"He had--I think he had dark clothes," she answered, faltering for the first time. "He looked about twelve years old." "Yes," the President said; "go on." "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." She looked at him in terror and shame. "I have no other," she cried wildly. "That is the truth. If you do not believe me, there is Nôtredame. Ask him." "You applied to be confronted with him some time back," the President answered, looking aside at his colleagues, who nodded. "Is that still your desire?" She murmured "Yes," with dry lips. "Then let him be called," the judge answered solemnly. "Let Solomon Nôtredame be called and confronted with the accused." The order was received with a general stir, a movement of curiosity and expectation. Those in the galleries leaned forward to see the better; those at the back stood up. Madame, with her lips parted and her breath coming quickly--madame, the poor centre of all--gazed with her soul in her eyes towards the door at which she saw others gazing. All for her depended on this man--the man she was about to see. Would he lie and accuse her? Or would he tell the truth and corroborate her story--say, in a word, that she had come for a love-charm, and not for poison? Surely this last? Surely it would be to his interest?