“I was angry; but I have reflected since, and now I thank you for your candor. At least, I know my fate. Innocent though I be, if I go into court, I shall be condemned as an incendiary and a murderer. I shall prefer not going into court at all.”
“Poor man! But all hope is not lost.”
“Yes. Who would believe me, if you, my friend, cannot believe me?”
“I would,” said M. Folgat promptly, “I, who, without knowing you, from the beginning believed in your innocence,—I who, now that I have seen you, adhere to my conviction.”
Quicker than thought, M. de Boiscoran had seized the young advocate’s hand, and, pressing it convulsively, said,—
“Thanks, oh, thanks for that word alone! I bless you, sir, for the faith you have in me!”
This was the first time that the unfortunate man, since his arrest, felt a ray of hope. Alas! it passed in a second. His eye became dim again; his brow clouded over; and he said in a hoarse voice,—
“Unfortunately, nothing can be done for me now. No doubt M. Magloire has told you my sad history and my statement. I have no proof; or at least, to furnish proof, I would have to enter into details which the court would refuse to admit; or if by a miracle they were admitted, I should be ruined forever by them. They are confidences which cannot be spoken of, secrets which are never betrayed, veils which must not be lifted. It is better to be condemned innocent than to be acquitted infamous and dishonored. Gentlemen, I decline being defended.”
What was his desperate purpose that he should have come to such a decision?
His counsel trembled as they thought they guessed it.