he alone of all the world guessed at the tragedy which was hovering
over Jean Jacques' home. By chance he had seen something on an afternoon
of three days before, and he had fled from it as a child would fly from
a demon. He was a purist at law, but he was a purist in life also, and
not because the flush of youth had gone and his feet were on the path
which leads into the autumn of a man's days. The thing he had seen had
been terribly on his mind, and he had felt that his own judgment was not
sufficient for the situation, that he ought to tell someone.

The Cure was the only person who had come to his mind when he became
troubled to the point of actual mental agony. But the new curb, M.
Savry, was not like the Old Cure, and, besides, was it not stepping
between the woman and her confessional? Yet he felt that something ought
to be done. It never occurred to him to speak to Jean Jacques. That
would have seemed so brutal to the woman. It came to him to speak to
Carmen, but he knew that he dared not do so. He could not say to a
woman that which must shame her before him, she who had kept her head
so arrogantly high--not so much to him, however, as to the rest of the
world. He had not the courage; and yet he had fear lest some awful thing
would at any moment now befall the Manor Cartier. If it did, he would
feel himself to blame had he done nothing to stay the peril. So far
he was the only person who could do so, for he was the only person who
knew!

The Judge could feel his friend's arm tremble with emotion, and he said:
"Come, now, my Plato, what is it? A man has come to disturb the peace of
Jean Jacques, our philosophe, eh?"

"That is it, monsieur--a man of a kind."

"Oh, of course, my bambino, of course, a man 'of a kind,' or there would
be no peace disturbed. You want to tell me, I see. Proceed then; there
is no reason why you should not. I am secret. I have seen much. I have
no prejudices. As you will, however; but I can see it would relieve your
mind to tell me. In truth I felt there was something when I saw you look
at her first, when you spoke to her, when she talked with me. She is a
fine figure of a woman, and Jean Jacques, as you say, is much away from
home. In fact he neglects her--is it not so?"

"He means it not, but it is so. His life is full of--"

"Yes, yes, of stores and ash-factories and debtors and lightning-rods
and lime-kilns, and mortgaged farms, and the price of wheat--but
certainly, I unders