"Did he not open the door at this Nôtredame's when you entered the house?"
"How did you know, then, madame, that he came from this abominable person whom you had been visiting?"
"And do you tell us," the judge retorted, "that on the mere word of this boy, whom you did not know and had never seen, without the assurance of any token or countersign, you disregarded the man Nôtredame's directions on the most vital point, and, instead of taking this drug yourself, gave it to your husband?"
"Without suspecting that it was other than that for which you had asked?"
"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."
"He had--I think he had dark clothes," she answered, faltering for the first time. "He looked about twelve years old."
"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."
"Ah!" the President replied cynically. He repressed by a gesture a slight disturbance at the rear of the court. "That, of course. It is part of the story. Or why a love-philtre? But do you not see, madame," he continued, bending his brows and speaking in the tone he used to common criminals, "that all the wives in Paris might poison their husbands, and when they were found out say 'It was a love-potion,' if you are to escape? No, no; we must have some better tale than that."