“Innocent!” exclaimed Marie involuntarily.
“To be sure he was, my dear. Why, he was as fond of you as could be, only I led him into that scrape so that he would not be able—”
Clotilde got no farther, for even she was startled at the effect of her words upon her sister, who sprang from her seat and caught her by the hands.
“Clotilde!” she exclaimed hoarsely, “this is all a lie! Tell me it is all a lie, and I will forgive you.”
“Do as you like, only don’t squeeze diamond rings into my fingers. All true enough: Marcus held his tongue, as I tell you, like a lamb, to save my credit. What fools men are!”
“Then—then,” wailed Marie, “he was true?”
“Why, my sentimental sister! You ought to bless me instead of looking like that.”
For a moment, though, in spite of her forced mirth, Clotilde shrank from her sister’s wild gaze, but only to put on an air of bravado as she exclaimed:
“There, Rie, I made up my mind to serve you out, and I did.”
Marie drew away from her, gazing in her false, handsome face the while, and sank back in the nearest chair, holding her hands pressed against her side as if she were in terrible pain, while her face worked as a convulsive sob escaped from her breast.