“Yes, you. That’s what she told me. She told me also that you were an insignificant painter, utterly lacking in talent.”
Fanny, stupefied, taken unawares, could not say a word.
“During the time in which you and I were friends,” Esther continued, turning to Oswald, “she never missed an opportunity to speak ill of you, to insult you. She said that you were trying to seduce me; she painted you as a wicked wretch, a beast, a repugnant creature....”
“You lie! You lie!” shrieked Fanny in a high-pitched voice.
“I am telling the truth, and only the truth. At that time I believed your advice was for my good,—dictated by the affection you felt for me. Afterward I realized that you had been guilty of the vilest perfidy,—the most iniquitous that can be committed, taking advantage of the influence you wielded over me.”
“But you wrote me a letter,” interposed Oswald.
“Not I.”
“Yes, indeed. A letter in which you replied to my protestations with cruel jests.”
“No. I didn’t write that letter. Fanny must have forged it. She wanted to keep you away from me at all costs.”