M. Folgat interrupted him, saying,—­

“Do not trouble yourself about that:  a postponement is out of the question.  On what pretext could we ask for it?  The only way would be to introduce an entirely new element in the case.  We should have to summon the Countess Claudieuse.”

The greatest surprise appeared on Jacques’s face.

“Will we not summon her anyhow?” he asked.

“That depends.”

“I do not understand you.”

“It is very simple, however.  If Goudar should succeed, before the trial, in collecting sufficient evidence against her, I should summon her certainly; and then the case would naturally change entirely; the whole proceeding would begin anew; and you would probably appear only as a witness.  If, on the contrary, we obtain, before the trial begins, no other proof but what we have now, I shall not mention her name even; for that would, in my opinion, and in M. Magloire’s opinion, ruin your cause irrevocably.”

“Yes,” said the great advocate, “that is my opinion.”

Jacques’s amazement was boundless.

“Still,” he said, “in self-defence, I must, if I am brought up in court, speak of my relations to the Countess Claudieuse.”

“No.”

“But that is my only explanation.”

“If it were credited.”

“And you think you can defend me, you think you can save me, without telling the truth?”

M. Folgat shook his head, and said,—­

“In court the truth is the last thing to be thought of.”

“Oh!”

“Do you think the jury would credit allegations which M. Magloire did not credit?  No.  Well, then, we had better not speak of them any more, and try to find some explanation which will meet the charges brought against you.  Do you think we should be the first to act thus?  By no means.  There are very few cases in which the prosecution says all it knows, and still fewer in which the defence calls for every thing it might call for.  Out of ten criminal trials, there are at least three in which side-issues are raised.  What will be the charge in court against you?  The substance of the romance which the magistrate has invented in order to prove your guilt.  You must meet him with another romance which proves your innocence.”

“But the truth.”

“Is dependent on probability, my dear client.  Ask M. Magloire.  The prosecution only asks for probability:  hence probability is all the defence has to care for.  Human justice is feeble, and limited in its means; it cannot go down to the very bottom of things; it cannot judge of motives, and fathom consciences.  It can only judge from appearances, and decide by plausibility; there is hardly a case which has not some unexplored mystery, some undiscovered secret.  The truth!  Ah! do you think M. Galpin has looked for it?  If he did, why did he not summon Cocoleu?  But no, as long as he can produce a criminal, who may be responsible for the crime, he is quite content.  The truth!  Which of us knows the real truth?  Your case, M. de Boiscoran, is one of those in which neither the prosecution, nor the defence, nor the accused himself, knows the truth of the matter.”