His voice, rising in violence, echoed through the garrets in the roof. He was cold and calm. The life of Montefiore was in his hands; he would wash away his remorse in the blood of that Italian.
“Out, out, out! out, all of you!” cried the Marana, springing like a tigress on the dagger, which she wrenched from the hand of the astonished Perez. “Out, Perez,” she continued more calmly, “out, you and your wife and servants! There will be murder here. You might be shot by the French. Have nothing to do with this; it is my affair, mine only. Between my daughter and me there is none but God. As for the man, he belongs to me. The whole earth could not tear him from my grasp. Go, go! I forgive you. I see plainly that the girl is a Marana. You, your religion, your virtue, were too weak to fight against my blood.”
She gave a dreadful sigh, turning her dry eyes on them. She had lost all, but she knew how to suffer,—a true courtesan.
The door opened. The Marana forgot all else, and Perez, making a sign to his wife, remained at his post. With his old invincible Spanish honor he was determined to share the vengeance of the betrayed mother. Juana, all in white, and softly lighted by the wax candles, was standing calmly in the centre of her chamber.
“What do you want with me?” she said.
The Marana could not repress a passing shudder.
“Perez,” she asked, “has this room another issue?”
Perez made a negative gesture; confiding in that gesture, the mother entered the room.
“Juana,” she said, “I am your mother, your judge; you have placed yourself in the only situation in which I could reveal myself to you. You have come down to me, you, whom I thought in heaven. Ah! you have fallen low indeed. You have a lover in this room.”
“Madame, there is and can be no one but my husband,” answered the girl. “I am the Marquise de Montefiore.”