“But, my—­”

“Pardon—­hear me, and you will comprehend me.  I am going to be frank with you, as I would be with myself; and you will see the reason of my hesitation, my silence, in short, of all my conduct since the discovery of the crime.”

“I am listening.”

“It’s a sad history, Lecoq.  I had reached an age at which a man’s career is, as they say, finished, when I suddenly lost my wife and my two sons, my whole joy, my whole hope in this world.  I found myself alone in life, more lost than the shipwrecked man in the midst of the sea, without a plank to sustain me.  I was a soulless body, when chance brought me to settle down at Orcival.  There I saw Laurence; she was just fifteen, and never lived there a creature who united in herself so much intelligence, grace, innocence, and beauty.  Courtois became my friend, and soon Laurence was like a daughter to me.  I doubtless loved her then, but I did not confess it to myself, for I did not read my heart clearly.  She was so young, and I had gray hairs!  I persuaded myself that my love for her was like that of a father, and it was as a father that she cherished me.  Ah, I passed many a delicious hour listening to her gentle prattle and her innocent confidences; I was happy when I saw her skipping about in my garden, picking the roses I had reared for her, and laying waste my parterres; and I said to myself that existence is a precious gift from God.  My dream then was to follow her through life.  I fancied her wedded to some good man who made her happy, while I remained the friend of the wife, after having been the confidant of the maiden.  I took good care of my fortune, which is considerable, because I thought of her children, and wished to hoard up treasures for them.  Poor, poor Laurence!”

M. Lecoq fidgeted in his chair, rubbed his face with his handkerchief, and seemed ill at ease.  He was really much more touched than he wished to appear.

“One day,” pursued the old man, “my friend Courtois spoke to me of her marriage with Tremorel; then I measured the depth of my love.  I felt terrible agonies which it is impossible to describe; it was like a long-smothered fire which suddenly breaks forth and devours everything.  To be old, and to love a child!  I thought I was going crazy; I tried to reason, to upbraid myself, but it was of no avail.  What can reason or irony do against passion?  I kept silent and suffered.  To crown all, Laurence selected me as her confidant—­what torture!  She came to me to talk of Hector; she admired in him all that seemed to her superior to other men, so that none could be compared with him.  She was enchanted with his bold horseback riding, and thought everything he said sublime.”

“Did you know what a wretch Tremorel was?”