“But proofs? I return to that, you must have proof,” said Rastignac. “Have you even a shadow of it?”
“You said yourself, just now,” remarked Maxime, “that it was always possible to bring a bad case.”
“A civil case, yes; but to fail in a criminal case is a far more serious matter. It would be a pretty thing if you were shown not to have a leg to stand on, and the case ended in a decision of non-lieu. You couldn’t find a better way to put our enemy on a pedestal as high as the column of July.”
“So,” said Maxime, “you see absolutely nothing that can be done?”
“For us, no. For you, my dear Maxime, who have no official character, and who, if need be, can support the attack on Monsieur de Sallenauve pistol in hand, as it were, nothing hinders you from proceeding in the matter.”
“Oh, yes!” said Maxime, bitterly, “I’m a sort of free lance.”
“Not at all; you are a man intuitively convinced of facts impossible to prove legally, and you do not give way before the judgment of God or man.”
Monsieur de Trailles rose angrily. Vinet rose also, and, shaking hands with Rastignac as he took leave of him, he said,—
“I don’t deny that your course is a prudent one, and I don’t say that in your place I should not do the same thing.”
“Adieu, Maxime; without bitterness, I hope,” said Rastignac to Monsieur de Trailles, who bowed coldly and with dignity.