As M. Folgat was bowing, she asked,—­

“You are M. de Boiscoran’s counsel?”

“Yes, madam,” replied the young advocate.

“The doctor tells me you wish to speak to me.”

“Yes, madam.”

With a queenly air, she pointed to a chair, and, sitting down herself, she said,—­

“I hear, sir.”

M. Folgat began with beating heart, but a firm voice,—­

“I ought, first of all, madam, to state to you my client’s true position.”

“That is useless, sir.  I know.”

“You know, madam, that he has been summoned to trial, and that he may be condemned?”

She shook her head with a painful movement, and said very softly,—­

“I know, sir, that Count Claudieuse has been the victim of a most infamous attempt at murder; that he is still in danger, and that, unless God works a miracle, I shall soon be without a husband, and my children without a father.”

“But M. de Boiscoran is innocent, madam.”

The features of the countess assumed an expression of profound surprise; and, looking fixedly at M. Folgat, she said,—­

“And who, then, is the murderer?”

Ah!  It cost the young advocate no small effort to prevent his lips from uttering the fatal word, “You,” prompted by his indignant conscience.  But he thought of the success of his mission; and, instead of replying, he said,—­

“To a prisoner, madam, to an unfortunate man on the eve of judgment, an advocate is a confessor, to whom he tells every thing.  I must add that the counsel of the accused is like a priest:  he must forget the secrets which have been confided to him.”

“I do not understand, sir.”

“My client, madam, had a very simple means to prove his innocence.  He had only to tell the truth.  He has preferred risking his own honor rather than to betray the honor of another person.”

The countess looked impatient, and broke in, saying,—­

“My moments are counted, sir.  May I beg you will be more explicit?”

But M. Folgat had gone as far as he well could go.

“I am desired by M. de Boiscoran, madam, to hand you a letter.”

The Countess Claudieuse seemed to be overwhelmed with surprise.

“To me?” she said.  “On what ground?”

Without saying a word, M. Folgat drew Jacques’s letter from his portfolio, and handed it to her.

“Here it is!” he said.

She took it with a perfectly steady hand, and opened it slowly.  But, as soon as she had run her eye over it, she rose, turned crimson in her face, and said with flaming eyes,—­

“Do you know, sir, what this letter contains?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know that M. de Boiscoran dares call me by my first name, Genevieve, as my husband does, and my father?”

The decisive moment had come, and M. Folgat had all his self-possession.

“M. de Boiscoran, madame, claims that he used to call you so in former days,—­in Vine Street,—­in days when you called him Jacques.”