‘I cannot write the letter, M’sieur Belleisle.’
‘Then give me the address of M’sieur White, and I will do so for you, mon amie.’
‘If your only object in writing is to get money,’ remarked Madeline quietly, ‘you may save yourself the trouble, M’sieur—I do not think Mr. White has two hundred pounds in the whole world.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just what I say, M’sieur.’
‘That M’sieur White is a poor man?’
‘Very, very poor——
‘And yet he sent you to the pension of Madame Collemache, and you spread the report in Millefleurs that your English guardian was a great artist and a rich man.’
‘I am sure I did not spread any such report. Mr. White pinched himself to pay for my schooling, and I have repaid him by—by——’
She paused, for Belleisle suddenly interposed with an exclamation so brutal, so coarse and savage, that she stared at him in a new terror.