“Letta!”
“No, no,” and she thrust him off, “I am nothing—a mere drab. You hate me; you would like to see me dead. Ah, yes, messire, I am no fool. Madame is not as I am. She is a great lady. Ah—ah—how can she take you from me!”
She burst out weeping, covering her face with her arms, her passion sinking into despair. Bertrand looked at her. What could he say? He felt tongue-tied, helpless, and ashamed.
“Letta!”
She stood sobbing, her arms before her face.
“Letta!” And he went near to her.
“No, don’t touch me, messire.”
“Come, be sensible—”
She flashed up again, her passion working through her misery like flames through wet wood.
“No, no! Hold off, messire! I am a woman; I have my pride; I can give as well as take.”