“First I was kept by a sense of honor from mentioning the name of the Countess Claudieuse, and then by prudence.  The first time I mentioned it to M. Magloire, he told me I lied.  Then I thought every thing lost.  I saw no other end but the court, and, after the trial, the galleys or the scaffold.  I wanted to kill myself.  My friends made me understand that I did not belong to myself, and that, as long as I had a spark of energy and a ray of intelligence left me, I had no right to dispose of my life.”

“Poor, poor child!” said the marquis.  “No, you have no such right.”

“Yesterday,” continued Jacques, “Dionysia came to see me.  Do you know what brought her here?  She offered to flee with me.  Father, that temptation was terrible.  Once free, and Dionysia by my side, what cared I for the world?  She insisted, like the matchless girl that she is; and look there, there, on the spot where you now stand, she threw herself at my feet, imploring me to flee.  I doubt whether I can save my life; but I remain here.”

He felt deeply moved, and sank upon the rough bench, hiding his face in his hands, perhaps to conceal his tears.

Suddenly, however, he was seized with one of those attacks of rage which had come to him but too often during his imprisonment, and he exclaimed,—­

“But what have I done to deserve such fearful punishment?”

The brow of the marquis suddenly darkened; and he replied solemnly,—­

“You have coveted your neighbor’s wife, my son.”

Jacques shrugged his shoulders.  He said,—­

“I loved the Countess Claudieuse, and she loved me.”

“Adultery is a crime, Jacques.”

“A crime?  Magloire said the same thing.  But, father, do you really think so?  Then it is a crime which has nothing appalling about it, to which every thing invites and encourages, of which everybody boasts, and at which the world smiles.  The law, it is true, gives the husband the right of life and death; but, if you appeal to the law, it gives the guilty man six months’ imprisonment, or makes him pay a few thousand francs.”

Ah, if he had known, the unfortunate man!

“Jacques,” said the marquis, “the Countess Claudieuse hints, as you say, that one of her daughters, the youngest, is your child?”

“That may be so.”

The Marquis de Boiscoran shuddered.  Then he exclaimed bitterly,—­

“That may be so!  You say that carelessly, indifferently, madman!  Did you never think of the grief Count Claudieuse would feel if he should learn the truth?  And even if he merely suspected it!  Can you not comprehend that such a suspicion is quite sufficient to embitter a whole life, to ruin the life of that girl?  Have you never told yourself that such a doubt inflicts a more atrocious punishment than any thing you have yet suffered?”

He paused.  A few words more, and he would have betrayed his secret.  Checking his excitement by an heroic effort, he said,—­