“What you said to me then,” he pursued, in the same cruel quietness of tone—­“what you said to me then, as to the influence of a bad woman in a man’s life, seemed to me—­what shall I say?—­not precisely exaggerated, but somewhat overwrought.  I didn’t know it could be so true to the actual facts of experience.  My friend’s words at times were almost an echo of your own.  He had been the lover of a woman—­”

Once more she started, raising her hand in silent protest against the words.

“He—­had—­been—­the—­lover—­of—­a—­woman,” he repeated, with slow emphasis, “who, after having ruined her husband’s life, was preparing to ruin his.  She would have ruined his as she had ruined the lives of other men before him.  When he endeavored to elude her, she set on her husband to call him out.  There was a duel—­or the semblance of a duel.  My friend fired into the air.  The poor devil of a husband shot himself.  It appears that he had every reason for doing so.”

“My husband didn’t shoot himself.”

“Your husband?” he asked, with an ironical lifting of the eyebrows.  “What makes you think I’ve been speaking of him?”

“The man whom you call your friend is the Marquis de Bienville—­”

“He didn’t mention your name; but I see you’re able to tell me his.  It’s what I was afraid of.  I’ve repeated only a very little of what he said; but since you recognize its truth already, it isn’t necessary to continue.”

She passed her hand over her forehead, with the gesture of one trying desperately to see aright.

“I must ask you to tell me plainly:  Was I the—­the unscrupulous woman into whose toils Monsieur de Bienville fell?”

“He didn’t say so.”

“Then why—­why have you spoken of this to me?”

“Because what I heard from him fitted in so exactly with what I had heard from you that it made an entire story.  It was like the two parts of a puzzle.  The one without the other is incomplete and perplexing; but having both, you can see the perfect whole.  I will be frank enough to tell you that many of your sayings were dark to me until I had his to lend them light.”

“Would it be of any use to say that what he told you wasn’t true?”

“I don’t know that it would be of any use to say it, unless it could be proved.”

“Did you ask him to give you proof?”

“No; because you had already provided me with that.

“How?”

“Surely you must remember telling me that you had ruined one rich man, and might ruin another:  that no man could cope with a woman such as you were two or three years ago.  There were these things—­there were other things—­many other things—­”

“And that’s what you understood from them?”

“I understood nothing whatever.  If I thought of such words at all, it was to attribute them to a morbid sensibility.  It wasn’t until I got their interpretation that they came back to me.  It wasn’t until I had met some one who knew you before I did, and better than I did—­”