"I also know him, my poor child; and I loved and honored him.
Yesterday I should have told you that he was worthy of you. He
was above slander. But now, see what depths love of play has
brought him to. He is a thief!"
Mademoiselle Marguerite's weakness vanished. She sprang from her
chair, and indignantly faced the magistrate. "It is false!" she
cried, vehemently; "and what that paper says is false as well!"
Had her reason been affected by so many successive blows? It
seemed likely; for, livid a moment before, her face had now turned
scarlet. She trembled nervously from head to foot, and there was
a gleam of insanity in her big black eyes.
"If she doesn't weep, she is lost," thought the magistrate. And,
instead of encouraging her to hope, he deemed it best to try and
destroy what he considered a dangerous illusion. "Alas! my poor
child," he said sadly, "you must not deceive yourself. The
newspapers are often hasty in their judgment; but an article like
that is only published when proof of its truth is furnished by
witnesses of unimpeachable veracity."
She shrugged her shoulders as if she were listening to some
monstrous absurdities, and then thoughtfully muttered: "Ah! now
Pascal's silence is explained: now I understand why he has not yet
replied to the letter I wrote him last night."
The magistrate persevered, however, and added: "So, after the
article you have just read, no one can entertain the shadow of a
doubt.
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