“Well, here we are now before the court at Sauveterre, before a jury composed of people from this district, incapable of prevarication, I am sure, but, unfortunately, under the influence of that public opinion which has long since condemned M. de Boiscoran.  The proceedings begin; the judge questions the accused.  Will he say what he told me,—­that, after having been the lover of the Countess Claudieuse, he had gone to Valpinson to carry her back her letters, and to get his own, and that they are all burnt?  Suppose he says so.  Immediately then there will arise a storm of indignation; and he will be overwhelmed with curses and with contempt.  Well, thereupon, the president of the court uses his discretionary powers, suspends the trial, and sends for the Countess Claudieuse.  Since we look upon her as guilty, we must needs endow her with supernatural energy.  She had foreseen what is coming, and has read over her part.  When summoned, she appears, pale, dressed in black; and a murmur of respectful sympathy greets her at her entrance.  You see her before you, don’t you?  The president explains to her why she has been sent for, and she does not comprehend.  She cannot possibly comprehend such an abominable calumny.  But when she has comprehended it?  Do you see the lofty look by which she crushes Jacques, and the grandeur with which she replies, ’When this man had failed in trying to murder my husband, he tried to disgrace his wife.  I intrust to you my honor as a mother and a wife, gentlemen.  I shall not answer the infamous charges of this abject calumniator.’”

“But that means the galleys for Jacques,” exclaimed M. de Chandore, “or even the scaffold!”

“That would be the maximum, at all events,” replied the advocate of Sauveterre.  “But the trial goes on; the prosecuting attorney demands an overwhelming punishment; and at last the prisoner’s council is called upon to speak.  Gentlemen, you were impatient at my persistence.  I do not credit, I confess, the statement made by M. de Boiscoran.  But my young colleague here does credit it.  Well, let him tell us candidly.  Would he dare to plead this statement, and assert that the Countess Claudieuse had been Jacques’s mistress?”

M. Folgat looked annoyed.

“I don’t know,” he said in an undertone.

“Well, I know you would not,” exclaimed M. Magloire; “and you would be right, for you would risk your reputation without the slightest chance of saving Jacques.  Yes, no chance whatever!  For after all, let us suppose, what can hardly be even supposed, you should prove that Jacques has told the truth, that he has been the lover of the countess.  What would happen then?  They arrest the countess.  Do they release M. de Boiscoran on that account?  Certainly not!  They keep him in prison, and say to him.  ’This woman has attempted her husband’s life; but she had been your mistress, and you are her accomplice.’

“That is the situation, gentlemen!”