'It was she who told him? Ten days ago?'
'Yes.'
'And she spoke of lovers? Not of one only? Not of the little soldier only?—She said that I had taken lovers?'
'Yes,' said Jill. 'But she made him believe that she was sorry for you.'
At that a terrible look crossed Marthe Ludérac's face. It blanched with fury. So white, so flashing was the look that had the old lady stood before her she would, Jill felt, have been consumed.
'Perhaps she believed it,' Jill heard herself faltering.
Marthe Ludérac looked down upon the ground. 'Yes, she may have believed it. I was turned out of the house where I lodged. The two women who kept it are known to the curé here.'
'She is not safe to live with, Marthe,' said Jill in a low voice. 'You must know that already, I think. She's your wounded cat and you took her in from pity; but she bites your hand.'
'Yes,' said Marthe Ludérac. She looked away, down at the Manoir roof; looked for a long time; and Jill saw the passion falling away, pulse by pulse, from her face. It was cold and still as she said at last: 'You remind me of justice.'
'Of justice?—You mean you will turn her out?'
'No; I do not mean that. She is the wounded cat. That is the truth.—That is the truth,' Mademoiselle Ludérac repeated, fixing her eyes on the ground.
