‘I will, because you ask me; but, as I have already told you, it will not make the difference you imagine. I could no more stay the progress of this mutiny now, than I could single-handed quench the fire of a burning city. It has gone too far for that. Besides, I have no desire to do so. My heart thirsts for revenge, and I shall only quit Beauregard to join another set of rebels, and perhaps a more dangerous one.’
‘Henri, cannot I persuade you to give up that madness also?’
‘No, Lizzie, the time is past. Maraquita’s falsehood has made me reckless, and I only live now to one end,—to see her punished as she deserves.’
‘Leave her to Heaven, Henri. Do you think her infidelity will not be its own punishment? How many nights will she lie awake, poor child, wanting your love, wanting mine, which used, at one time, to make all her happiness? How often will her heart yearn—for Quita has a heart, Henri, though it is choked up with vanity and love of self—for the days she spent with us,—for the poor little innocent she has left behind her? Ah, neither you nor I can measure the pain which remorse will bring her!’
‘Don’t you believe it. You judge her by yourself, and your sex is the only likeness between you. She is all bad, Lizzie, false from head to foot, and the sooner the world is rid of her, the better.’
‘And are you the one who should be her judge?’ replied Lizzie mournfully; ‘can you bring clean hands into court, Henri, with which to condemn her? No, I am not alluding to myself. It was not your fault, perhaps, if you found upon a closer acquaintance that you could not love me as you once imagined; but what of Jerusha—the poor little coolie girl with whom you were carrying on a pretension of affection at the same time that you were deceiving Maraquita? How can you find it in your heart to contemplate revenge on her for an error of which you were guilty yourself?’
‘You women don’t understand these things, Lizzie. No one but a little fool like Jerusha would have believed for a moment that I was in earnest, or that such an irregular business could possibly last more than a few months.’
‘Yet Jerusha vows to have her revenge on you, as warmly as you do to have yours on Maraquita.’
At this piece of intelligence, Henri de Courcelles changed colour.
‘If that is the case, your advice has not come too soon. These coolies are the very devil to stick to an idea if they once get it in their head, and I shall wake up some night, perhaps, to find Miss Jerusha’s fingers at my throat, if I don’t clear out. Curse the little jade! She’s been more trouble to me than she’s worth.’