“You are right, monsieur. I made a mistake. I did not enter by this door. I came through the garden and the vestibule ... by aid of a ladder—”
It was a supreme effort of true devotion. But a useless effort! The words rang false. The voice did not carry conviction, and the poor girl no longer displayed those clear, fearless eyes and that natural air of innocence which had served her so well. Now, she bowed her head—vanquished.
The silence became painful. Madame d’Imblevalle was waiting for her husband’s next move, overwhelmed with anxiety and fear. The baron appeared to be struggling against the dreadful suspicion, as if he would not submit to the overthrow of his happiness. Finally, he said to his wife:
“Speak! Explain!”
“I have nothing to tell you,” she replied, in a very low voice, and with features drawn by anguish.
“So, then ... Mademoiselle....”
“Mademoiselle saved me ... through devotion ... through affection ... and accused herself....”
“Saved you from what? From whom?”
“From that man.”
“Bresson?”