“Betrothed?” she echoed, staring at him.
“Yes. To whom? Tell me, mam’zelle,” he asked slowly.
She made no response. Her eyes were downcast; her cheeks suddenly pale. They were standing beneath the shadow of an ancient wide-spreading tree which struggled for existence at the edge of the Nile flood.
“He has said that I am betrothed—eh?” she asked, as though speaking to herself.
“He has told me so. Your future husband has been already chosen,” he said in a low, mechanical tone.
Her teeth were set, her sweet, refined countenance had grown even paler.
“Yes,” she admitted at last, drawing a deep breath. “My past has been bright and happy, but, alas! before me there now only lies tragedy; and despair. Ah! if I were but my own mistress—if only I could escape this grip of evil which is ever upon me!”
“Grip of evil! What do you mean?” he inquired eagerly.
“Ah! you do not know—you can never tell!” she cried. “The evil hand of Jules Gigleux is ever upon me, a hard, iron, inexorable hand. Ah! M’sieur Waldron, you would, if you only knew the truth, pity a woman who is in the power of a man of that stamp—a man who has neither feeling, nor conscience, neither human kindness nor remorse.”
“He’s a confounded brute—that I know. I feel sure of it,” her companion declared hastily. “But look here, mam’zelle, can’t I assist you? Can’t I help you out of this pitfall into which you seem to have fallen. Why should you be forced to marry this man whom your uncle has chosen—whoever he may be?”