“If I believed your story, I should tell you that it was your duty to have hastened to Montaignac and informed the authorities. But what you say is untrue. You did not leave Lacheneur, you accompanied him.”
“No, Monsieur, no!”
“And what if I could prove this fact beyond all question?”
“Impossible, Monsieur, since such was not the case.”
By the malicious satisfaction that lighted M. de Sairmeuse’s face, the abbe knew that this wicked judge had some terrible weapon in his hands, and that Baron d’Escorval was about to be overwhelmed by one of those fatal coincidences which explain, although they do not justify, judicial errors.
At a sign from the counsel for the prosecution, the Marquis de Courtornieu left his seat and came forward to the platform.
“I must request you, Monsieur le Marquis,” said the duke, “to have the goodness to read to the commission the deposition written and signed by your daughter.”
This scene must have been prepared in advance for the audience. M. de Courtornieu cleaned his glasses, drew from his pocket a paper which he unfolded, and amid a death-like silence, he read:
“I, Blanche de Courtornieu, do declare upon oath that, on the evening of the fourth of February, between ten and eleven o’clock, on the public road leading from Sairmeuse to Montaignac, I was assailed by a crowd of armed brigands. While they were deliberating as to whether they should take possession of my person and pillage my carriage, I overheard one of these men say to another, speaking of me: ‘She must get out, must she not, Monsieur d’Escorval?’ I believe that the brigand who uttered these words was a peasant named Chanlouineau, but I dare not assert it on oath.”
A terrible cry, followed by inarticulate moans, interrupted the marquis.