“Yes,” he said bitterly; “it is true. I suppose when a man once gets a strong hold upon a woman’s heart she is ready to be his slave, and obey him to the end. I don’t know. I never won a woman’s love.”
“His slave—obey—but who—who is this man?”
“Monsieur De Ligny, I suppose. The French nobleman.”
Madelaine made a gesticulation with her hands, as if throwing the idea aside.
“No, no, no,” he said impatiently. “It is impossible. De Ligny—De Ligny? You mean that Louise Vine, my dear friend, my sister, was under the influence of some French gentleman unknown to me?”
“Unknown to her father too,” said Leslie bitterly, “for he reviled me when I told him.”
“I cannot do that,” said Madelaine firmly; “but I tell you it is not true.”
“As you will,” he said coldly; “but I saw her at his knees last night.”
“De Ligny—a French gentleman?”
“Yes.”