But M. de Boiscoran was not in a state to listen to her.
“I know what I am saying,” he went on. “I remember every thing, if you have forgotten every thing. Come, let us go back to your past. Remember the time when Jacques was born, and tell me what year it was when M. de Margeril refused to meet me.”
Indignation restored to the marchioness her strength. She cried,—
“And you come and tell me this to-day, after thirty years, and God knows under what circumstances!”
“Yes, after thirty years. Eternity might pass over these recollections, and it would not efface them. And, but for these circumstances to which you refer, I should never have said any thing. At the time to which I allude, I had to choose between two evils,—either to be ridiculous, or to be hated. I preferred to keep silence, and not to inquire too far. My happiness was gone; but I wished to save my peace. We have lived together on excellent terms; but there has always been between us this high wall, this suspicion. As long as I was doubtful, I kept silent. But now, when the facts confirm my doubts, I say again, ‘Jacques is no son of mine!’”
Overcome with grief, shame, and indignation, the Marchioness de Boiscoran was wringing her hands; then she cried,—
“What a humiliation! What you are saying is too horrible. It is unworthy of you to add this terrible suffering to the martyrdom which I am enduring.”
M. de Boiscoran laughed convulsively.
“Have I brought about this catastrophe?”
“Well then yes! One day I was imprudent and indiscreet. I was young; I knew nothing of life; the world worshipped me; and you, my husband, my guide, gave yourself up to your ambition, and left me to myself. I could not foresee the consequences of a very inoffensive piece of coquetry.”