"Oh, certainly!" she cried, eagerly. "If this is all you need to convince you—"
She took one of the three apples which Desmalions handed her from the dish and lifted it to her mouth.
It was a decisive act. If the two marks resembled each other, the proof existed, assured and undeniable.
Before completing her movement, she stopped short, as though seized with a sudden fear…. Fear of what? Fear of the monstrous chance that might be her undoing? Or fear rather of the dread weapon which she was about to deliver against herself? In any case nothing accused her with greater directness than this last hesitation, which was incomprehensible if she was innocent, but clear as day if she was guilty!
"What are you afraid of, Madame?" asked M. Desmalions.
"Nothing, nothing," she said, shuddering. "I don't know…. I am afraid of everything…. It is all so horrible—"
"But, Madame, I assure you that what we are asking of you has no sort of importance and, I am persuaded, can only have a fortunate result for you. If you don't mind, therefore—"
She raised her hand higher and yet higher, with a slowness that betrayed her uneasiness. And really, in the fashion in which things were happening, the scene was marked by a certain solemnity and tragedy that wrung every heart.
"And, if I refuse?" she asked, suddenly.
"You are absolutely entitled to refuse," said the Prefect of Police. "But is it worth while, Madame? I am sure that your counsel would be the first to advise you—"