"Enough of this," he interrupted angrily; "it was not to learn these prison exploits I came here."
"Who would think, to hear you speak, now, that you ever cared for me—ever loved me?" she said, after a few moments.
"You are wrong. There was passion, folly, madness; but there was not love."
"Not love, as you know it, now?"
"Not love, as I know it, now." Their eyes met, gleaming rather fiercely. Regine softened.
"It is you who are wrong. It was whole, true, honest love. I will think so. You shall not rob me of that thought—that consolation. You do not know how precious it is to believe that I was once loved so wholly and truly as you loved me."
"And that love—how did you meet it?—how did you requite it?"
She turned away.
"There are some things you will never know," she said. "There are some secrets you must not seek to share. Perhaps it was because I knew myself better than you did. Perhaps it was because I knew the wretchedness to which your love for me must lead. Do me at least this justice. Whatever others did, I did not seek to win your love. I held out no allurement to you. I laid no trap. Nay, I did all I could to make myself repellent to you; to warn you of the danger _there would be to you in loving me. Is not that true?"
"It is true, Regine. Would that we had never met!"
"I may say Amen. But what does it avail—the past is past. We have met. For the future—"
"Yes, for the future—let us consider that. The past is gone—dead—buried. Its secrets are known only to us. Let them not be revealed. You know that I have seen Madam Pichot—."
"Hush! say Boisfleury. Pichot is an unlucky name. I tremble when I hear it; I hardly know why. Pray, have you set spies upon me? Have you had me followed? My steps dogged? Who does this? It is not you? Well, we shall see. Never mind. Do not say Pichot,—say Boisfleury."
"Madame Boisfleury, then. You know the sum of money she has demanded of me?"
"I do know—it is shameful; but, no matter; as I have said, this money shall not be paid."
"Why is money wanted—are you poor?"
"No. We are not rich; but we are not poor. We can live—easily—the more so if we could help—but we can't—getting into debt, being foolish and extravagant. It is not for us the money is Wanted."
"For whom, then?"
"M. Dominique."
"He is ill, at Paris."
She laughed scornfully.
"He is enduring his sentence: the galleys for twenty years—let us say for life—he will not survive the term."
"Upon what charge?"
"A score of charges. He was tried for robbery and attempt to murder. He was sentenced as I have said."
"Of what avail will the money be to him?"
"It will purchase his escape. So madame dreams. She is a devoted wife: let us say that for her."
"And the money left by my uncle?"
"All gone—gambled away—flung from the window."
"And the money received from me?"
"Spent in the same way."
"I know not what to do. Sometimes I think that if it would purchase me immunity for the future, I would raise this sum, though, to do so, I should have to pay very dearly. I should have to sacrifice all hope of provision after my death for her who has such just claims upon me, for my child—"
"You have a child?—a son? Is he like you? Ah! Yes; it seems you love her very dearly—more than you ever loved me. It is strange, how little of value your love was to me when it was solely mine; yet now, when it has gone from me for ever, how I yearn for it again. It has not wholly gone from me, Monsieur Wilford. Say that you have yet some feeling for me."
"Why do you talk in this way, Regine," he answered, sternly. "Do you forget everything! Be undeceived. Learn that my love, if love there ever was between us, is now dead, stone dead. It can never be brought to life again. Heaven forbid it ever should. You know what act killed it. You know when struck by your hand it fell down and died."
"I know," she moaned, covering her face with her hands. "There is no need to remind me of these things; yet there may be excuses for me, only they may not be told to you, least of all by me. So then, now, you love this child, this wife?" She laid a stress upon the word.
"I do," he answered, firmly, "with all my soul."
"She is good, this Madame Violet—is not that her name? I heard Madame Boisfleuy tell it. She is beautiful—is she not? She is worthy of your love. Oh, how I wish that I could see her! May I see her, Monsieur Wilford?"
"You see her!" he cried. "Dare not attempt it; dare not think of such a thing! What wrong has she ever done to you?"
"You are very cruel, Monsieur Wilford," said Regine; "but you are right. I ought not to think of seeing her, yet your words seem very bitter. Well, I have deserved them all, and more, much more. You shall he obeyed. I will not seek to see 'her. 1 will go. I will quit this London, this country, for ever. An engagement has been offered to me at the theatre of Barcelona. I will accept it. I will go. I will die far away in a foreign land. You shall never more see my face. Will not this be the best? Will there not be in this some reparation, the best, the only atonement I can make, for the wrong done to you in the past, Monsieur Wilford?"
"This will be the best, Regine."
"How your voice sounds cold to me now! How different was it all once. How it was soft and gentle; how your eyes glowed; how your cheeks burned; how your frame trembled, when of old you told me first of your love for me, and