Lizzie coloured. She had never spoken of her relations with Henri de Courcelles to Quita before, but this was no time to let feeling get the better of justice.
‘He has everything to do with me,’ she answered, in a low tone. ‘Quita, I have never told you before, that I am engaged to be married to Monsieur de Courcelles.’
‘You—engaged to be married—to Henri? Oh, it is not true! You are deceiving me!’ exclaimed Quita, as she sprang to a sitting position, and turned a face of ashy pallor to her companion.
But Lizzie suspected no more than she saw. She only thought that Quita was astonished that she should have been kept in the dark with regard to so important a subject, and hastened to defend her own conduct.
‘Indeed, it is true! I daresay you are surprised that I should not have told you, Quita (for I have told you almost everything), but I have felt so deeply about it, that I could not speak; and our engagement has never been made public, though it has lasted over a year.’
‘You—engaged to Henri de Courcelles!’ repeated Quita incredulously.
‘Yes! Although he has broken it off, of his own accord, and left me, I cannot feel that I am free from him. For I love him, Quita. I love him with my whole heart and soul. I did not think it was in me to love any creature as I love him. And since we have parted, I have been unable to sleep, or eat, or drink, for longing after him,—longing, above all things, to clear my character in his eyes, even though I never saw him afterwards. Oh, Quita, I must, I must do this! To live on letting him think me false and frail, will kill me! If you will not help me out of this awful dilemma, my death will be on your head.’
But the news she had just heard had hardened Maraquita’s heart. All the love she was capable of feeling had been given to De Courcelles, and if he and Lizzie had combined to deceive her, why they might suffer for it. That was all she thought of, as she clenched her teeth upon her upper lip, to prevent her betraying her emotion.
‘Maraquita! won’t you save my love to me?’ wailed Lizzie. ‘All I ask is to clear my name in the eyes of Henri de Courcelles, and then the rest of the world may think and say what they choose.’
‘I don’t in the least understand what you are driving at,’ replied Maraquita. ‘What can I do to make up your quarrel? Monsieur de Courcelles and you are both old enough to look after yourselves. If he won’t believe you, he is not likely to believe me.’