‘You may rob a man of worse than life!’ she replied with energy, stopping me by a gesture. ‘If you have never robbed a man—or a woman—of honour! If you have never ruined boy or girl, M. de Berault! If you have never pushed another into the pit and gone by it yourself! If—but, for murder? Listen. You are a Romanist, but I am a Huguenot, and have read. “Thou shall not kill!” it is written; and the penalty, “By man shall thy blood be shed!” But, “If you cause one of these little ones to offend, it were better for you that a mill-stone were hanged about your neck, and that you were cast into the depths of the sea.”’
‘Mademoiselle, you are merciful,’ I muttered.
‘I need mercy myself,’ she answered, sighing. ‘And I have had few temptations. How do I know what you have suffered?’
‘Or done!’ I said, almost rudely.
‘Where a man has not lied, nor betrayed, nor sold himself or others,’ she answered in a low tone, ‘I think I can forgive all else. I can better put up with force,’ she added smiling sadly, ‘than with fraud.’
Ah, Dieu! I turned away my face that she might not see how pale it grew; that she might not guess how her words, meant in mercy, stabbed me to the heart. And yet, then, for the first time, while viewing in all its depth and width the gulf which separated us, I was not hardened; I was not cast back upon myself. Her gentleness, her pity, her humility softened me, while they convicted me. My God, how, after this, could I do that which I had come to do? How could I stab her in the tenderest part, how could I inflict on her that rending pang, how could I meet her eyes, and stand before her, a Caliban, a Judas, the vilest, lowest thing she could conceive?
I stood, a moment, speechless and disordered; overcome by her words, by my thoughts. I have seen a man so stand when he has lost all at the tables. Then I turned to her; and for an instant I thought that my tale was told already, I thought that she had pierced my disguise. For her face was changed—stricken as with fear. The next moment, I saw that she was not looking at me, but beyond me; and I turned quickly and saw a servant hurrying from the house to us. It was Louis. His eyes were staring, his hair waved, his cheeks were flabby with dismay, He breathed as if he had been running.
‘What is it?’ Mademoiselle cried, while he was still some way off. ‘Speak, man. My sister? Is she—’
‘Clon,’ he gasped.
The name changed her to stone.