She spoke earnestly in French, so that Ivan, the driver, could not understand; and the vehemence of her words showed her to be suffering from some injustice. I was amazed at her violent denunciation. Suddenly a thought occurred to me, and bending, I whispered into her ear.
“So Mademoiselle is a Nihilist?”
She started, turning pale. With trembling fingers she clutched my arm and gasped—
“Who—who told you? Have I betrayed my secret?”
“Words are an index to one’s convictions,” I replied briefly, smiling. “Now that I know that you are working for the Cause, surely I may know why you are going to Irkutsk.”
“Ah,” she cried, terribly agitated. “Do not let us discuss it. The driver may understand, and—and it would mean death!”
“Your secret is quite safe with me, Mariána,” I said, reassuringly, taking her gloved hand in mine, and I uttered one word that gave her confidence.
“I—I do trust you,” she replied, in a low, faltering voice. “Ah! You do not know my past!” And her breast heaved and fell in a long, deep-drawn sigh.
“May I not know it? Are the recollections so very bitter?”
“Bitter!” she cried. “It is a story of wretched duplicity and dishonour. If you knew all you would hate me; therefore it is best that I should keep my secret hidden, and when we part you will perhaps sometimes remember me with kindly thoughts.”