her eyes. The widow spoke again:
“Yet you were sent to me for help, and help you I will, if you will take it. I think there is only one chance in the world for you, and that is to go to Mancherei and place yourself under the dominion of the Prophet.”
“But I have no money to get there, no money at all, and what could I do there?” said Lalette (now angry with herself for having jeopardized herself and the widow too, in some manner, for the sake of false Rodvard; and willing in her contrition to follow this leading, but not seeing how it could be done).
“Love forever finds a way to draw to itself those who need it. There is a fund for the transportation of those who would go thither; and under the ordinance of the Prophet, there have been established the houses called couvertines of the Myonessae, where there is shelter and gainful employ for such girls as yourself, who need them.”
“I—I do not believe in this religion, and—I am a witch.”
“Few believe in the beginning, but only turn to our doctrine for relief from some condition of the world. It is this witchcraft you must escape.”
Lalette heaved a sigh. (Her head ached now, and what was the use of this struggle to be free and one’s own? The strings tightened, one was drawn back to puppethood.)
“Very well. If you will tell me what to do.”