"Zoya," he said softly, "I'm sorry."
She smiled a little. "As you have said, it's fifty-fifty, mon brave. But I am no fool. I am aware of the sacrifice I make--for Her." She laughed aloud. "My sickness has made me weak. My claws are sheathed, mon Philippe. I shall not scratch her. I have paid--have I not?"
"Yes, Zoya--in full----"
She gave a sigh and a little shrug that seemed meant to deny it.
"It is strange. I seem to look upon you now as one who happened a long while since. You belong to a dream of what might have been. You are very young, mon Philippe--also beautiful and brutal as a god----"
"Oh I say, Zoya----"
"I talk across a distance, Philippe--from a dream. You threw me to the floor brutally. I adored you. It was curious. Never in my life before Philippe, I swear it. Not like this. Even with this girl waiting for you yonder, I knew that I had to--I had to save you--to repair the damage and pay my debt--Fifty-fifty, as you say, mon Philippe."
"You've paid already----"
"I have an idea that I shall pay more.... No. You do not know. In the end the woman pays for all--with interest. The balance will yet be on my side of the ledger."
"I'll square it, Zoya,--some way," he muttered.