M. Magloire no longer thought of protesting.  Sitting stiffly on his chair, his eyes wide open, like a man who asks himself whether he is asleep or awake, he murmured,—­

“That is incomprehensible!  That is unheard of!”

Jacques was becoming gradually excited.  He went on,—­

“This is, at least, what the countess told me in her first hours of enthusiasm.  But she told it to me calmly, coldly, like a thing that was perfectly natural.  ‘Certainly,’ she said, ’Count Claudieuse has never had to regret the bargain he made.  If he has been generous, I have been faithful.  My father owes his life to him; but I have given him years of happiness to which he was not entitled.  If he has received no love, he has had all the appearance of it, and an appearance far more pleasant than the reality.’

“When I could not conceal my astonishment, she added, laughing heartily,—­

“’Only I brought to the bargain a mental reservation.  I reserved to myself the right to claim my share of earthly happiness whenever it should come within my reach.  That share is yours, Jacques; and do not fancy that I am troubled by remorse.  As long as my husband thinks he is happy, I am within the terms of the contract.’

“That was the way she spoke at that time, Magloire; and a man of more experience would have been frightened.  But I was a child; I loved her with all my heart.  I admired her genius; I was overcome by her sophisms.

“A letter from Count Claudieuse aroused us from our dreams.

“The countess had committed the only and the last imprudence of her whole life:  she had remained three weeks longer in Paris than was agreed upon; and her impatient husband threatened to come for her.

“‘I must go back to Valpinson,’ she said; ’for there is nothing I would not do to keep up the reputation I have managed to make for myself.  My life, your life, my daughter’s life—­I would give them all, without hesitation, to protect my reputation.”

“This happened—­ah! the dates have remained fixed in my mind as if engraven on bronze—­on the 12th October.

“‘I cannot remain longer than a month,’ she said to me, ’without seeing you.  A month from to-day, that is to say, on 12th November, at three o’clock precisely, you must be in the forest of Rochepommier, at the Red Men’s Cross-roads.  I will be there.’

“And she left Paris.  I was in such a state of depression, that I scarcely felt the pain of parting.  The thought of being loved by such a woman filled me with extreme pride, and, no doubt, saved me from many an excess.  Ambition was rising within me whenever I thought of her.  I wanted to work, to distinguish myself, to become eminent in some way.

“‘I want her to be proud of me,’ I said to myself, ashamed at being nothing at my age but the son of a rich father.”

Ten times, at least, M. Magloire had risen from his chair, and moved his lips, as if about to make some objection.  But he had pledged himself, in his own mind, not to interrupt Jacques, and he did his best to keep his pledge.