"What is it?" she asked simply.
"Does Sir Percy Blakeney know that. . .I mean, does he know
the part you played in the arrest of the Marquis de St. Cyr?"
She laughed--a mirthless, bitter, contemptuous laugh, which
was like a jarring chord in the music of her voice.
"That I denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr, you mean, to the
tribunal that ultimately sent him and all his family to the
guillotine? Yes, he does know. . . . . I told him after I married
him. . . ."
"You told him all the circumstances--which so completely
exonerated you from any blame?"
"It was too late to talk of `circumstances'; he heard the
story from other sources; my confession came too tardily, it seems. I
could no longer plead extenuating circumstances: I could not demean
myself by trying to explain--"
"And?"
"And now I have the satisfaction, Armand, of knowing that the
biggest fool in England has the most complete contempt for his wife."
She spoke with vehement bitterness this time, and Armand St.
Just, who loved her so dearly, felt that he had placed a somewhat
clumsy finger upon an aching wound.
"But Sir Percy loved you, Margot," he repeated gently.
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