Sanselme turned very pale. It seemed as if Benedetto was his evil genius—his tempter. He instantly realized what this sum would do for her whose welfare was his perpetual anxiety.
"Will you write?"
Sanselme dipped his pen into the ink and began. Some instinct warned him that he was doing wrong. He acted without volition of his own, and simply in obedience to another, it is true, and it seemed to him that he himself risked nothing, for he simply told the truth, and yet he was troubled. Had Sanselme been alone in the world with no one but himself to care for he might not have been so strict, for he had run many risks in his life. But he felt that this was something wrong, and that evil consequences would alight on not only himself, but her. The money fascinated him, however. He wrote a few words, and then, dashing down the pen, started up.
"No, I will not write. Take away your money, Benedetto, it will bring me misfortune."
Benedetto uttered a furious oath. Then seizing a pen he himself wrote a couple of lines. Laying the paper before Sanselme, he said, "You will write just what I say, or I will send this!"
The two lines commenced thus: "She who bears the name of Jane Zeld, is—"
Sanselme read no more. With a cry of rage he sprang at Benedetto, who thrust him back fiercely.
"No more of this nonsense!" he said. "Either you write, or I do, and my words shall appear in three of the most prominent Parisian journals."
Sanselme, with haggard eyes, did not seem to hear. Then suddenly he seized the pen and wrote what Benedetto required.