And repeating with crushing irony the words just uttered by the countess, he said,—­

“If you are innocent, who, then, would be the guilty man?”

Quite beside herself, she sprang up from her chair, and casting at Jacques one of those glances which seem to enter through our eyes into the very heart of our hearts, she asked,—­

“Is it really possible that you have not committed this abominable crime?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“But then,” she repeated, almost panting, “is it true, can it really be true, that you think I have committed it?”

“Perhaps you have only ordered it to be committed.”

With a wild gesture she raised her arms to heaven, and cried in a heart-rending voice,—­

“O God, O God!  He believes it! he really believes it!”

There followed great silence, dismal, formidable silence, such as in nature follows the crash of the thunderbolt.

Standing face to face, Jacques and the Countess Claudieuse looked at each other madly, feeling that the fatal hour in their lives had come at last.

Each felt a growing, a sure conviction of the other.  There was no need of explanations.  They had been misled by appearances:  they acknowledged it; they were sure of it.

And this discovery was so fearful, so overwhelming, that neither thought of who the real guilty one might be.

“What is to be done?” asked the countess.

“The truth must be told,” replied Jacques.

“Which?”

“That I have been your lover; that I went to Valpinson by appointment with you; that the cartridge-case which was found there was used by me to get fire; that my blackened hands were soiled by the half-burnt fragment of our letters, which I had tried to scatter.”

“Never!” cried the countess.

Jacques’s face turned crimson, as he said with an accent of merciless severity,—­

“It shall be told!  I will have it so, and it must be done!”

The countess seemed to be furious.

“Never!” she cried again, “never!”

And with convulsive haste she added,—­

“Do you not see that the truth cannot possibly be told.  They would never believe in our innocence.  They would only look upon us as accomplices.”

“Never mind.  I am not willing to die.”

“Say that you will not die alone.”

“Be it so.”

“To confess every thing would never save you, but would most assuredly ruin me.  Is that what you want?  Would your fate appear less cruel to you, if there were two victims instead of one?”

He stopped her by a threatening gesture, and cried,—­

“Are you always the same?  I am sinking, I am drowning; and she calculates, she bargains!  And she said she loved me!”

“Jacques!” broke in the countess.

And drawing close up to him, she said,—­