"What!" cried the Duke; and a sudden flame of anger flared up in his eyes.
"No; I could not . . . and then I robbed him. . . . I preferred to . . . it was more decent. Ah, I had excuses then. I began to steal to remain an honest woman . . . and I've gone on stealing to keep up appearances. You see . . . I joke about it." And she laughed, the faint, dreadful, mocking laugh of a damned soul. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" she cried; and, burying her face in her hands, she burst into a storm of weeping.
"Poor child," said the Duke softly. And he stared gloomily on the ground, overcome by this revelation of the tortures of the feeble in the underworld beneath the Paris he knew.
"Oh, you do pity me . . . you do understand . . . and feel," said Sonia, between her sobs.
The Duke raised his head and gazed at her with eyes full of an infinite sympathy and compassion.
"Poor little Sonia," he said gently. "I understand."
She gazed at him with incredulous eyes, in which joy and despair mingled, struggling.
He came slowly towards her, and stopped short. His quick ear had caught the sound of a footstep outside the door.
