“I said to myself, ‘The countess wants to be a widow.’”
All of M. Magloire’s blood seemed to rise in his face. He cried,—
“Unhappy man! How can you dare accuse the Countess Claudieuse of such a crime?”
Indignation gave Jacques strength to reply,—
“Whom else should I accuse? A crime has been committed, and under such circumstances that it cannot have been committed by any one except by her or by myself. I am innocent: consequently she is guilty.”
“Why did you not say so at once?”
Jacques shrugged his shoulders, and replied in a tone of bitter irony,—
“How many times, and in how many ways, do you want me to give you my reasons? I kept silent the first day, because I did not then know the circumstances of the crime, and because I was reluctant to accuse a woman who had given me her love, and who had become criminal from passion; because, in fine, I did not think at that time that I was in danger. After that I kept silent because I hoped justice would be able to discover the truth, or the countess would be unable to bear the idea that I, the innocent one, should be accused. Still later, when I saw my danger, I was afraid.”
The advocates’ feelings seemed to be revolted. He broke in,—
“You do not tell the truth, Jacques; and I will tell you why you kept silent. It is very difficult to make up a story which is to account for every thing. 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.”