Mademoiselle Marguerite hastily interrupted him. “But I have not doubted him for a second!” she exclaimed. “Doubt Pascal! I doubt Pascal! I would sooner doubt myself. I might commit a dishonorable act; I am only a poor, weak, ignorant girl, while he—he——You don’t know, then, that he was my conscience? Before undertaking anything, before deciding upon anything, if ever I felt any doubt, I asked myself, ‘What would he do?’ And the mere thought of him is sufficient to banish any unworthy idea from my heart.” Her tone and manner betokened complete and unwavering confidence; and her faith imparted an almost sublime expression to her face. “If I was overcome, monsieur,” she continued, “it was only because I was appalled by the audacity of the accusation. How was it possible to make Pascal even SEEM to be guilty of a dishonorable act? This is beyond my powers of comprehension. I am only certain of one thing—that he is innocent. If the whole world rose to testify against him, it would not shake my faith in him, and even if he confessed that he was guilty I should be more likely to believe that he was crazed than culpable!”
A bitter smile curved her lips, she was beginning to judge the situation more correctly, and in a calmer tone she resumed: “Moreover, what does circumstantial evidence prove? Did you not this morning hear all our servants declaring that I was accountable for M. de Chalusse’s millions? Who knows what might have happened if it had not been for your intervention? Perhaps, by this time, I should have been in prison.”
“This is not a parallel case, my child.”
“It IS a parallel case, monsieur. Suppose, for one moment, that I had been formally accused—what do you think Pascal would have replied if people had gone to him, and said, ‘Marguerite is a thief?’ He would have laughed them to scorn, and have exclaimed, ‘Impossible!”’
The magistrate’s mind was made up. In his opinion, Pascal Ferailleur was guilty. Still it was useless to argue with the girl, for he felt that he should not be able to convince her. However, he determined, if possible, to ascertain her plans in order to oppose them, if they seemed to him at all dangerous. “Perhaps you are right, my child,” he conceded, “still, this unfortunate affair must change all your arrangements.”
“Rather, it modifies them.” Surprised by her calmness, he looked at her inquiringly. “An hour ago,” she added, “I had resolved to go to Pascal and claim his aid and protection as one claims an undeniable right or the fulfilment of a solemn promise; but now—”
“Well?” eagerly asked the magistrate.
“I am still resolved to go to him—but as an humble suppliant. And I shall say to him, ‘You are suffering, but no sorrow is intolerable when there are two to bear the burden; and so, here I am. Everything else may fail you—your dearest friends may basely desert you; but here am I. Whatever your plans may be—whether you have decided to leave Europe or to remain in Paris to watch for your hour of vengeance, you will need a faithful, trusty companion—a confidant—and here I am! Wife, friend, sister—I will be which ever you desire. I am yours—yours unconditionally.’” And as if in reply to a gesture of surprise which escaped the magistrate, she added: “He is unhappy—I am free—I love him!”
The magistrate was struck dumb with astonishment. He knew that she would surely do what she said; he had realized that she was one of those generous, heroic women who are capable of any sacrifice for the man they love—a woman who would never shrink from what she considered to be her duty, who was utterly incapable of weak hesitancy or selfish calculation.
“Fortunately, my dear young lady, your devotion will no doubt be useless,” he said at last.