If he loved his son he ought to know the thing that
threatened him; if he hated his son he ought to know. So, after a
moment's study of the face with the fiery eyes and a complexion like
roses touched with frost, he said slowly:
"Well, have I the honour of addressing Carnac Grier's wife?"
Barouche had had many rewards in his life, but the sweetest reward of all
was now his own. As events proved, he had taken a course which, if he
cared for his son, was for that son's well-being, and if he cared for
himself most, was essential to his own well-being.
Relief crossed the woman's face. "I'll tell you everything," she said.
Then Luzanne told her story, avoiding the fact that Carnac had been
tricked into the marriage. At last she said: "Now I've come here to
make him acknowledge me. He's ruined my life, broken my hopes, and--"
"Broken your hopes!" interrupted Barode Barouche. "How is that?"
"I might have married some one else. I could have married some one
else."
"Well, why don't you? There's the Divorce Court. What's to prevent it?"
"You ask me that--you a Frenchman and a Roman Catholic! I'm French.
I was born in Paris."
"When will you let me see your papers?"
"When do you want to see them?"
"To-day-if possible to-day," he answered. Then he held her eyes. "To
whom else here have you told this story?"
"No one--no one. I only came last night, and when I took up the paper
this morning, I saw.
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