I had stood bereft of speech, watching the scene breathlessly. And now I would have spoken had not Mademoiselle astonished me by taking the lead. I have thought since that I might have pieced together this much of her character. Her glance at Nick surprised him momentarily into silence.
“I know that she is my dearest friend,” she said, “that she came to us in misfortune, and that we love her and trust her. I do not know why she is here with Mr. Ritchie, but I am sure it is for some good reason.” She laid a hand on Mrs. Temple's shoulder. “Mrs. Clive, won't you speak to me?”
“My God, Antoinette, listen!” cried Nick; “Mrs. Clive is not her name. I know her, David knows her. She is an—adventuress!”
Mrs. Temple gave a cry, and the girl shot at him a frightened, bewildered glance, in which a new-born love struggled with an older affection.
“An adventuress!” she repeated, her hand dropping, “oh, I do not believe it. I cannot believe it.”
“You shall believe it,” said Nick, fiercely. “Her name is not Clive. Ask David what her name is.”
Antoinette's lips moved, but she shirked the question. And Nick seized me roughly.
“Tell her,” he said, “tell her! My God, how can I do it? Tell her, David.”
For the life of me I could not frame the speech at once, my pity and a new-found and surprising respect for her making it doubly hard to pronounce her sentence. Suddenly she raised her head, not proudly, but with a dignity seemingly conferred by years of sorrow and of suffering. Her tones were even, bereft of every vestige of hope.
“Antoinette, I have deceived you, though as God is my witness, I thought no harm could come of it. I deluded myself into believing that I had found friends and a refuge at last. I am Mrs. Temple.”