‘And I need pity.’
For a short space neither spoke, as they sat listening to the murmur of the leaves in the trees, broken every now and then by the sounds of play or laughter within the glittering saloon. Isodore’s face, sad and downcast for a moment, gradually resumed its hard, proud look, and when she spoke again, she was herself.
‘We have a sympathy in common,’ she said. ‘We have a debt to pay, and, by your help, I will pay it. Justice, retribution is slow, but it is certain. Tell me, Valerie—if I may call you by your name—how long is it since you saw your husband till to-night?’
‘Seven years—seven years since he deserted me cruelly and heartlessly, leaving me penniless in the streets of Rome. I had to live how I could; I even begged sometimes, for he has squandered the little money I brought to him.’
‘Do you think he knew you to-night?’ Isodore asked.
‘Knew me?’ was the bitter response. ‘No, indeed. Had he known I was so near, he would have fled from my presence.’
‘He laughs at us, no doubt, as poor defenceless women. But time will show. I can ever find an hour in the midst of my great work to watch his movements. I have waited long; but the day is coming now.—Would you know the latest ambition of your honourable husband? He intends to get married again. He has dared to lift his eyes to Enid Charteris.’
‘Hector dares to marry again!’ Valerie exclaimed, ‘and I alive? Oh, I must take vengeance, indeed, for this.’
She drew a long breath, shutting her lips tightly. The passion of jealousy, long crushed down, rose with overwhelming force; she was no longer a weak defenceless woman, but a fury, maddened and goaded to the last extremity.
Isodore watched her, well pleased with this display of spirit. ‘Now you speak,’ she said admiringly, ‘and I respect you. All your womanhood is on fire within you to avenge the wrongs of years, and it shall be no fault of mine if they slumber again. Yes, your perfect husband designs to wed again.’