During the thirty years which he had spent at the bar, M. Magloire had heard many a strange confession; but never in his life had all his ideas been overthrown as in this case.

“That is utterly confounding,” he murmured.

But Jacques went on,—­

“Was this threat of the countess meant in earnest?  I did not doubt it; but affecting great composure, I said,—­

“‘You would not do that.’

“‘By all that I hold dear and sacred in this world,’ she replied, ’I would do it.’

“Many months have passed by since that scene, Magloire, many events have happened; and still I feel as if it had taken place yesterday.  I see the countess still, whiter than a ghost.  I still hear her trembling voice; and I can repeat to you her words almost literally,—­

“’Ah! you are surprised at my determination, Jacques.  I understand that.  Wives who have betrayed their husbands have not accustomed their lovers to be held responsible by them.  When they are betrayed, they dare not cry out; when they are abandoned, they submit; when they are sacrificed, they hide their tears, for to cry would be to avow their wrong.  Who would pity them, besides?  Have they not received their well-known punishment?  Hence it is that all men agree, and there are some of them cynical enough to confess it, that a married woman is a convenient lady-love, because she can never be jealous, and she may be abandoned at any time.  Ah! we women are great cowards.  If we had more courage, you men would look twice before you would dare speak of love to a married woman.  But what no one dares I will dare.  It shall not be said that in our common fault there are two parts, and that you shall have had all the benefit of it, and that I must bear all the punishment.  What?  You might be free to-morrow to console yourself with a new love; and I—­I should have to sink under my shame and remorse.  No, no!  Such bonds as those that bind us, riveted by long years of complicity, are not broken so easily.

“’You belong to me; you are mine; and I shall defend you against all and every one, with such arms as I possess.  I told you that I valued my reputation more than my life; but I never told you that I valued life.  On the eve of your wedding-day, my husband shall know all.  I shall not survive the loss of my honor; but at least I shall have my revenge.  If you escape the hatred of Count Claudieuse, your name will be bound up with such a tragic affair that your life will be ruined forever.’

“That was the way she spoke, Magloire, and with a passion of which I can give you no idea.  It was absurd, it was insane, I admit.  But is not all passion absurd and insane?  Besides, it was by no means a sudden inspiration of her pride, which made her threaten me with such vengeance.  The precision of her phrases, the accuracy of her words, all made me feel that she had long meditated such a blow, and carefully calculated the effect of every word.