“More than you, gentlemen, I feel a desire to believe M. de Boiscoran innocent.  M. Daubigeon, who knows what I mean, will tell you so.  In my heart I pleaded his cause long before you.  But I am the representative of the law; and my duty is above my affections.  Does it depend on me to set aside Cocoleu’s accusation, however stupid, however absurd, it may be?  Can I undo the three statements made by the witnesses, and confirming so strongly the suspicions aroused by the first charge?”

Count Claudieuse was distressed beyond expression.  At last he said,—­

“The worst thing about it is, that M. de Boiscoran thinks I am his enemy.  I should not wonder if he went and imagined that these charges and vile suspicions have been suggested by my wife or by myself.  If I could only get up!  At least, let M. de Boiscoran know distinctly that I am ready to answer for him, as I would answer for myself.  Cocoleu, the wretched idiot!  Ah, Genevieve, my darling wife!  Why did you induce him to talk?  If you had not insisted, he would have kept silent forever.”

The countess succumbed at last to the anxieties of this terrible night.  At first she had been supported by that exaltation which is apt to accompany a great crisis; but latterly she had felt exhausted.  She had sunk upon a stool, near the bed on which her two daughters were lying; and, her head hid in the pillow, she seemed to sleep.  But she was not asleep.  When her husband reproached her thus, she rose, pale, with swollen eyes and distorted features, and said in a piercing voice,—­

“What?  They have tried to kill my Trivulce; our children have been near unto death in the flames; and I should have allowed any means to be unused by which the guilty one may be found out?  No!  I have only done what it was my duty to do.  Whatever may come of it, I regret nothing.”

“But, Genevieve, M. de Boiscoran is not guilty:  he cannot possibly be guilty.  How could a man who has the happiness of being loved by Dionysia de Chandore, and who counts the days to his wedding,—­how could he devise such a hideous crime?”

“Let him prove his innocence,” replied the countess mercilessly.

The doctor smacked his lips in the most impertinent manner.

“There is a woman’s logic for you,” he murmured.

“Certainly,” said M. Seneschal, “M. de Boiscoran’s innocence will be promptly established.  Nevertheless, the suspicion will remain.  And our people are so constituted, that this suspicion will overshadow his whole life.  Twenty years hence, they will meet him, and they will say, ’Oh, yes! the man who set Valpinson on fire!’”

It was not M. Galpin this time who replied, but the commonwealth attorney.  He said sadly,—­