“An act of restitution.”
“You never have done me any injury, and nothing authorizes me to accept such a gift from Mademoiselle de Vermont.”
“Vermont was the family name of my mother. When my father married her, he obtained leave to add it to his own. I am the daughter of Paul Landry.”
“You!”
“Yes. The daughter of Paul Landry, whose fortune had no other origin than the large sum of which he despoiled you.”
Henri made a gesture of denial.
“Pardon me!” Zibeline continued. “He was doubly your debtor, since this sum had been increased tenfold when you rescued him from the Mexicans who were about to shoot him. ‘This is my revenge!’ you said to him, without waiting to hear a word from him. Your ruin was the remorse of his whole life. I knew it only when he lay upon his deathbed. Otherwise—”
She paused, then raised her head higher to finish her words.
“Never mind!” she went on. “That which he dared not do while living, I set myself to do after his death. When I came to Paris to inquire what had become of the Marquis de Prerolles, your glorious career answered for you; but even before I knew you I had become the possessor of these divided estates, which, reunited by me, must be restored to your hands. You are proud, Henri,” she added, with animation, “but I am none less proud than you. Judge, then, what I have suffered in realizing our situation: I, overwhelmed with riches, you, reduced to your officer’s pay. Is that a satisfaction to your pride? Very well! But to my own, it is the original stain, which only a restitution, nobly accepted by you, ever can efface!”
She paused, looking at him supplicatingly, her hands clasped. As he remained silent, she understood that he still hesitated, and continued: