‘What I am about to tell you is the life-story of a most unhappy woman,’ she said, lifting her head and gazing sadly into his eyes. ‘My father was an Englishman, who was engaged for many years in business near Paris. I was educated in a convent, as girls are educated in France. I had left the convent about a year, and was keeping my father’s house—my mother having died meanwhile, and my sister being away at school—when a certain Monsieur Laroche became a frequent visitor. Before long, my father told me that his affairs were deeply involved. Laroche was the only man who could or would save him, and that only on condition that I became his wife. I was little more than a child in worldly knowledge; I knew that in France the question of a girl’s marriage is always settled by her parents; so, although I already detested the man, I yielded to my father’s entreaties, and became Madame Laroche. Within a year, my father died—by his own hand.’
‘My poor Mora!’
‘Whatever wreck of property he left behind, my husband contrived to obtain possession of. But before that time, I knew him to be an inveterate gambler, and worse! Of my life at that time I care not now to speak. Can there be many such men as he in the world—such tigers in human form? I hope not.
‘Some time after, when my life had become a burden almost greater than I could bear, there came news of the death of my godmother, and that she had left me a legacy of two thousand pounds. The money had not been six hours in my possession, before my husband broke open my bureau and robbed me of the whole of it, together with my own and my mother’s jewels. I was left utterly destitute. A few months later came the war, the siege of Paris, and the famine. Oh! that terrible time. I often live it over again in my dreams even now.’
‘And you have gone through all this!’ said the colonel.
‘I had no tidings of my husband till the war was over,’ resumed Mora. ‘Then came news indeed. He had been detected cheating at cards—there had been a quarrel—the lights had been blown out, and the man who had accused him had been shot through the heart. My husband was tried, found guilty, and condemned to a long term of penal servitude.’
‘A happy riddance for you and every one,’ remarked the colonel with a shrug.
‘I had friends who did not desert me in my extremity. I gave lessons in English, and so contrived to live. One day there came an official notification that my husband was dead. He had died in prison, and had been buried in a convict’s grave. Was it wicked to feel glad when I read the news? If so, then was I wicked indeed.’
‘No one but a hypocrite could have pretended to feel otherwise than glad.’
‘My sister was with me by that time. I never told her the history of my marriage, and my husband she had never seen. She knew only that I had been deserted and was now a widow. Our quiet life went on for a time, and then, by the death of an aunt, I came into possession of a small fortune. I changed my name, as requested in my aunt’s will, and after a little while Clarice and I came to England. The rest you know.’