"You were acquainted with this woman; you were her friend; you term yourself her brother; you speak of her as your sister,—and you were not cognizant of her proceedings? Is it then probable, as you have yourself remarked," continued the president, "that she would have committed alone this act imputed to her?"
"She did not commit it alone," replied Lorin, repeating the technical words used by the president; "since, as she has told you, and I have told you, and now repeat, her husband compelled her."
"Then how is it that you are not acquainted with the husband," said Fouquier Tinville, "since the husband was united with the wife?"
It remained only for Lorin to recount the first disappearance of Dixmer; to mention the amours of Geneviève and his friend; and, in short, to relate the manner in which Dixmer had carried off and concealed his wife in some impenetrable retreat,—it needed only this to exculpate himself from all connivance, and to elucidate the whole mystery. But for this he must betray the secrets of his two friends; to do this would be to put Geneviève to shame before five hundred people. Lorin shook his head, as if saying "no" to himself.
"Well?" demanded the president, "what do you reply to the public prosecutor?"
"That his logic is crushing," said Lorin; "and I am now convinced of one thing which I never even suspected before."
"What is that?"
"That I am, as it appears, one of the most frightful conspirators that has ever been seen."
This declaration elicited a roar of laughter; even the jury could not refrain, so ludicrous was the young man's manner in enunciating these words.
Fouquier felt the ridicule; and since with his usual indefatigable perseverance he had managed to know all the secrets of the accused as well as they did themselves, he could not help feeling toward Lorin a sentiment of pity mingled with admiration.