passion, whose mouth was distorted with bitterness, whose eyes sparkled with anger, she no longer recognized little Madame Maitland, so taciturn, so reserved that she was looked upon as insignificant.  What had that voice, usually so musical, told her; that voice so suddenly become harsh, and which had already revealed to her the great danger suspended over Boleslas?  To what woman had that voice alluded, and what meant that sudden reticence?

Lydia was fully aware of the grief into which she would plunge Maud without the slightest premeditation.  For a moment she thought it almost a crime to say more to a woman thus deluded.  But at the same time she saw in the revelation two certain results.  In undeceiving Madame Gorka she made a mortal enemy for Madame Steno, and, on the other hand, never would the woman so deeply in love with her husband allow him to fight for a former mistress.  So, when they both entered the small salon of the Moorish mansion, Lydia’s resolution was taken.  She was determined to conceal nothing of what she knew from unhappy Maud, who asked her, with a beating heart, and in a voice choked by emotion: 

“Now, will you explain to me what you want to say?”

“Question me,” replied the other; “I will answer you.  I have gone too far to draw back.”

“You claimed that a woman was the cause of the duel between your brother and my husband?”

“I am sure of it,” replied Lydia.

“What is that woman’s name?”

“Madame Steno.”

“Madame Steno?” repeated Maud.  “Catherine Steno is the cause of that duel?  How?”

“Because she is my husband’s mistress,” replied Lydia, brutally; “because she has been your husband’s, because Gorka came here, mad with jealousy, to provoke Lincoln, and because he met my brother, who prevented him from entering....  They quarrelled, I know not in what manner.  But I know the cause of the duel....  Am I right, yes or no, in telling you they are to fight about that woman?”

“My husband’s mistress?” cried Maud.  “You say Madame Steno has been my husband’s mistress?  It is not true.  You lie!  You lie!  You lie!  I do not believe it.”

“You do not believe me?” said Lydia, shrugging her shoulders.  “As if I had the least interest in deceiving you; as if one would lie when the life of the only being one loves in the world is in the balance!  For I have only my brother, and perhaps to-morrow I shall no longer have him....  But you shall believe me.  I desire that we both hate that woman, that we both be avenged upon her, as we both do not wish the duel to take place—­the duel of which, I repeat, she is the cause, the sole cause....  You do not believe me?  Do you know what caused your husband to return?  You did not expect him; confess!  It was I—­I, do you hear—­who wrote him what Steno and Lincoln were doing; day after day I wrote about their love, their meetings, their bliss.  Ah, I was sure it would not be in vain, and he returned.  Is that a proof?”