“What a soldier you would make! Madame Ursula was too good a woman. They are all too good for us, my dear; that is where the mischief comes, they tread on us, and expect us to be meek and grateful.”
Marpasse grew serious and intent. She looked steadily at Denise, and then reached out and caught her hands.
“No more jesting,” she said, “look in my face, sister. I have learnt to read a face.”
She held both Denise’s hands, and drew her a little towards her. For a moment they were silent. Then Marpasse pressed Denise’s hands, sighed, and allowed herself a bluff round oath.
“Curse them,” she said, “curse their godliness. So you told them the whole tale.”
Denise hung her head.
“Messire Aymery told Ursula.”
“The fool! Too much in love to be wise, I warrant. Come now, my dear, love is great of heart, but love is blind, and love talks when it should shut its mouth. Show me the way out of the wood.”
She drew Denise close to her, so that her head was on her shoulder. Yet for the moment Denise seemed cold and mute. Marpasse kissed her on the mouth, and the one woman’s lips unsealed the other’s soul. Before long Marpasse had drawn the whole tale from her, and Marpasse looked fierce over it, and yet more fierce when Denise betrayed the bitterness that had poisoned her heart.
“God in Heaven, child,” she broke in suddenly, “do you know what you are saying?”