“My child,” said a deep voice behind her, “don’t be so positive of that.”
It was Jeannille Marselon who spoke, and this was the third time she had opened her mouth to-day. Léocadia answered her with an insolent smile.
Meanwhile Bruno was requested to recount the circumstances of the murder. Then in truth he faltered, realizing how difficult it was to pass himself off for an assassin. So many wretched beings find it impossible to prove their innocence; and behold, here was a man vainly endeavoring to prove his guilt!
“It would be far easier, my boy, to establish your innocence,” said Jean Manant, ironically.
“Leave me, L’Ours,” returned Bruno, with vehemence. “Do not trouble me any more. Do you think I find it an agreeable duty to confess myself a criminal?”
“You are no criminal.—Am I not right, Sidonie?”
The little cripple answered with a sigh. Her tears made a greater impression upon Bruno than had all the preceding objurgations. The evidence that he was causing her torment, as well as the thought that she was wasting her love on him, stung his feelings. He who could not see a woman or child in danger without rushing to the rescue was now moved by the poor girl’s sorrow. But he soon rallied, and turning he said: “I stood here, and the keeper came from that direction. I took aim——”
Here he paused. Courage failed him. If they had accepted his word and taken him to prison, all would have been well. But to rack his brains to prove his guilt, that was another matter. To devise an infamous scheme to criminate himself before his friends as well as his enemies, that was too much. Speech deserted him.
“Come,” said L’Ours, “you do not know how to finish.—Monsieur Bérard, send a gendarme for Bruno’s gun, and you will see that it did not serve him last night.”
Plagnolles was despatched on the errand. L’Ours turned to the blacksmith.