Arriving at the table, she lifted her veil. Never had beauty less disputable but none more pale met the eyes of man; it was a goddess in marble.
All eyes were fixed upon her, while Gilbert panted.
"Citizen"—she addressed Maillard in a voice as sweet as firm—"you are the president?"
"Yes, citizeness," replied the judge, startled at his being questioned.
"I am the Countess of Charny, wife of the count of that house, killed on the infamous tenth of August; an aristocrat and the bosom friend of the queen, I have deserved death, and I come to seek it."
The judges uttered a cry of surprise, and Gilbert turned pale and shrunk as far as he could back into the angle by the door to escape Andrea's gaze.
"Citizens," said Maillard, who saw the doctor's plight, "this creature has gone mad through the death of her husband; let us pity her, and let her senses have a chance to come back. The justice of the people does not fall on the insane."
He rose and was going to lay his hands on Andrea's head as he did when he pronounced those innocent; but she pushed aside his hand.
"I have my full reason," she said; "and if you want to pardon any one, let it be one who craves it and merits it, but not I, who deserve it not and reject it."
Maillard turned to Gilbert and saw that he was wringing his clasped hands.