“At this hour of the night?”
“MON DIEU! yes—and not for pleasure, I assure you—not by any means—I—I——” She was evidently seeking for some excuse; and, for a moment or two, she stammered forth one incoherent sentence after another, trying to gain time and imploring Heaven to grant her an inspiration.
“Well?” insisted Mademoiselle Marguerite, impatiently. “Why did you go out?”
“Ah! I—I—thought I heard Mirza barking in the garden. I thought she had been forgotten in all the confusion, and that the poor creature had been shut out, so I summoned all my courage, and——”
Mirza was an old spaniel that M. de Chalusse had been very fond of, and the animal’s caprices were respected by all the inmates of the house.
“That’s very strange,” remarked Mademoiselle Marguerite, “for when you rose to leave the room, half an hour ago, Mirza was sleeping at your feet.”
“What—really—is it possible?”
“It’s certain.”
But the worthy woman had already recovered her self-possession and her accustomed loquacity at the same time. “Ah! my dear young lady,” she said, bravely, “I’m in such sorrow that I’m losing my senses completely. Still, it was only from the kindest of motives that I ventured into the garden, and I had scarcely entered it before I saw something white run away from me—I felt sure it was Mirza—and so I ran after it. But I could find nothing. I called ‘Mirza! Mirza!’ and still nothing. I searched under all the trees, and yet I could not find her. It was as dark as pitch, and suddenly a terrible fear seized hold of me—such a terrible fright that I really believe I called for help, and I ran back to the house half crazed.”
Any one hearing her would have sworn that she was telling the truth. But, unfortunately, her earlier manner had proved her guilt.