"You said it was so," admitted Bibi-Ri, squirming.
"Good! Then you can wager it was so, my boy.... And at that time did you or did you not strike a solemn bargain with me?"
He made no denial.
"You wept—sacred pipe! You called every saint to witness your gratitude. Anything I wanted! Zelie? Of course. You would always be the defense of that precious infant against the taint and the curse of Nouméa!"
He shrugged.
"You swore by your own hope of salvation to save her—to pluck this pure flower from the dung-hill and marry her the very hour of your release. Your bridal trip should carry her away to France.... Are these your words?"
"I offered to," he retorted. "But Zelie refused even then—you know she did! And so she has since."
"Fichtre! You and your offers! Tell me—from the day you discovered your heritage have you ever been back to persuade her?"
He avoided that stern eye.
"There it is, you see!" She gave an eloquent gesture. "As for her—leave her to me. She is only a stiff-necked little idiot who knows nothing. You should have made up her mind for her. You! I picked you for that: and you were willing enough before. But straightway: instead: what did you do?... Why you began to swell up over notions of your coming greatness! That is what happened to you. Shrimp! Can't I read your soul?