“I loved the Countess Claudieuse, and she loved me.”
“Adultery is a crime, Jacques.”
“A crime? Magloire said the same thing. But, father, do you really think so? Then it is a crime which has nothing appalling about it, to which every thing invites and encourages, of which everybody boasts, and at which the world smiles. The law, it is true, gives the husband the right of life and death; but, if you appeal to the law, it gives the guilty man six months’ imprisonment, or makes him pay a few thousand francs.”
Ah, if he had known, the unfortunate man!
“Jacques,” said the marquis, “the Countess Claudieuse hints, as you say, that one of her daughters, the youngest, is your child?”
“That may be so.”
The Marquis de Boiscoran shuddered. Then he exclaimed bitterly,—
“That may be so! You say that carelessly, indifferently, madman! Did you never think of the grief Count Claudieuse would feel if he should learn the truth? And even if he merely suspected it! Can you not comprehend that such a suspicion is quite sufficient to embitter a whole life, to ruin the life of that girl? Have you never told yourself that such a doubt inflicts a more atrocious punishment than any thing you have yet suffered?”
He paused. A few words more, and he would have betrayed his secret. Checking his excitement by an heroic effort, he said,—
“But I did not come here to discuss this question; I came to tell you, that, whatever may happen, your father will stand by you, and that, if you must undergo the disgrace of appearing in court, I will take a seat by your side.”