The head of each was drooped in affirmation.
“She was true to the blood,” said Henri, pointing to Paquita.
“She was as little guilty as it is possible to be,” replied Margarita Euphemia Porraberil, and she threw herself upon the body of Paquita, giving vent to a cry of despair. “Poor child! Oh, if I could bring thee to life again! I was wrong—forgive me, Paquita! Dead! and I live! I—I am the most unhappy.”
At that moment the horrible face of the mother of Paquita appeared.
“You are come to tell me that you never sold her to me to kill,” cried the Marquise. “I know why you have left your lair. I will pay you twice over. Hold your peace.”
She took a bag of gold from the ebony cabinet, and threw it contemptuously at the old woman’s feet. The chink of the gold was potent enough to excite a smile on the Georgian’s impassive face.
“I come at the right moment for you, my sister,” said Henri. “The law will ask of you——”
“Nothing,” replied the Marquise. “One person alone might ask for a reckoning for the death of this girl. Cristemio is dead.”
“And the mother,” said Henri, pointing to the old woman. “Will you not always be in her power?”
“She comes from a country where women are not beings, but things—chattels, with which one does as one wills, which one buys, sells, and slays; in short, which one uses for one’s caprices as you, here, use a piece of furniture. Besides, she has one passion which dominates all the others, and which would have stifled her maternal love, even if she had loved her daughter, a passion——”