here!
And you have the brazenness, the impudence to say that you have not
been living with Jean, that you have not been coming here at all hours
of the night for the last two years--as you have to-night--as you did
last night! Bah, you pitiful little hypocrite, would any one believe
you?"

"Yes, they would believe me!" Marie-Louise cried passionately. "And
_you_ will believe me! I will make you believe me! I will make you!
I will make you! I--" Her voice broke suddenly, and with a half sob
she dropped her hands to her sides. Her fury had gone and in its place
had come only a desperate earnestness to make mademoiselle believe.
She had been thinking of herself alone--and there was Jean! If
mademoiselle would not believe her, the shame would be Jean's too, and
the guilt that mademoiselle imagined would be Jean's guilt too. And
even if she must tell all about Father Anton bringing her to Hector and
Madame Mi-mi, she must make mademoiselle believe. "Mademoiselle"--she
was pleading now, her voice choking as she spoke--"mademoiselle,
see--listen! You must--you must believe! It is true, every word I
have said is true! And it is true that I love Jean, and that that is
why I came, but--but Jean has never seen me since that day he left
Bernay-sur-Mer. See, mademoiselle--listen! It is only a few days
since I came to Paris--see, mademoiselle, even this hat and cloak
proves it. I did not know that it was cold, that one needed such
things in Paris, and I had nothing except just the clothes I had worn
in Bernay-sur-Mer, and the night I came I went to Father Anton and he
gave the hat and cloak to me--but I did not know, mademoiselle, that
they had been yours. I wanted to see Jean again, not to let him know
that I was here, but only to see him, only to see his work. It was two
years, mademoiselle, two years--and Father Anton understood, only he
made me promise, mademoiselle, that I would not speak to Jean, that I
would not let Jean know that I was here. Listen--listen,
mademoiselle!" Marie-Louise's hands were raised again--but
entreatingly now. "It was only to see Jean again, and see his work,
and then I was going away. For nothing, for nothing in the world would
I let Jean know that I had come. And so--and so, mademoiselle, so
Father Anton arranged with Hector that I should do the work about the
salon and the _atelier_, but very early in the mornings before Jean was
up; and then because I came so early Hector gav