But the sailor prolonged his atrociously sinister smile.
"It's a lie," he said again, "all a lie. Make no further effort…. You will not convince me."
As though suddenly reanimated with new force, she rose to her feet:—her face on a level with Ferragut's eyes. He saw her left temple with the torn skin; the spot caused by the blow extended around one eye, reddened and swollen. On contemplating his barbarous handiwork, remorse again tormented him.
"Listen, Ulysses; you do not know my true existence. I have always lied to you; I have eluded all your investigations in our happy days. I wished to keep my former life a secret … to forget it. Now I must tell you the truth, the actual truth, just as though I were going to die. When you know it, you will be less cruel."
But her listener did not wish to hear it. He protested in advance with a ferocious incredulity.
"Lies!… new lies! I wonder when you will ever stop your inventions!"
"I am not a German woman," she continued without listening to him. "Neither is my name Freya Talberg…. It is my nombre de guerre, my name as an adventuress. Talberg was the professor who accompanied me to the Andes, and who was not my husband, either…. My true name is Beatrice…. My mother was an Italian, a Florentine; my father was from Trieste."
This revelation did not interest Ferragut.
"One fraud more!" he said. "Another novel!… Keep on making them up."
The woman was in despair. She raised her hands above her head, twisting the interlaced fingers. Fresh tears welled up in her eyes.