“That road, monsieur, is the ravine where there is a cross, is it not?”
If Honorine had been next to Agathe, she would have pinched her viciously, to make her regret her question, but their escort separated them; so that she could only make a convulsive movement, which she instantly checked, pretending that she had made a misstep.
“Yes, mademoiselle,” replied Paul curtly, “that is the ravine of the cross.”
“We have been told a very sad story about that cross—that a young man was found dead on that spot, nine or ten years ago, I believe. Is it true, monsieur?”
Honorine would have beaten Agathe with the greatest satisfaction; she began to cough as if she would tear her throat to tatters.
“I too have heard of that occurrence, mademoiselle,” replied their companion in a gloomy tone.
“And the unfortunate man’s assassins have never been discovered?”
“Assassins!” exclaimed Paul in a loud voice, raising his head proudly. “Who told you, mademoiselle, that the person found dead on that spot had been assassinated?”
“Oh! mon Dieu! no one, monsieur, no one. I said that, because the people who tell the story——”
“The world almost always judges falsely; it never knows the true inwardness of things; and as it is more disposed to believe evil than good, as soon as a stranger is found dead by the roadside, it says: ‘He was murdered!’—You are still very young, mademoiselle! Distrust the judgments of the world; you will often have occasion to realize their injustice.”