“I knew her at the beginning of last winter, as you did, monsieur,” said Ralph, pressing his offensive. “And I enjoyed her acquaintance all through the winter till the very moment that I had the pleasure of meeting the daughter of the Baron d’Etigues. I saw her nearly every day.”
“You lie, sir!” cried Beaumagnan. “She couldn’t have seen you every day! She would have mentioned your name. I was a sufficiently close friend of hers for her not to have kept a secret of that kind from me.”
“She kept that one,” said Ralph drily.
“It’s a slander!” Beaumagnan almost shouted. “You are trying to make us believe that an impossible intimacy existed between you and her. One may bring many accusations against Josephine Balsamo perhaps: accusations of coquetry, trickery but not this one—not of an act of debauchery.”
“Love is not an act of debauchery,” said Ralph calmly.
“What do you mean? Love! Josephine Balsamo loved you?”
“Yes,” said Ralph.
Beaumagnan was beside himself. He sprang up and shook his fist in Ralph’s face. In their turn his friends had to calm him; but he was still trembling with rage; beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
“I hold him in the hollow of my hand all right,” Ralph thought to himself. “In the matter of the crime and remorse he’s as firm as a rock. But he is still being tortured by his passion for Josephine, and through that I shall do what I like with him.”
For a good minute no one said anything. Beaumagnan mopped his brow. Then, making up his mind that this enemy, for all his delicate appearance, was not one to be rid of easily, he went on: “We’re getting away from the point. Your personal feelings for the Countess of Cagliostro have nothing whatever to do with the matter in hand. I return therefore to my original question: what is it you want from us?”