“I must request you, Monsieur le Marquis,” said the duke, “to have the goodness to read to the commission the deposition written and signed by your daughter.” This scene must have been prepared in advance for the audience. M. de Courtornieu cleaned his glasses, drew from his pocket a paper which he unfolded, and amid a death-like silence, he read: “I, Blanche de Courtornieu, do declare upon oath that, on the evening of the fourth of February, between ten and eleven o’clock, on the public road leading from Sairmeuse to Montaignac, I was assailed by a crowd of armed brigands. While they were deliberating as to whether they should take possession of my person and pillage my carriage, I overheard one of these men say to another, speaking of me: ‘She must get out, must she not, Monsieur d’Escorval?’ I believe that the brigand who uttered these words was a peasant named Chanlouineau, but I dare not assert it on oath.” A terrible cry, followed by inarticulate moans, interrupted the marquis. The suffering which Maurice endured was too great for his strength and his reason. He was about to spring forward and cry: “It was I who addressed those words to Chanlouineau. I alone am guilty; my father is innocent!” But fortunately the abbe had the presence of mind to hold him back, and place his hand over the poor youth’s lips. But the priest would not have been able to restrain Maurice without the aid of the retired army officers, who were standing beside him. Divining all, perhaps, they surrounded Maurice, took him up, and carried him from the room by main force, in spite of his violent resistance. All this occupied scarcely ten seconds. “What is the cause of this disturbance?” inquired the duke, looking angrily over the audience. No one uttered a word. “At the least noise the hall shall be cleared,” added M. de Sairmeuse. “And you, prisoner, what have you to say in self-justification, after this crushing accusation by Mademoiselle de Courtornieu?” “Nothing,” murmured the baron. “So you confess your guilt?” Once outside, the abbe confided Maurice to the care of three officers, who promised to go with him, to carry him by main force, if need be, to the hotel, and keep him there. Relieved on this score, the priest re-entered the hall just in time to see the baron seat himself without making any response, thus indicating that he had relinquished all intention of defending his life. Really, what could he say? How could he defend himself without betraying his son? Until now there had not been one person who did not believe in the baron’s entire innocence. Could it be that he was guilty? His silence must be accepted as a confession of guilt; at least, some present believed so. Baron d’Escorval appeared to be guilty. Was that not a sufficiently great victory for the Duc de Sairmeuse? He turned to the lawyers, and with an air of weariness and disdain he said: