“You unfortunate?” cried old Tabaret, singularly affected by his dear Noel’s sadness. “In heaven’s name, what has happened to you?”
“I suffer,” murmured the advocate, “and very cruelly. Not only do I fear that the injustice is irreparable; but here am I totally without defence delivered over to the shafts of calumny. I may be accused of inventing falsehood, of being an ambitious intriguer, having no regard for truth, no scruples of conscience.”
Old Tabaret was puzzled. What connection could possibly exist between Noel’s honour and the assassination at La Jonchere? His brain was in a whirl. A thousand troubled and confused ideas jostled one another in inextricable confusion.
“Come, come, Noel,” said he, “compose yourself. Who would believe any calumny uttered about you? Take courage, have you not friends? am I not here? Have confidence, tell me what troubles you, and it will be strange, indeed if between us two—”
The advocate started to his feet, impressed by a sudden resolution.
“Well! yes,” interrupted he, “yes, you shall know all. In fact, I am tired of carrying all alone a secret that is stifling me. The part I have been playing irritates and wearies me. I have need of a friend to console me. I require a counsellor whose voice will encourage me, for one is a bad judge of his own cause, and this crime has plunged me into an abyss of hesitations.”
“You know,” replied M. Tabaret kindly, “that I regard you as my own son. Do not scruple to let me serve you.”
“Know then,” commenced the advocate,—“but no, not here: what I have to say must not be overheard. Let us go into my study.”