“How many times, and in how many ways, do you want me to give you my reasons?  I kept silent the first day, because I did not then know the circumstances of the crime, and because I was reluctant to accuse a woman who had given me her love, and who had become criminal from passion; because, in fine, I did not think at that time that I was in danger.  After that I kept silent because I hoped justice would be able to discover the truth, or the countess would be unable to bear the idea that I, the innocent one, should be accused.  Still later, when I saw my danger, I was afraid.”

The advocates’ feelings seemed to be revolted.  He broke in,—­

“You do not tell the truth, Jacques; and I will tell you why you kept silent.  It is very difficult to make up a story which is to account for every thing.  But you are a clever man:  you thought it over, and you made out a story.  There is nothing lacking in it, except probability.  You might tell me that the Countess Claudieuse has unfairly enjoyed the reputation of a saint, and that she has given you her love; perhaps I might be willing to believe it.  But when you say she has set her own house on fire, and taken up a gun to shoot her husband, that I can never, never admit.”

“Still it is the truth.”

“No; for the evidence of Count Claudieuse is precise.  He has seen his murderer; it was a man who fired at him.”

“And who tells you that Count Claudieuse does not know all, and wants to save his wife, and ruin me?  There would be a vengeance for him.”

The objection took the advocate by surprise; but he rejected it at once, and said,—­

“Ah! be silent, or prove.”

“All the letters are burned.”

“When one has been a woman’s lover for five years, there are always proofs.”

“But you see there are none.”

“Do not insist,” repeated M. Magloire.

And, in a voice full of pity and emotion, he added,—­

“Unhappy man!  Do you not feel, that, in order to escape from one crime, you are committing another which is a thousand times worse?”

Jacques stood wringing his hand, and said—­

“It is enough to drive me mad.”

“And even if I, your friend,” continued M. Magloire, “should believe you, how would that help you?  Would any one else believe it?  Look here I will tell you exactly what I think.  Even if I were perfectly sure of all the facts you mention, I should never plead them in my defence, unless I had proofs.  To plead them, understand me well, would be to ruin yourself inevitably.”

“Still they must be pleaded; for they are the truth.”

“Then,” said M. Magloire, “you must look for another advocate.”

And he went toward the door.  He was on the point of leaving, when Jacques cried out, almost in agony,—­

“Great God, he forsakes me!”

“No,” replied the advocate; “but I cannot discuss matters with you in the state of excitement in which you now are.  You will think it over, and I will come again to-morrow.”