“All would not be lost yet.  But then we should have to endure the pain of seeing our son brought up in court.”

The tall figure of the old gentleman had once more risen to its full height; his face grew red; and the most appalling wrath flashed from his eyes.

“Jacques brought up in court?” he cried, with a formidable voice.  “And you come and tell me that coolly, as if it were a very simple and quite natural matter!  And what will happen then, if he is in court?  He will be condemned; and a Boiscoran will go to the galleys.  But no, that cannot be!  I do not say that a Boiscoran may not commit a crime, passion makes us do strange things; but a Boiscoran, when he regains his senses, knows what becomes him to do.  Blood washes out all stains.  Jacques prefers the executioner; he waits; he is cunning; he means to plead.  If he but save his head, he is quite content.  A few years at hard labor, I suppose, will be a trifle to him.  And that coward should be a Boiscoran:  my blood should flow in his veins!  Come, come, madam, Jacques is no son of mine.”

Crushed as the marchioness had seemed to be till now, she rose under this atrocious insult.

“Sir!” she cried.

But M. de Boiscoran was not in a state to listen to her.

“I know what I am saying,” he went on.  “I remember every thing, if you have forgotten every thing.  Come, let us go back to your past.  Remember the time when Jacques was born, and tell me what year it was when M. de Margeril refused to meet me.”

Indignation restored to the marchioness her strength.  She cried,—­

“And you come and tell me this to-day, after thirty years, and God knows under what circumstances!”

“Yes, after thirty years.  Eternity might pass over these recollections, and it would not efface them.  And, but for these circumstances to which you refer, I should never have said any thing.  At the time to which I allude, I had to choose between two evils,—­either to be ridiculous, or to be hated.  I preferred to keep silence, and not to inquire too far.  My happiness was gone; but I wished to save my peace.  We have lived together on excellent terms; but there has always been between us this high wall, this suspicion.  As long as I was doubtful, I kept silent.  But now, when the facts confirm my doubts, I say again, ’Jacques is no son of mine!’”

Overcome with grief, shame, and indignation, the Marchioness de Boiscoran was wringing her hands; then she cried,—­

“What a humiliation!  What you are saying is too horrible.  It is unworthy of you to add this terrible suffering to the martyrdom which I am enduring.”

M. de Boiscoran laughed convulsively.

“Have I brought about this catastrophe?”

“Well then yes!  One day I was imprudent and indiscreet.  I was young; I knew nothing of life; the world worshipped me; and you, my husband, my guide, gave yourself up to your ambition, and left me to myself.  I could not foresee the consequences of a very inoffensive piece of coquetry.”