Women -- France -- Fiction; Women's rights -- Fiction
But, before quitting, perhaps forever, this house in which I was
leaving my soul, I wished to see Edmee again for the last time. I walked
straight to her room. Mademoiselle Leblanc tried to throw herself in
front of the door; I pushed her aside so roughly that she fell, and, I
believe, hurt herself slightly. She immediately filled the house with
her cries; and later, in the trial, made a great pother about what she
was pleased to call an attempt to murder her. I at once entered Edmee’s
room; there I found the abbe and the doctor. I listened in silence to
what the latter was saying. I learnt that the wounds in themselves were
not mortal, that they would not even be very serious, had not a violent
disturbance in the brain complicated the evil and made him fear tetanus.
This frightful word fell upon me like a death sentence. In America I had
seen many men die of this terrible malady, the result of wounds received
in the war. I approached the bed. The abbe was so alarmed that he did
not think of preventing me. I took Edmee’s hand, cold and lifeless, as
ever. I kissed it a last time, and, without saying a single word to the
others, went and gave myself up to the police.
XXIV
I was immediately thrown into prison at La Chatre. The public prosecutor
for the district of Issoudun took in hand this case of the attempted
murder of Mademoiselle de Mauprat, and obtained permission to have
a monitory published on the morrow. He went to the village of
Sainte-Severe, and then to the farms in the neighbourhood of the Curat
woods, where the event had happened, and took the depositions of more
than thirty witnesses. Then, eight days after I had been arrested, the
writ of arrest was issued. If my mind had been less distracted, or if
some one had interested himself in me, this breach of the law and
many others that occurred during the trial might have been adduced as
powerful arguments in my favour. They would at least have shown that the
proceedings were inspired by some secret hatred. In the whole course of
the affair an invisible hand directed everything with pitiless haste and
severity.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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