“The Cub-Slut” stood firm before Cæsar, provocative, with flashing eyes, in an attitude of challenge.
“You hated that dead boy so much as this?”
“Yes, him and all his family.”
“I can understand that if the father were alive, you might...”
“If he were alive! I would give my life to drag him out of his tomb, so as to make him suffer as much as he made me suffer.”
Cæsar vaguely remembered the story he had heard about this woman, whose adopted father had ruined her and then left her in a disreputable house in the Capital. In general, the most absolute lack of apprehension characterizes such village tragedies, and neither does the victim know she is a victim, nor the villain that he is a villain.
But in this case, judging by what “The Cub-Slut” was telling him, it had not been so; “Gaffer” had gone about it with a certain depravity, glutting his desires on her, and then selling her, putting her into an infamous house. The villain had been cruel and intelligent; the victim had realized that she was one, to the degree that her soul was filled with desires for vengeance.
“That man,” “The Cub-Slut” ended, sobbing, “took away my name and gave me a nickname; took away my honour, my life, everything; and if I cannot be revenged on him because he is dead, I will be revenged on his family.”
Cæsar listened attentively to the woman’s explanation, without interrupting her. Then, when she had finished speaking, he said:
“And why not go away?”