g. But you are a clever man: you thought it over, and you made
out a story. There is nothing lacking in it, except probability. You
might tell me that the Countess Claudieuse has unfairly enjoyed the
reputation of a saint, and that she has given you her love; perhaps I
might be willing to believe it. But when you say she has set her own
house on fire, and taken up a gun to shoot her husband, that I can
never, never admit."

"Still it is the truth."

"No; for the evidence of Count Claudieuse is precise. He has seen his
murderer; it was a man who fired at him."

"And who tells you that Count Claudieuse does not know all, and wants to
save his wife, and ruin me? There would be a vengeance for him."

The objection took the advocate by surprise; but he rejected it at once,
and said,--

"Ah! be silent, or prove."

"All the letters are burned."

"When one has been a woman's lover for five years, there are always
proofs."

"But you see there are none."

"Do not insist," repeated M. Magloire.

And, in a voice full of pity and emotion, he added,--

"Unhappy man! Do you not feel, that, in order to escape from one crime,
you are committing another which is a thousand times worse?"

Jacques stood wringing his hand, and said--

"It is enough to drive me mad."

"And even if I, your friend," continued M. Magloire, "should believe
you, how would that help you? Would any one else believe it? Look here I
will tell you exactly what I think. Even if I were perfectly sure of all
the facts you mention, I should never plead them in my defence, unless I
had proofs. To plead them, understand me well, would be to ruin yourself
inevitably."

"Still they must be pleaded; for they are the truth."

"Then," said M. Magloire, "you must look for another advocate."

And he went toward the door. He was on the point of leaving, when
Jacques cried out, almost in agony,--

"Great God, he forsakes me!"

"No," replied the advocate; "but I cannot discuss matters with you in
the state of excitement in which you now are. You will think it over,
and I will come again to-morrow."

He left; and Jacques de Boiscoran fell, utterly undone, on one of the
prison chairs.

"It is all over," he stammered: "I am lost."

XV.

During all this time, they were suffering intense anxiety at M. de
Chandore's house. Ever since eight o'clock in the morning the two aunts,
the old gentleman, the marchioness, and M. Folgat had been assembled in
the di