Jacques had to summon all the energy that was left him to be able to continue with a semblance of calmness, at least,--

"Then I tried every thing in the world to quiet the countess, to move her, and bring her back to the generous feelings of former days. I was so completely upset that I hardly knew what I was saying. I hated her bitterly, and still I could not help pitying her. I am a man; and there is no man living who would not feel deeply moved at seeing himself the object of such bitter regrets and such terrible despair. Besides, my happiness and Dionysia's honor were at stake. How do I know what I said?

I am not a hero of romance. No doubt I was mean. I humbled myself, I besought her, I told falsehoods, I vowed to her that it was my family, mainly, who made me marry. I hoped I should be able, by great kindness and caressing words, to soften the bitterness of the parting. She listened to me, remaining as impa.s.sive as a block of ice; and, when I paused, she said with a sinister laugh,--

"'And you tell me all that! Your Dionysia! Ah! if I were a woman like other women, I would say nothing to-day, and, before the year was over, you would again be at my feet.'

"She must have been thinking of our meeting at the cross-roads. Or was this the last outburst of pa.s.sion at the moment when the last ties were broken off? I was going to speak again; but she interrupted me bruskly, saying,--

"'Oh, that is enough! Spare me, at least, the insult of your pity! I'll see. I promise nothing. Good-by!'

"And she escaped toward the house, while I remained rooted to the spot, almost stupefied, and asking myself if she was not, perhaps at that moment, telling Count Claudieuse every thing. It was at that moment that I drew from my gun, almost mechanically, the burnt cartridge and put in a fresh one. Then, as nothing stirred, I went off with rapid strides."

"What time was it?" asked M. Magloire.

"I could not tell you precisely. My state of mind was such, that I had lost all idea of time. I went back through the forest of Rochepommier."

"And you saw nothing?"

"No."

"Heard nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Still, from your statement, you could not have been far from Valpinson when the fire broke out."

"That is true, and, in the open country, I should certainly have seen the fire; but I was in a dense wood: the trees cut off all view."

"And these same trees prevented the sound of the two shots fired at Count Claudieuse from reaching your ear?"

"They might have helped to prevent it; but there was no need for that.

I was walking against the wind, which was very high; and it is an established fact, that, under such circ.u.mstances, the sound of a gun is not heard beyond fifty yards."

M. Magloire once more could hardly restrain his impatience; and, utterly unconscious that he was even harsher than the magistrate, he said,--

"And you think your statement explains every thing?"

"I believe that my statement, which is founded upon the most exact truth, explains the charges brought against me by M. Galpin. It explains how I tried to keep my visit to Valpinson secret; how I was met in going and in coming back, and at hours which correspond with the time of the fire. It explains, finally, how I came at first to deny. It explains how one of my cartridge-cases was found near the ruins, and why I had to wash my hands when I reached home."

Nothing seemed to be able to shake the lawyer's conviction. He asked,--

"And the day after, when they came to arrest you, what was your first impression?"

"I thought at once of Valpinson."

"And when you were told that a crime had been committed?"

"I said to myself, 'The countess wants to be a widow.'"

All of M. Magloire's blood seemed to rise in his face. He cried,--

"Unhappy man! How can you dare accuse the Countess Claudieuse of such a crime?"

Indignation gave Jacques strength to reply,--

"Whom else should I accuse? A crime has been committed, and under such circ.u.mstances that it cannot have been committed by any one except by her or by myself. I am innocent: consequently she is guilty."

"Why did you not say so at once?"

Jacques shrugged his shoulders, and replied in a tone of bitter irony,--

"How many times, and in how many ways, do you want me to give you my reasons? I kept silent the first day, because I did not then know the circ.u.mstances of the crime, and because I was reluctant to accuse a woman who had given me her love, and who had become criminal from pa.s.sion; because, in fine, I did not think at that time that I was in danger. After that I kept silent because I hoped justice would be able to discover the truth, or the countess would be unable to bear the idea that I, the innocent one, should be accused. Still later, when I saw my danger, I was afraid."

The advocates' feelings seemed to be revolted. He broke in,--

"You do not tell the truth, Jacques; and I will tell you why you kept silent. It is very difficult to make up a story which is to account for every thing. But you are a clever man: you thought it over, and you made out a story. There is nothing lacking in it, except probability. You might tell me that the Countess Claudieuse has unfairly enjoyed the reputation of a saint, and that she has given you her love; perhaps I might be willing to believe it. But when you say she has set her own house on fire, and taken up a gun to shoot her husband, that I can never, never admit."

"Still it is the truth."

"No; for the evidence of Count Claudieuse is precise. He has seen his murderer; it was a man who fired at him."

"And who tells you that Count Claudieuse does not know all, and wants to save his wife, and ruin me? There would be a vengeance for him."

The objection took the advocate by surprise; but he rejected it at once, and said,--

"Ah! be silent, or prove."

"All the letters are burned."

"When one has been a woman's lover for five years, there are always proofs."

"But you see there are none."

"Do not insist," repeated M. Magloire.

And, in a voice full of pity and emotion, he added,--

"Unhappy man! Do you not feel, that, in order to escape from one crime, you are committing another which is a thousand times worse?"

Jacques stood wringing his hand, and said--

"It is enough to drive me mad."

"And even if I, your friend," continued M. Magloire, "should believe you, how would that help you? Would any one else believe it? Look here I will tell you exactly what I think. Even if I were perfectly sure of all the facts you mention, I should never plead them in my defence, unless I had proofs. To plead them, understand me well, would be to ruin yourself inevitably."

"Still they must be pleaded; for they are the truth."

"Then," said M. Magloire, "you must look for another advocate."