"O my grief, to think you have come here-you!" she burst forth. "You
steal the best heart in the world--there is none like her, nannin-gia.
You promise her, you break her life, you spoil her, and then you fly away
--ah coward you! Man pethe benin, was there ever such a man like you!
If my Jean there had done a thing as that I would sink him in the sea--
he would sink himself, je me crais! But you come back here, O my Mother
of God, you come back here with your sword, with your crown-ugh, it is
like a black cat in heaven--you!"

She got to her feet more nimbly than she had ever done in her life, and
the floor seemed to heave as she came towards Philip. "You speak to me
with soft words," she said harshly--"but you shall have the good hard
truth from me. You want to know now where she is--I ask where you have
been these five years? Your voice it tremble when you speak of her now.
Oh ho! it has been nice and quiet these five years. The grand pethe of
her drop dead in his chair when he know. The world turn against her,
make light of her, when they know. All alone--she is all alone, but for
one fat old fool like me. She bear all the shame, all the pain, for
the crime of you. All alone she take her child and go on to the rock of
Plemont to live these five years. But you, you go and get a crown and be
Amiral and marry a grande comtesse--marry, oh, je crais ben! This is no
world for such men like you. You come to my house, to the house of Jean
Touzel, to ask this and that--well, you have the truth of God, ba su!
No good will come to you in the end, nannin-gia! When you go to die,
you will think and think and think of that beautiful Guida Landresse;
you will think and think of the heart you kill, and you will call,
and she will not come. You will call till your throat rattle, but she
will not come, and the child of sorrow you give her will not come--no,
bidemme! E'fin, the door you shut you can open now, and you can go from
the house of Jean Touzel. It belong to the wife of an honest man--