“I have been in Méricourt since you,” he went on, without a change of intonation, “and I was witness to what I say. The bubble is burst--the superstition, by this time, a black memory. The tree that she haunted, she haunted because it contained in its hollow heart the dead body of Baptiste, her little brother, whom she had murdered--morally, before God, whom she had murdered, I say--out of her hatred of him. She haunted the scene of her crime, and, when that was threatened with detection, she invented the legend of the vision to cover it. But retribution abided, and, when that threatened, she fled.” For a moment silence fell between the two. The wind shrilled in their ears; the hollow wash and sweep of the river came up to them. “If it is true,” whispered Théroigne at last--“if it is true!” “It is true.” She seemed to gaze at without seeing him. “So worn and so pitiful!” she muttered; “and I took her in, and clung to her, and found my own religion justified in hers.” Suddenly she was hurrying from him, speeding upwards towards the bridge. He stood paralysed an instant; then sprang and overtook her, walking by her side. “Where are you going?” he cried. “To hurl her into hell!” she shrieked, “if it is as you say.” They drove on together, across the river, through the blown darkness. Presently she stopped, and turned upon him once more. “Why do you follow me?” “To see that you do nothing that shall enable you before God to testify against me.” “Ah!” she cried, with a most bitter derision. “You are not desperate. You have never loved, as I read it--as Nicette reads it. You have never staked your soul against your heart. And this is what she hath done for the sake of one little glimpse of her heaven--of seeing you without being seen.” “She sent you to tell me so?” “You lie!” said the woman quietly. “I took her secret from her because she was worn and despairing; and then she implored me only to show her where she might, hidden, look upon you once again, and so die and rest forgotten.” She struck her palms together. “And now--now!” she muttered. She fled on her way. The man had some ado to keep up with her. He went, indeed, at length, with loaded steps, on this wild, sorrowful night. To love and lose, and to be so loved! It was a stab of poignant anguish to his heart that what he had held so sacred in himself should be claimed of a vileness with which he had no sentiment in common. But this--surely this: the love that can exonerate even wickedness done for its sake. The wretched woman loved him--perhaps with a love as intrinsically pure as that he had given to Pamela. He groaned as he sped on. They crossed the quays, and hurried by the Place of the Three Marys. A frowzy tricoteuse, coming from a wine-shop, recognised Théroigne, and stood barring their path. “_Ame traîtresse_! _Modératrice_!” cried the creature, in guttural fury, and broke into a torrent of oaths.