“She has two hundred thousand gold piastres,” replied the Spaniard.
“And that is not all, monsieur,” said the Marana, turning to Diard. “Who are you?—Go!” she repeated to Montefiore.
The marquis, hearing this statement of gold piastres, came forward once more, saying,—
“I am really free—”
A glance from Juana silenced him.
“You are really free to go,” she said.
And he went immediately.
“Alas! monsieur,” said the girl, turning to Diard, “I thank you with admiration. But my husband is in heaven. To-morrow I shall enter a convent—”
“Juana, my Juana, hush!” cried the mother, clasping her in her arms. Then she whispered in the girl’s ear. “You must have another husband.”
Juana turned pale. She freed herself from her mother and sat down once more in her arm-chair.