“Do you know, sir, what this letter contains?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know that M. de Boiscoran dares call me by my first name, Genevieve, as my husband does, and my father?”
The decisive moment had come, and M. Folgat had all his self-possession.
“M. de Boiscoran, madame, claims that he used to call you so in former days,—in Vine Street,—in days when you called him Jacques.”
The countess seemed to be utterly bewildered.
“But that is sheer infamy, sir,” she stammered. “What! M. de Boiscoran should have dared tell you that I, the countess Claudieuse, have been his—mistress?”
“He certainly said so, madam; and he affirms, that a few moments before the fire broke out, he was near you, and that, if his hands were blackened, it was because he had burned your letters and his.”
She rose at these words, and said in a penetrating voice,—
“And you could believe that,—you? Ah! M. de Boiscoran’s other crimes are nothing in comparison with this! He is not satisfied with having burnt our house, and ruined us: he means to dishonor us. He is not satisfied with having murdered my husband: he must ruin the honor of his wife also.”