Andrew never moved his eye from off her as he spoke; he knew it might have been death to do so. If she had a weapon about her, his words were as like as not to cause her to use it on him. He was driving her to desperation; only--he did not want that desperation vented on him. And, watching the woman thus, he knew that it must find its vent somehow. Those livid lips--dashed now with flecks of foam--those glaring eyes, told clearly of the fire burning within.
"His father worshipped her! His father worshipped her!" she repeated, bringing out the words, as it seemed to him lying there before her, with an agonizing effort. "His father worshipped her. From the moment he set eyes on her first. My God! that they had been blinded first! That she had never come across my-- Yet," calming herself with another strong effort, while she took a step nearer, so that now she stood rigid before him--"how know you that? How? How? You never knew nor saw his father--nor," and she seemed to force her glance to rest upon the medallion--"this woman, Fleurange Debrasques--his wife."
In Andrew's mind there rang the Lorrainer's words, "She loved his father and, they say, hated his mother par consequent"--he knew that his cue was here. Also he knew he must be careful. Must be ready to ward off any blow from hidden knife or dagger that might come; be prepared to feel himself struck to the heart with some bullet from concealed pistol when next he spoke. Yet the train was laid. The time had come to say his last words.
And he said them.
"Know it? How know it? Is not the tale oft told hereabouts? Even I, a stranger, have heard it! Sometimes with laughter--sometimes with pity for another--sometimes----"
"With pity for another! What other?"
As she spoke no statue of marble, no corpse, was ever more rigid than this woman standing there before him. Nor more white!
"What other?"
"One whom he thought he loved at first," the words coming clear and distinct from Andrew's lips, "yet found he cared nothing for when Fleurange Debrasques--ay! that was her name--met his view. One whom they say he even then meant to discard, having grown weary of her; one whom he did discard when Mdlle. Debrasques made him love her. Have you never heard this?"
* * * * * *