"Ah, monsieur, I should be unworthy of your generous aid if I concealed any portion of the truth from you, no matter how terrible it may be."
"What do you mean, madame?"
"Ah, monsieur," murmured Madame Bastien, with eyes downcast, "in a paroxysm of fever, or delirium, or I know not what, he lost his senses completely and went at night—"
"At night?"
"To the forest."
And as Madame Bastien again paused with a shudder, David repeated:
"To the forest?"
"Yes, to the forest, where he concealed himself behind a tree to shoot M. de Pont Brillant."
"A murderer!" exclaimed David, turning pale, "a murderer at sixteen."
"Have pity, monsieur, have pity," cried Marie, stretching out her hands imploringly.