“Yes; it was I whom he held in fear by threats.... I met him at one of my friends’.... and I was foolish enough to listen to him. Oh! there was nothing that you cannot pardon. But I wrote him two letters ... letters which you will see.... I had to buy them back ... you know how.... Oh! have pity on me?... I have suffered so much!”
“You! You! Suzanne!”
He raised his clenched fists, ready to strike her, ready to kill her. But he dropped his arms, and murmured:
“You, Suzanne.... You!... Is it possible?”
By short detached sentences, she related the heartrending story, her dreadful awakening to the infamy of the man, her remorse, her fear, and she also told of Alice’s devotion; how the young girl divined the sorrow of her mistress, wormed a confession out of her, wrote to Lupin, and devised the scheme of the theft in order to save her from Bresson.
“You, Suzanne, you,” repeated Monsieur d’Imblevalle, bowed with grief and shame.... “How could you?”
On the same evening, the steamer “City of London,” which plies between Calais and Dover, was gliding slowly over the smooth sea. The night was dark; the wind was fainter than a zephyr. The majority of the passengers had retired to their cabins; but a few, more intrepid, were promenading on the deck or sleeping in large rocking-chairs, wrapped in their travelling-rugs. One could see, here and there, the light of a cigar, and one could hear, mingled with the soft murmur of the breeze, the faint sound of voices which were carefully subdued to harmonize with the deep silence of the night.
One of the passengers, who had been pacing to and fro upon the deck, stopped before a woman who was lying on a bench, scrutinized her, and, when she moved a little, he said:
“I thought you were asleep, Mademoiselle Alice.”