"And his name!" she demanded, harshly. "His name, then!"
Zabette smiled a little proudly. "That is my secret," she replied. "But, Suzanne, what is the matter?"
"It is not your secret," laughed the other, bitterly. "It is not your secret. It is my secret."
"What do you mean?" cried Zabette, with a sudden feeling of terror at the girl's drawn face.
"His name is Maxence!" Suzanne's laugh was like bones rattling in a coffin.
It seemed to Zabette as if a flash of lightning had cleft her soul in two. That was the way the truth came to her. She drew back like a viper ready to strike.
"Oh, I hate you!" she cried, and turned on her heel, white to the eyes with anger and shame.
But Suzanne would not leave her. She followed to the other side of the wharf, and as soon as she could speak again without attracting attention, she said, more kindly:
"I am very sorry for you, Zabette. It is too bad you were so mistaken. Why, he was engaged to me the very second day he came ashore."
Zabette stifled back a cry, and retorted, icily, "He was engaged to me the first day. He followed me all the way to the Grande Anse."