I turned to mademoiselle; she stood like a statue, her eyes fixed on the
empty air before her. Yet she seemed to know when my look fell on her,
for at that instant a slight tremor passed through her.
"Tremble not for M. de Berquin, mademoiselle," said I, thinking of that
divine gentleness in a woman which makes her pity even those who have
persecuted her. "Indeed, he must have wished to die. He well knew that a
certain way to death was to tempt my sword with a black lie of the truest
lady in France."
"You killed him," she murmured, in a low, pitying voice, "because he
said--I came from the governor--to betray you!"
"Why else, mademoiselle? What is the matter? Why do you look so?"
For all life and consciousness seemed to be about to leave her
countenance.
"_Mon dieu_!" she said, weakly, "I cannot tell--I--"
I hastened to put my arms about her, that she might not fall.
"You pity him," I said, "but there could be nothing of good in one who
could so slander you. Indeed, mademoiselle, you are ill. Let me lead you
in. Believe me, mademoiselle, he well deserved his death."
Thus endeavoring to calm and restore her mind, I led her slowly into the
chateau and up the steps to the door of her chamber. She followed as one
without will and with little strength. Hugo and Jeannotte, who had been
sitting on the landing outside her door, had risen as we came up the
stairs.
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