“No,” she said, “you forget the power of woman.”
Never did phrase uttered by human voice express terror more absolutely.
“What could reach you, then, if I put myself between you and the world?”
“Poison!” she said. “Dona Concha suspects you already... and,” she resumed, letting the tears fall and glisten on her cheeks, “it is easy enough to see I am no longer the same. Well, if you abandon me to the fury of the monster who will destroy me, your holy will be done! But come, let there be all the pleasures of life in our love. Besides, I will implore, I will weep and cry out and defend myself; perhaps I shall be saved.”
“Whom will your implore?” he asked.
“Silence!” said Paquita. “If I obtain mercy it will perhaps be on account of my discretion.”
“Give me my robe,” said Henri, insidiously.
“No, no!” she answered quickly, “be what you are, one of those angels whom I have been taught to hate, and in whom I only saw ogres, whilst you are what is fairest under the skies,” she said, caressing Henri’s hair. “You do not know how silly I am. I have learned nothing. Since I was twelve years old I have been shut up without ever seeing any one. I can neither read nor write, I can only speak English and Spanish.”
“How is it, then, that you receive letters from London?”
“My letters?... See, here they are!” she said, proceeding to take some papers out of a tall Japanese vase.