‘Your wife!’ she exclaimed. ‘Your wife, monsieur!’
A dark look passed over the Frenchman’s face. He bowed profoundly.
‘It is an honour which has been coveted by many, madame,’ he returned, ‘to be the wife of your humble serviteur; but I am proud to say it has been reserved for one who is truly worthy of it. Yes, Madeline, I will own it—at one time I thought the position too elevated for you; but when I saw you nobly rising to fame, I said to myself, “After all, I was wrong. She is a splendid creature; she will adorn our world of Art; at the right moment I will reveal the truth, and claim her”—and so, my dear Madeline, I claim you now!’
He smiled, he held forth his hand; but Madeline recoiled again.
‘Do not touch me,’ she cried wildly.
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Eh bien—I have no wish to touch you, chère amie—but if you play the tragedy queen in the park you will gather a crowd about you, and that would not be pleasant for you.
He spoke with quiet malignity; nevertheless Madeline knew that he spoke truly. She was utterly in his power, and for her own sake she dared not make a scene; whatever she said must be said quietly for fear of attracting attention. She cast a fearful glance around her, then, pale and trembling with disgust and shame, she turned again to the Frenchman.
‘This is another of your falsehoods. Why have you chosen to tell me it to-day?’
‘Mon Dieu! what a question! I do not choose to tell you a story. I came to claim my wife.’