The major remained with Timéa till late at night; perhaps if he left, some one might creep into the room again. They did not even know whether the assassin was man or woman. The only one who knew, Timéa, did not betray it, but kept to her assertion that she could not remember anything about it; her alarm had been so great that everything had faded from her memory like a dream.
She could not accuse Athalie, and was not even confronted with her.
Timéa was still crippled by her wounds, which healed slowly; but the shock to her nerves was more serious than the bodily injury, and she trembled for Athalie. Since that dreadful night she was never left alone—a doctor and a nurse watched her by turns. By day the major hardly left her side, and the magistrate often visited her in order to cross-examine her; but as soon as Athalie was mentioned. Timéa was silent, and not another word could be extracted from her.
The doctor advised at last that she should hear some amusing reading aloud. Timéa had left her bed, and sat up to receive visitors.
Herr Katschuka proposed to open the birthday letters which had been put aside on that eventful day. That would be as good as anything—the naïve congratulations of the god-children to the miraculously saved lady, which no one had yet read. Timéa's hands were still bandaged. Herr Katschuka opened the letters and read them aloud. The magistrate, too, was present. The patient's face brightened during the reading, which seemed to do her good.
"What a curious seal this is," said the major, as he took up a letter which had a golden beetle stuck on the wax.
"Very odd," said Timéa; "I noticed it too."
The major opened it. After he had read the first line—"Gracious lady, there is in your room a picture of St. George"—the words stuck in his throat, his eyes rolled wildly, and while he read on, his lips turned blue, and cold sweat stood on his brow: suddenly he threw the letter from him, and rushed like a madman to the picture, burst it in with his fist, and tore it and its heavy frame from the wall. There behind it yawned the dark depths of the secret chamber.
The major dashed into the darkness, and returned in a moment with the evidence of the murder—Athalie's bloody night-dress—in his hand. Timéa hid her face in horror. The magistrate picked up the letter, put it in his pocket, and took possession of the proofs.
Other things were found in this hiding-place: the box of poisons, and Athalie's diary, with the frightful confessions which threw light on her soul's dark abysses, as the phosphoric mollusks do in the coral forests of the sea. What monsters dwell there! Timéa forgets her wounds; with clasped hands she implores the gentlemen, the doctor, the magistrate, and her betrothed too, to tell no one, and keep the whole thing secret. But that would be impossible; the proofs are in the hands of justice, and there is no longer hope for Athalie except in God's mercy. And Timéa can no longer disregard the legal summons: as soon as she can leave her room, she must appear in court and be confronted with Athalie. This was a cruel task. Even now she would only say that she remembered nothing about the murderous attack.