“Say your say,” she decreed, “and have done.”
“It’s only this,” whined Adeline, on the door-step: “I’m destitute, deserted with my child, not knowing where to turn, and I’m Gerard Helmont’s wife.”
She had calculated her foolish “coup;” she was aware that a wide gulf yawned between Ursula and possible denial from Gerard.
“So it’s I,” she added, quickly, “who am the Baroness van Helmont, though not of the Horst—you know why; and all I ask is a few hundred florins and to let me go in peace.”
“Do you mean to say,” queried Ursula, “that you claim to be Gerard van Helmont’s legal wife?”
“Yes; and it was you that wanted him to marry me, so, in part, the fault is yours,” responded Adeline, who enjoyed lies for the mere telling, even when there was nothing to be gained. “Therefore, give me a generous sum for Gerard’s child, and let me go. Why, everything ought to be his, the young Baron’s—all the wealth and magnificence that you’ve got hold of, nobody knows how.”
And Adeline began to cry real drops. Men cannot yet manufacture genuine diamonds. Women can.
But, notwithstanding her weeping, there was much spite, and even a little menace, in her tone.
“Down, Monk, down!” said Ursula. “I shall not ask you for further proof of your story, simply because I know it is not true. I wish it were. I am fully conscious that you have a claim to be what you say you are and are not. Could I help you to obtain its recognition I would do so; but otherwise I can do nothing for you. I have no money, and therefore can give you none. In a couple of years perhaps there will be more at my disposal, and then, if things remain unchanged, you may write to me, and I will do what I can for your boy. That is all. Now you had better go away from here. Have you understood me?”
“Give me twenty-five florins,” said Adeline.