e province were playing a further secret part which almost decided
my fate.

The case was taken to the assizes at the court of Bourges, and
proceedings began in a very few days.

You can imagine the gloomy despair with which I was filled. Edmee's
condition was growing more and more serious; her mind was completely
unhinged. I felt no anxiety as to the result of the trial; I never
imagined it was possible to convict me of a crime I had not committed;
but what were honour and life to me, if Edmee were never to regain the
power of recognising my innocence? I looked upon her as already dead,
and as having cursed me dying! So I was inflexibly resolved to kill
myself immediately after receiving my sentence, whatever it might be.
Until then I felt that it was my duty to live, and to do what might be
necessary for the triumph of truth; but I was plunged in such a state
of stupor that I did not even think of ascertaining what was to be
done. Had it not been for the cleverness and zeal of my counsel, and the
sublime devotion of Marcasse, my listlessness would have left me to the
most terrible fate.

Marcasse spent all his time in expeditions on my behalf. In the evening
he would come and throw himself on a bundle of straw at the foot of my
trunkle bed, and, after giving me news of Edmee and the chevalier,
whom he went to see every day, he would tell me the results of his
proceedings. I used to grasp his hand affectionately; but I was
generally so absorbed by the news he had just given me of Edmee, that I
never heard anything further.

This prison of La Chatre had formerly been the stronghold of the
Elevains of Lombaud, the seigneurs of the province. Nothing was left of
it but a formidable square tower at the top of a ravine where the Indre
forms a narrow, winding valley, rich with the most beautiful vegetation.
The weather was magnificent. My room, situated at the top of the tower,
received the rays of the rising sun, which cast the long, thin shadows
of a triple row of poplars as far as the eye could see. Never did
landscape more smiling, fresh, and pastoral offer itself to the eyes
of a prisoner. But how could I find pleasure in it? Words of death and
contumely came to me in every breeze that blew through the wall-flowers
growing in the crannies. Every rustic sound, every tune on the pipe that
rose to my room, seemed to contain an insult or to proclaim profound
contempt for my sorrow. There was nothing, even to the bleating