Had she heard him aright?
Did she understand? She was far from sure. Had he answered seriously?
Was he not deluding her by a cruel unworthy jest? She asked herself this
scarcely knowing what she did: for to her everything appeared possible,
probable, rather than that which he had said.
Not daring to raise his eyes, he continued in a tone, expressive of the
sincerest pity, "I suffer cruelly for you at this moment, mademoiselle;
but I have the sad courage to tell you the truth, and you must summon
yours to hear it. It is far better that you should know everything from
the mouth of a friend. Summon, then, all your fortitude; strengthen your
noble soul against a most dreadful misfortune. No, there is no mistake.
Justice has not been deceived. The Viscount de Commarin is accused of
an assassination; and everything, you understand me, proves that he
committed it."
Like a doctor, who pours out drop by drop a dangerous medicine, M.
Daburon pronounced this last sentence slowly, word by word. He watched
carefully the result, ready to cease speaking, if the shock was too
great. He did not suppose that this young girl, timid to excess, with a
sensitiveness almost a disease, would be able to hear without flinching
such a terrible revelation.
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