Don Luis had not once interrupted the latter part of this narrative, which was told in a more and more agitated voice and quickened by an accent of profound truth.  Thanks to a superhuman effort of attention, he noted Sauverand’s least words and actions in his mind.  And as these words were uttered and these actions performed, he received the impression of another woman who rose up beside the real Florence, a woman unspotted and innocent of all the shame which he had attributed to her on the strength of events.

Nevertheless, he did not yet give in.  How could Florence possibly be innocent?  No, no, the evidence of his eyes, which had seen, and the evidence of his reason, which had judged, both rebelled against any such contention.

He would not admit that Florence could suddenly be different from what she really was to him:  a crafty, cunning, cruel, blood-thirsty monster.  No, no, the man was lying with infernal cleverness.  He put things with a skill amounting to genius, until it was no longer possible to differentiate between the false and the true, or to distinguish the light from the darkness.

He was lying!  He was lying!  And yet how sweet were the lies he told!  How beautiful was that imaginary Florence, the Florence compelled by destiny to commit acts which she loathed, but free of all crime, free of remorse, humane and pitiful, with her clear eyes and her snow-white hands!  And how good it was to yield to this fantastic dream!

Gaston Sauverand was watching the face of his former enemy.  Standing close to Don Luis, his features lit up with the expression of feelings and passions which he no longer strove to check, he asked, in a low voice: 

“You believe me, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t,” said Perenna, hardening himself to resist the man’s influence.

“You must!” cried Sauverand, with a fierce outburst of violence.  “You must believe in the strength of my love.  It is the cause of everything.  My hatred for you comes only from my love.  Marie is my life.  If she were dead, there would be nothing for me to do but die.  Oh, this morning, when I read in the papers that the poor woman had opened her veins—­and through your fault, after Hippolyte’s letters accusing her—­I did not want to kill you so much as to inflict upon you the most barbarous tortures!  My poor Marie, what a martyrdom she must be enduring!...

“As you were not back, Florence and I wandered about all morning to have news of her:  first around the prison, next to the police office and the law courts.  And it was there, in the magistrates’ corridor, that I saw you.  At that moment you were mentioning Marie Fauville’s name to a number of journalists; and you told them that Marie Fauville was innocent; and you informed them of the evidence which you possessed in Marie’s favour!

“My hatred ceased then and there, Monsieur.  In one second the enemy had become the ally, the master to whom one kneels.  So you had had the wonderful courage to repudiate all your work and to devote yourself to Marie’s rescue!  I ran off, trembling with joy and hope, and, as I joined Florence, I shouted, ’Marie is saved!  He proclaims her innocent!  I must see him and speak to him!’...