“Since you insist upon it, madam,” she began, “I come to tell you myself that I cannot listen to you.  Are you not aware that I am standing between two open graves,—­that of my poor girl, who is dying at my house, and that of my husband, who is breathing his last in there?”

She made a motion as if she were about to retire; but Dionysia stopped her by a threatening look, and said with a trembling voice,—­

“If you go back into that room where your husband is, I shall go back with you, and I shall speak before him.  I shall ask you right before him, how you dare order a priest away from his bedside at the moment of death, and whether, after having robbed him of all his happiness in life, you mean to make him unhappy in all eternity.”

Instinctively the countess drew back.

“I do not understand you,” she said.

“Yes, you do understand me, madam.  Why will you deny it?  Do you not see that I know every thing, and that I have guessed what you have not told me?  Jacques was your lover; and your husband has had his revenge.”

“Ah!” cried the countess, “that is too much; that is too much!”

“And you have permitted it,” Dionysia went on with breathless haste; “and you did not come, and cry out in open court that your husband was a false witness!  What a woman you must be!  You do not mind it, that your love carries a poor unfortunate man to the galleys.  You mean to live on with this thought in your heart, that the man whom you love is innocent, and nevertheless, disgraced forever, and cut off from human society.  A priest might induce the count to retract his statement, you know very well; and hence you refuse to let the priest from Brechy come to his bedside.  And what is the end and aim of all your crimes?  To save your false reputation as an honest woman.  Ah! that is miserable; that is mean; that is infamous!”

The countess was roused at last.  What all M. Folgat’s skill and ability had not been able to accomplish, Dionysia obtained in an instant by the force of her passion.  Throwing aside her mask, the countess exclaimed with a perfect burst of rage,—­

“Well, then, no, no!  I have not acted so, and permitted all this to happen, because I care for my reputation.  My reputation!—­what does it matter?  It was only a week ago, when Jacques had succeeded in escaping from prison, I offered to flee with him.  He had only to say a word, and I should have given up my family, my children, my country, every thing, for him.  He answered, ‘Rather the galleys!’”

In the midst of all her fearful sufferings, Dionysia’s heart filled with unspeakable happiness as she heard these words.  Ah! now she could no longer doubt Jacques.

“He has condemned himself, you see,” continued the countess.  “I was quite willing to ruin myself for him, but certainly not for another woman.”

“And that other woman—­no doubt you mean me!”

“Yes!—­you for whose sake he abandoned me,—­you whom he was going to marry,—­you with whom he hoped to enjoy long happy years, and a happiness not furtive and sinful like ours, but a legitimate, honest happiness.”