She dragged some soft pillows toward her and leaned her elbows on them, half hiding her face in her hands, not looking at him at all.
“Sit down,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll tell you the whole story from the beginning. It was true that my father was French, and that he was a vine-grower and wine-maker on a ranch in California, and that my mother, the Irish girl, died there. My father did take me to Paris, but he didn’t put me in a convent school. He left me with his sister, a milliner in one of the little back streets. They were alike, those two, of an ugliness inside and out. For a while he paid for me, and then he didn’t. I think he drank himself to death. My aunt brought me up. She wasn’t a good woman and she was greedy for money. I was pretty, and she had me taught to dance and sing. I was dancing when Aristide Corwin saw me. He was managing a vaudeville company in London then. He took a fancy to me.”
Fanchon stopped a moment, pressing her handkerchief against her lips. Then she went on, speaking rapidly and recklessly.
“You think it was the old story? Mais non, it wasn’t! I was only fifteen and I hated him. I hated his good looks and his showy dress and his coarse voice—but I was a beggar and I was a child, enfant de Bohème. My aunt told him he could have me for a price. He must marry me—marry in Paris, too. You know French law? And he was to pay her—about three thousand dollars in your money. She sold me. I was her niece, and she made him marry me. She made me his slave good and fast, for she made me his wife!”
“You mean that you were Corwin’s wife, and you never told my brother?” Daniel exclaimed harshly, leaning forward to look at her.
She turned, her white, small face shadowed by her wild hair, her eyes smoldering.
“I didn’t tell your brother? Non! I didn’t tell. Now, listen—I’ll tell you all, and you can tell your brother,” she added bitterly. “I was fifteen, and I was small for my years. Corwin trained me. He saw what I could do, and he trained me like a spaniel. For what? To support him, mon ami! I danced and I sang for four years to support a man who never worked. He lived on me. Sometimes I was ill, sometimes I was broken with grief and shame, but it made no difference—he lived on what I made. I was worth more than the money he had paid—a hundred times over! When he was drunk he beat me. I’ve had black welts on my shoulders that I had to hide when I danced. I was sixteen then, and afraid, deadly afraid of him. I was even afraid to run away. Then I grew older, and I tried to get a divorce in Paris, but I couldn’t. I tried in London, and failed again. He saw to that. Then I knew I must wait. I was American; I was born here. I waited. By and by Aristide brought me to New York and put me in a company to tour the Western States. That was luck—great luck—for he was ill. He was strong as an ox, but he had appendicitis, and had to go to a hospital in New York. I went to California. I was just twenty-one. I told William I was eighteen, but I’m twenty-four. In California I got a divorce for cruelty. I got my freedom. From a child I had been in the hands of a brute; suddenly I was free!” She looked up again, pressing her hands against her breast. “Mon Dieu, I can’t tell you what I felt!”
She ceased speaking and sank down again on her elbows. This time she tore at the cushions with her restless fingers.
“Go on,” said Daniel ruthlessly. “This doesn’t bring us to Leigh.”
She looked around at him, her face twisting oddly to keep back her tears.