“I’ll tell you. I was divorced--it was legal in California, though Aristide swore it wasn’t. He came at me like a wild beast. He tried to get the decree set aside. He threatened; he swore vengeance. Then I told him that I’d die before I went back to him. I meant it, and he knew it. I remember when we were first married, and I was only fifteen, I used to go about looking for places to throw myself into the Seine; but I never could, it was so dirty!” She shuddered. “He vowed he’d never let me go, and he never has. He followed me about and published false stories about me. Once he got me arrested for theft. I was innocent. He couldn’t prove it, and they let me go. He tried and tried to get me back, to take away my work and starve me into coming back. Then, when he saw that I wouldn’t come back, he was terrible. I married William. No, not in Paris! We were married in New York when the ship docked. You didn’t know that, _n’est-ce-pas_? But what would you? I couldn’t be married in Paris. I couldn’t tell my story; I wouldn’t tell it.” She raised tortured eyes to Daniel’s face. “I loved William; I couldn’t risk it. We were married, and Corwin heard of it. He wrote me a letter then. He said he’d ruin me; he’d see to it that my husband got a divorce; he’d fix me--and he’s done it!” “Have you got that letter?” Daniel asked quickly, a flash in his dark eyes. “Where is it?” “I’ll give it to you,” she said brokenly. “It’s all true, Dan, this time--all true! You can have his letter. That night--the ride--your father thinks I disgraced you all. I went alone. Corwin rode after me, and I did go back with him. I ate dinner with him. I begged him not to ruin me; not to publish lies about me. I begged and begged. I had no money. He had always taken every cent I earned, and the little I got after the divorce I’d paid out for clothes--all but a trifle. I offered that, and he laughed at me. He boasted that he had me; that no other man would keep me. He said I’d be turned out of a respectable family when he got done with me--and then I would come back to him.” She turned with a pitiful gesture. “I could do nothing to stop his mouth. Who would speak for me? Whoever speaks for a woman when a man like that blackmails her? You--you all hated me!” Daniel, who had risen, stood looking at her, his face brooding. “On my soul, Fanchon, I pity you!” he said simply. “But why--why, in Heaven’s name, didn’t you tell William the truth?” She shivered, cowering away from him. “I--I’ve always been a liar,” she replied with white lips. “I was brought up to lie. And”--she rose and faced him--“I couldn’t give him up. He was good, he loved me--_mon Dieu_!” She covered her face with her shaking hands. “And I’ve ruined his brother, the boy who liked me so well!”