“Do you call the sometime secretary Citizen-cutthroat La Boulaye, nothing in particular?” she asked. “Ma foi! I wonder that you do not die of self-contempt after what passed between you at Boisvert.”
“Madame, I was not thinking of him,” said Suzanne.
“More shame to you, then,” was the sour retort, for the Marquise was bent upon disagreeing with her. “Have you a conscience, Suzanne, that you could have played such a Delilah part and never give a thought to the man you have tricked?”
“You will make me regret that I told you of it,” said the girl quietly.
“You are ready enough to regret anything but the act itself. Perhaps you'll be regretting that you did not take a berline at Soignies, as you promised the citizen-scoundrel that you would, and set out to join him?”
“It is hardly generous to taunt me so, Madame, I do very bitterly regret what has taken place. But you might do me the justice to remember that what I did I did as much for others as for myself. As much, indeed, for you as for myself.”
“For me?” echoed the Marquise shrilly. “Tiens, that is droll now! For me? Was it for me that you made love to the citizen-blackguard? Are you so dead to shame that you dare remind me of it?”
Mademoiselle sighed, and seemed to shrink back into the shadows of the carriage. Her face was very pale, and her eyes looked sorely troubled.
“It is something that to my dying day I shall regret,” she murmured. “It was vile, it was unworthy! Yet if I had not used the only weapon to my hand—” She ceased, the Marquise caught the sound of a sob.
“What are you weeping for, little fool?” she cried.