saw what the whole country would feel. And M. Magloire, when he heard
him declare that the Countess Claudieuse had been his mistress, looked
indignant, and exclaimed,--

"That is impossible."

At least Jacques was not surprised. He had been the first to say
that they would refuse to believe him when he should speak; and this
conviction had largely influenced him in keeping silence so long.

"It is impossible, I know," he said; "and still it is so."

"Give me proofs!" said M. Magloire.

"I have no proofs."

The melancholy and sympathizing expression of the great lawyer changed
instantly. He sternly glanced at the prisoner, and his eye spoke of
amazement and indignation.

"There are things," he said, "which it is rash to affirm when one is not
able to support them with proof. Consider"--

"My situation forces me to tell all."

"Why, then, did you wait so long?"

"I hoped I should be spared such a fearful extremity."

"By whom?"

"By the countess."

M. Magloire's face became darker and darker.

"I am not often accused of partiality," he said. "Count Claudieuse is,
perhaps, the only enemy I have in this country; but he is a bitter,
fierce enemy. To keep me out of the chamber, and to prevent my obtaining
many votes, he stooped to acts unworthy of a gentleman. I do not like
him. But in justice I must say that I look upon the countess as the
loftiest, the purest, and noblest type of the woman, the wife, and the
mother."

A bitter smile played on Jacques's lips.

"And still I have been her lover," he said.

"When? How? The countess lived at Valpinson: you lived in Paris."

"Yes; but every year the countess came and spent the month of September
in Paris; and I came occasionally to Boiscoran."

"It is very singular that such an intrigue should never have been
suspected even."

"We managed to take our precautions."

"And no one ever suspected any thing?"

"No one."

But Jacques was at last becoming impatient at the attitude assumed by M.
Magloire. He forgot that he had foreseen all the suspicions to which he
found now he was exposed.

"Why do you ask all these questions?" he said. "You do not believe me.
Well, be it so! Let me at least try to convince you. Will you listen to
me?"

M. Magloire drew up a chair, and sitting down, not as usually, but
across the chair, and resting his arms on the back, he said,--

"I listen."

Jacques de Boiscoran, who had been almost livid, became crimson with
an