She was ghastly pale: the rough ordeal of imprisonment had robbed her
dress and demeanour of all its coquetry; but she faced the magistrate
with self-possessed, insolent effrontery, and met his stern look with
cold, unflinching eyes.
"Why am I brought here?" she began, fiercely. "How dare you detain me?
You and your masters shall answer for this ill-usage. I am an English
lady, belonging to one of the proudest families in the country. The
British Embassy, the British nation, will call you to the strictest
account."
"Ta! ta! ta!" said the judge, with a gesture of the hand essentially
French; "I think you are slightly mistaken; you are no more English than I
am. I know you, and all about you, Cyprienne Vergette--otherwise Gascoigne,
otherwise Wilders.
"Shall I tell you a little of your early history? How you eloped from
Gibraltar, where your father was Vice-Consul; how you came to Paris
with your lover; your marriage, your life, your desertion of your
husband, your association with Ledantec, your second marriage, your
plots against Milord Essendine and his family, your murder--"
"It is a lie!" she interrupted him, hastily. "I never committed
murder."
"You compassed Lord Lydstone's death, although you did not strike the
blow. You would have caused the death of another English officer, but,
happily, he has escaped your murderous intrigues.
Pages:
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406