her than to betray the honor of another person."

The countess looked impatient, and broke in, saying,--

"My moments are counted, sir. May I beg you will be more explicit?"

But M. Folgat had gone as far as he well could go.

"I am desired by M. de Boiscoran, madam, to hand you a letter."

The Countess Claudieuse seemed to be overwhelmed with surprise.

"To me?" she said. "On what ground?"

Without saying a word, M. Folgat drew Jacques's letter from his
portfolio, and handed it to her.

"Here it is!" he said.

She took it with a perfectly steady hand, and opened it slowly. But,
as soon as she had run her eye over it, she rose, turned crimson in her
face, and said with flaming eyes,--

"Do you know, sir, what this letter contains?"

"Yes."

"Do you know that M. de Boiscoran dares call me by my first name,
Genevieve, as my husband does, and my father?"

The decisive moment had come, and M. Folgat had all his self-possession.

"M. de Boiscoran, madame, claims that he used to call you so in former
days,--in Vine Street,--in days when you called him Jacques."

The countess seemed to be utterly bewildered.

"But that is sheer infamy, sir," she stammered. "What! M. de Boiscoran
should have dared tell you that I, the countess Claudieuse, have been
his--mistress?"

"He certainly said so, madam; and he affirms, that a few moments
before the fire broke out, he was near you, and that, if his hands were
blackened, it was because he had burned your letters and his."

She rose at these words, and said in a penetrating voice,--

"And you could believe that,--you? Ah! M. de Boiscoran's other crimes
are nothing in comparison with this! He is not satisfied with having
burnt our house, and ruined us: he means to dishonor us. He is not
satisfied with having murdered my husband: he must ruin the honor of his
wife also."

She spoke so loud, that her voice must have been distinctly heard in the
vestibule.

"Lower, madam, I pray you speak lower," said M. Folgat.

She cast upon him a crushing glance; and, raising her voice still
higher, she went on,--

"Yes, I understand very well that you are afraid of being heard. But
I--what have I to fear? I could wish the whole world to hear us, and to
judge between us. Lower, you say? Why should I speak less loud? Do you
think that if Count Claudieuse were not on his death-bed, this letter
would not have long since been in his hands? Ah, he would soon have
satisfaction for suc