"Without suspecting that it was other than that for which you had asked?"
"Yes."
"Madame," the judge said slowly, "it is incredible." He looked for a moment at his colleagues, as if to collect their opinions. They nodded. He turned to her again. "Do you not see that?" he said almost kindly.
"I do not," madame answered firmly. "It is true."
"Describe the boy, if you please."
"He had--I think he had dark clothes," she answered, faltering for the first time. "He looked about twelve years old."
"Yes," the President said; "go on."
"He had--I could not see any more," madame muttered faintly. "It was dark."
"And do you expect us to believe this?" the President replied with warmth, real or assumed. "Do you expect us to believe such a story? Or that it was at the instance of this boy only--this boy of whom you knew nothing, whom you cannot describe, whom you had never seen before--that it was at his instance only that you gave this drug to your husband, instead of taking it yourself?"
She reeled slightly, clinging to the bar. The court swam before her. She saw, as he meant her to see, the full hopelessness of her position, the full strength of the case which fate had made against her, her impotence, her helplessness. Yet she forced herself to make an effort. "It is the truth," she said, in a broken voice. "I loved him."