“But then,” she repeated, almost panting, “is it true, can it really be true, that you think I have committed it?”
“Perhaps you have only ordered it to be committed.”
With a wild gesture she raised her arms to heaven, and cried in a heart-rending voice,—
“O God, O God! He believes it! he really believes it!”
There followed great silence, dismal, formidable silence, such as in nature follows the crash of the thunderbolt.
Standing face to face, Jacques and the Countess Claudieuse looked at each other madly, feeling that the fatal hour in their lives had come at last.
Each felt a growing, a sure conviction of the other. There was no need of explanations. They had been misled by appearances: they acknowledged it; they were sure of it.
And this discovery was so fearful, so overwhelming, that neither thought of who the real guilty one might be.
“What is to be done?” asked the countess.
“The truth must be told,” replied Jacques.