Jacques now experienced this.  These questions had been put to him so skilfully, and at such long intervals of time, that he had totally forgotten them; and yet now, when he recalled his answers, he had to acknowledge that he had confessed his purpose to devote that evening to some business of great importance.

“That is fearful!” he cried.

And, overcome by the terrible reality of M. Folgat’s apprehension, he added,—­

“How can we get out of that?”

“I told you,” replied M. Folgat, “we must find some plausible explanation.”

“I am sure I am incapable of that.”

The young lawyer seemed to reflect a moment, and then he said,—­

“You have been a prisoner while I have been free.  For a month now I have thought this matter over.”

“Ah!”

“Where was your wedding to be?”

“At my house at Boiscoran.”

“Where was the religious ceremony to take place?”

“At the church at Brechy.”

“Have you ever spoken of that to the priest?”

“Several times.  One day especially, when we discussed it in a pleasant way, he said jestingly to me, ’I shall have you, after all in my confessional.’”

M. Folgat almost trembled with satisfaction, and Jacques saw it.

“Then the priest at Brechy was your friend?”

“An intimate friend.  He sometimes came to dine with me quite unceremoniously, and I never passed him without shaking hands with him.”

The young lawyer’s joy was growing perceptibly.

“Well,” he said, “my explanation is becoming quite plausible.  Just hear what I have positively ascertained to be the fact.  In the time from nine to eleven o’clock, on the night of the crime, there was not a soul at the parsonage in Brechy.  The priest was dining with M. Besson, at his house; and his servant had gone out to meet him with a lantern.”

“I understand,” said M. Magloire.

“Why should you not have gone to see the priest at Brechy, my dear client?  In the first place, you had to arrange the details of the ceremony with him; then, as he is your friend, and a man of experience, and a priest, you wanted to ask him for his advice before taking so grave a step, and, finally, you intended to fulfil that religious duty of which he spoke, and which you were rather reluctant to comply with.”

“Well said!” approved the eminent lawyer of Sauveterre,—­“very well said!”

“So, you see, my dear client, it was for the purpose of consulting the priest at Brechy that you deprived yourself of the pleasure of spending the evening with your betrothed.  Now let us see how that answers the allegations of the prosecution.  They ask you why you took to the marshes.  Why?  Because it was the shortest way, and you were afraid of finding the priest in bed.  Nothing more natural; for it is well known that the excellent man is in the habit of going to bed at nine o’clock.  Still you had put yourself out in vain; for, when you knocked at the door of the parsonage, nobody came to open.”