Camille cowered under the flash of his eyes, but she did not yet believe he would betray her crime to the world.
“Wife and child!” she uttered, scornfully; and some epithets fell from her lips that made him turn deathly white with fury.
“Were you a man, you should not live to repeat those words!” he warned her, bitterly; and then he turned to Finette, who, ever since the utterance of that word murderess by his lips, had stood quaking with fear and astonishment. “Where are they—my wife and child?” he asked, sternly.
“They went away the morning after we came,” sullenly.
“After you two had poured your poisonous story into her ears?”
“After my mistress had told her the plain truth—that you never loved her, and only married her to quiet the scandalous story that she was your illegitimate child!” defiantly.
“My God!” he groaned, and for a minute she feared he would murder her, so terrible was his aspect.
But he controlled himself with an effort, and asked:
“Where did they go?”
“I do not know.”