“Stop!” said Charmolue to Pierrat. “Do you confess?” he said to the gypsy.
“All!” cried the wretched girl. “I confess! I confess!
Mercy!”
She had not calculated her strength when she faced the torture.
Poor child, whose life up to that time had been so joyous, so pleasant, so sweet, the first pain had conquered her!
“Humanity forces me to tell you,” remarked the king’s procurator, “that in confessing, it is death that you must expect.”
“I certainly hope so!” said she. And she fell back upon the leather bed, dying, doubled up, allowing herself to hang suspended from the strap buckled round her waist.
“Come, fair one, hold up a little,” said Master Pierrat, raising her. “You have the air of the lamb of the Golden Fleece which hangs from Monsieur de Bourgogne’s neck.”
Jacques Charmolue raised his voice,
“Clerk, write.
Young Bohemian maid, you confess your participation in the feasts, witches’ sabbaths, and witchcrafts of hell, with ghosts, hags, and vampires?
Answer.”
“Yes,” she said, so low that her words were lost in her breathing.
“You confess to having seen the ram which Beelzebub causes to appear in the clouds to call together the witches’ sabbath, and which is beheld by socerers alone?”
“Yes.”
“You confess to having adored the heads of Bophomet, those abominable idols of the Templars?”
“Yes.”
“To having had habitual dealings with the devil under the form of a goat familiar, joined with you in the suit?”
“Yes.”
“Lastly, you avow and confess to having, with the aid of the demon, and of the phantom vulgarly known as the surly monk, on the night of the twenty-ninth of March last, murdered and assassinated a captain named Phoebus de Chateaupers?”
She raised her large, staring eyes to the magistrate, and replied, as though mechanically, without convulsion or agitation,—
“Yes.”
It was evident that everything within her was broken.
“Write, clerk,” said Charmolue. And, addressing the torturers, “Release the prisoner, and take her back to the court.”
When the prisoner had been “unbooted,” the procurator of the ecclesiastical court examined her foot, which was still swollen with pain.
“Come,” said he, “there’s no great harm done.
You shrieked in good season.
You could still dance, my beauty!”
Then he turned to his acolytes of the officiality,—“Behold justice enlightened at last!
This is a solace, gentlemen!
Madamoiselle will bear us witness that we have acted with all possible gentleness.”
CHAPTER III. END OF THE CROWN WHICH WAS TURNED INTO A DRY LEAF.
When she re-entered the audience hall, pale and limping, she was received with a general murmur of pleasure.
On the part of the audience there was the feeling of impatience gratified which one experiences at the theatre at the end of the last entr’acte of the comedy, when the curtain rises and the conclusion is about to begin.
On the part of the judges, it was the hope of getting their suppers sooner.
The little goat also bleated with joy.
He tried to run towards his mistress, but they had tied him to the bench.
Night was fully set in.
The candles, whose number had not been increased, cast so little light, that the walls of the hall could not be seen.
The shadows there enveloped all objects in a sort of mist.
A few apathetic faces of judges alone could be dimly discerned.
Opposite them, at the extremity of the long hail, they could see a vaguely white point standing out against the sombre background.
This was the accused.
She had dragged herself to her place.
When Charmolue had installed himself in a magisterial manner in his own, he seated himself, then rose and said, without exhibiting too much self-complacency at his success,—“The accused has confessed all.”
“Bohemian girl,” the president continued, “have you avowed all your deeds of magic, prostitution, and assassination on Phoebus de Chateaupers.”
Her heart contracted.
She was heard to sob amid the darkness.
“Anything you like,” she replied feebly, “but kill me quickly!”
“Monsieur, procurator of the king in the ecclesiastical courts,” said the president, “the chamber is ready to hear you in your charge.”