“Unfortunately, nothing can be done for me now.  No doubt M. Magloire has told you my sad history and my statement.  I have no proof; or at least, to furnish proof, I would have to enter into details which the court would refuse to admit; or if by a miracle they were admitted, I should be ruined forever by them.  They are confidences which cannot be spoken of, secrets which are never betrayed, veils which must not be lifted.  It is better to be condemned innocent than to be acquitted infamous and dishonored.  Gentlemen, I decline being defended.”

What was his desperate purpose that he should have come to such a decision?

His counsel trembled as they thought they guessed it.

“You have no right,” said M. Folgat, “to give yourself up thus.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are not alone in your trouble, sir.  Because you have relations, friends, and”—­

A bitter, ironical smile appeared on the lips of Jacques de Boiscoran as he broke in,—­

“What do I owe to them, if they have not even the courage to wait for the sentence to be pronounced before they condemn me?  Their merciless verdict has actually anticipated that of the jury.  It was to an unknown person, to you, M. Folgat, that I had to be indebted for the first expression of sympathy.”

“Ah, that is not so,” exclaimed M. Magloire, “you know very well.”

Jacques did not seem to hear him.  He went on,—­

“Friends?  Oh, yes!  I had friends in my days of prosperity.  There was M. Galpin and M. Daubigeon:  they were my friends.  One has become my judge, the most cruel and pitiless of judges; and the other, who is commonwealth attorney, has not even made an effort to come to my assistance.  M. Magloire also used to be a friend of mine, and told me a hundred times, that I could count upon him as I count upon myself, and that was my reason to choose him as my counsel; and, when I endeavored to convince him of my innocence, he told me I lied.”

Once more the eminent advocate of Sauveterre tried to protest; but it was in vain.

“Relations!” continued Jacques with a voice trembling with indignation—­“oh, yes!  I have relations, a father and a mother.  Where are they when their son, victimized by unheard-of fatality, is struggling in the meshes of a most odious and infamous plot?

“My father stays quietly in Paris, devoted to his pursuits and usual pleasures.  My mother has come down to Sauveterre.  She is here now; and she has been told that I am at liberty to receive visitors:  but in vain.  I was hoping for her yesterday; but the wretch who is accused of a crime is no longer her son!  She never came.  No one came.  Henceforth I stand alone in the world; and now you see why I have a right to dispose of myself.”

M. Folgat did not think for a moment of discussing the point.  It would have been useless.  Despair never reasons.  He only said,—­

“You forget Miss Chandore, sir.”