But it was too late.  He had burnt his vessels, and condemned himself to go on to the end.  For his own safety, for his future life, it was henceforth necessary that Jacques de Boiscoran should be found guilty; that he should be tried in open court, and there be sentenced.  It must be.  It was a question of life or death for him.

He was in this state of mind when the two Misses Lavarande called at his house, and asked to see him.  He shook himself; and in an instant his over-excited mind presented to him all possible contingencies.  What could the two old ladies want of him?

“Show them in,” he said at last.

They came in, and haughtily declined the chairs that were offered.

“I hardly expected to have the honor of a visit from you, ladies,” he commenced.

The older of the two, Miss Adelaide, cut him short, saying,—­

“I suppose not, after what has passed.”

And thereupon, speaking with all the eloquence of a pious woman who is trying to wither an impious man, she poured upon him a stream of reproaches for what she called his infamous treachery.  What?  How could he appear against Jacques, who was his friend, and who had actually aided him in obtaining the promise of a great match.  By that one hope he had become, so to say, a member of the family.  Did he not know that among kinsmen it was a sacred duty to set aside all personal feelings for the purpose of protecting that sacred patrimony called family honor?

M. Galpin felt like a man upon whom a handful of stones falls from the fifth story of a house.  Still he preserved his self-control, and even asked himself what advantage he might obtain from this extraordinary scene.  Might it open a door for reconciliation?

As soon, therefore, as Miss Adelaide stopped, he began justifying himself, painting in hypocritical colors the grief it had given him, swearing that he was able to control the events, and that Jacques was as dear to him now as ever.

“If he is so dear to you,” broke in Miss Adelaide, “why don’t you set him free?”

“Ah! how can I?”

“At least give his family and his friends leave to see him.”

“The law will not let me.  If he is innocent, he has only to prove it.  If he is guilty, he must confess.  In the first case, he will be set free; in the other case, he can see whom he wishes.”

“If he is so dear to you, how could you dare read the letter he had written to Dionysia?”

“It is one of the most painful duties of my profession to do so.”

“Ah!  And does that profession also prevent you from giving us that letter after having read it?”

“Yes.  But I may tell you what is in it.”

He took it out of a drawer, and the younger of the two sisters, Miss Elizabeth, copied it in pencil.  Then they withdrew, almost without saying good-by.

M. Galpin was furious.  He exclaimed,—­