“Yes, sir.”
“Raise your hand.”
Edmée turned towards Arthur with a sad smile. He took off her glove, and helped to raise her arm, which hung nerveless and powerless by her side. I felt big tears rolling down my cheeks.
With delicacy and simplicity Edmée related how she and I had lost our way in the woods; how I, under the impression that her horse had bolted, had unseated her in my eager anxiety to stop the animal; how a slight altercation had ensued, after which, with a little feminine temper, foolish enough, she had wished to mount her mare again without help; how she had even spoken unkindly to me, not meaning a word of what she said, for she loved me like a brother; how, deeply hurt by her harshness, I had moved away a few yards to obey her; and how, just as she was about to follow me, grieved herself at our childish quarrel, she had felt a violent shock in her breast, and had fallen almost without hearing any report. It was impossible for her to say in which direction she was looking, or from which side the shot had come.
“That is all that happened,” she added. “Of all people I am least able to explain this occurrence. In my soul and conscience I can only attribute it to the carelessness of one of the hunting party, who is afraid to confess. Laws are so severe. And it is so difficult to prove the truth.”
“So, mademoiselle, you do not think that your cousin was the author of this attempt?”
“No, sir, certainly not! I am no longer delirious, and I should not have let myself be brought before you if I had felt that my mind was at all weak.”
“Apparently, then, you consider that a state of mental aberration was responsible for the revelations you made to Patience, to Mademoiselle Leblanc, your companion, and also, perhaps, to Abbé Aubert.”
“I made no revelations,” she replied emphatically, “either to the worthy Patience, the venerable abbé, or my servant Leblanc. If the meaningless words we utter in a state of delirium are to be called ‘revelations,’ all the people who frighten us in our dreams would have to be condemned to death. How could I have revealed facts of which I never had any knowledge?”
“But at the time you received the wound, and fell from your horse, you said: ‘Bernard, Bernard! I should never have thought that you would kill me!’ ”
“I do not remember having said so; and, even if I did, I cannot conceive that anyone would attach much importance to the impressions of a person who had suddenly been struck to the ground, and whose mind was annihilated, as it were. All that I know is that Bernard de Mauprat would lay down his life for my father or myself; which does not make it very probable that he wanted to murder me. Great God! what would be his object?”
In order to embarrass Edmée, the president now utilized all the arguments which could be drawn from Mademoiselle Leblanc’s evidence. As a fact, they were calculated to cause her not a little confusion. Edmée, who was at first somewhat astonished to find that the law was in possession of so many details which she believed were unknown to others, regained her courage and pride, however, when they suggested, in those brutally chaste terms which are used by the law in such a case, that she had been a victim of my violence at Roche-Mauprat. Her spirit thoroughly roused, she proceeded to defend my character and her own honour, and declared that, considering how I had been brought up, I had behaved much more honourably than might have been expected. But she still had to explain all her life from this point onward, the breaking off of her engagement with M. de la Marche, her frequent quarrels with myself, my sudden departure for America, her refusal of all offers of marriage.
“All these questions are abominable,” she said, rising suddenly, her physical strength having returned with the exercise of her mental powers. “You ask me to give an account of my inmost feelings; you would sound the mysteries of my soul; you put my modesty on the rack; you would take to yourself rights that belong only to God. I declare to you that, if my own life were now at stake and not another’s, you should not extract a word more from me. However, to save the life of the meanest of men I would overcome my repugnance; much more, therefore, will I do for him who is now at the bar. Know then—since you force me to a confession which is painful to the pride and reserve of my sex—that everything which to you seems inexplicable in my conduct, everything which you attribute to Bernard’s persecutions and my own resentment, to his threats and my terror, finds its justification in one word: I love him!”
On uttering this word, the red blood in her cheeks, and in the ringing tone of the proudest and most passionate soul that ever existed, Edmée sat down again and buried her face in her hands. At this moment I was so transported that I could not help crying out:
“Let them take me to the scaffold now; I am king of all the earth!”
“To the scaffold! You!” said Edmée, rising again. “Let them rather take me. Is it your fault, poor boy, if for seven years I have hidden from you the secret of my affections; if I did not wish you to know it until you were the first of men in wisdom and intelligence as you are already the first in greatness of heart? You are paying dearly for my ambition, since it has been interpreted as scorn and hatred. You have good reason to hate me, since my pride has brought you to the felon’s dock. But I will wash away your shame by a signal
