“I am not often accused of partiality,” he said. “Count Claudieuse is,
perhaps, the only enemy I have in this country; but he is a bitter,
fierce enemy. To keep me out of the chamber, and to prevent my obtaining
many votes, he stooped to acts unworthy of a gentleman. I do not like
him. But in justice I must say that I look upon the countess as the
loftiest, the purest, and noblest type of the woman, the wife, and the
mother.”
A bitter smile played on Jacques’s lips.
“And still I have been her lover,” he said.
“When? How? The countess lived at Valpinson: you lived in Paris.”
“Yes; but every year the countess came and spent the month of September
in Paris; and I came occasionally to Boiscoran.”
“It is very singular that such an intrigue should never have been
suspected even.”
“We managed to take our precautions.”
“And no one ever suspected any thing?”
“No one.”
But Jacques was at last becoming impatient at the attitude assumed by M.
Magloire. He forgot that he had foreseen all the suspicions to which he
found now he was exposed.
“Why do you ask all these questions?” he said. “You do not believe me.
Well, be it so! Let me at least try to convince you. Will you listen to
me?”
M. Magloire drew up a chair, and sitting down, not as usually, but
across the chair, and resting his arms on the back, he said,--
“I listen.”
Jacques de Boiscoran, who had been almost livid, became crimson with
anger. His eyes flashed wrath. That he, he should be treated thus! Never
had all the haughtiness of M. Galpin offended him half as much as this
cool, disdainful condescension on the part of M. Magloire. It occurred
to him to order him out of his room. But what then? He was condemned
to drain the bitter cup to the very dregs: for he must save himself; he
must get out of this abyss.
“You are cruel, Magloire,” he said in a voice of ill-suppressed
indignation, “and you make me feel all the horrors of my situation to
the full. Ah, do not apologize! It does not matter. Let me speak.”
He walked up and down a few times in his cell, passing his hand
repeatedly over his brow, as if to recall his memory. Then he began, in
a calmer tone of voice,--
“It was in the first days of the month of August, in 1866, and at
Boiscoran, where I was on a visit to my uncle, that I saw the Countess
Claudieuse for the first time. Count Claudieuse and my uncle were, at
that time, on very bad terms with each other, thanks to that unlucky
little stream which crosses our estates; and a common friend, M. de
Besson, had undertaken to reconcile them at a dinner to which he had
invited both. My uncle had taken me with him. The countess had come with
her husband. I was just twenty years old; she was twenty-six. When I saw
her, I was overcome. It seemed to me that I had never in all my life met
a woman so perfectly beautiful and graceful; that I had never seen so
charming a face, such beautiful eyes, and such a sweet smile.
“She did not seem to notice me. I did not speak to her; and still I felt
within me a kind of presentiment that this woman would play a great, a
fatal part in my life.
“This impression was so strong, that, as we left the house, I could not
keep from mentioning it to my uncle. He only laughed, and said that
I was a fool, and that, if my existence should ever be troubled by a
woman, it would certainly not be by the Countess Claudieuse.
“He was apparently right. It was hard to imagine that any thing should
ever again bring me in contact with the countess. M. de Besson’s attempt
at reconciliation had utterly failed; the countess lived at Valpinson;
and I went back to Paris.
“Still I was unable to shake off the impression; and the memory of the
dinner at M. de Besson’s house was still in my mind, when a month
later, at a party at my mother’s brother’s, M. de Chalusse, I thought
I recognized the Countess Claudieuse. It was she. I bowed, and, seeing
that she recognized me, I went up to her, trembling, and she allowed me
to sit down by her.
“She told me then that she had come up to Paris for a month, as she did
every year, and that she was staying at her father’s, the Marquis de
Tassar. She had come to this party much against her inclination, as she
disliked going out. She did not dance; and thus I talked to her till the
moment when she left.
“I was madly in love when we parted; and still I made no effort to see
her again. It was mere chance again which brought us together.
“One day I had business at Melun, and, reaching the station rather late,
I had but just time to jump into the nearest car. In the compartment
was the countess. She told me--and that is all I ever recollected of the
conversation--that she was on her way to Fontainebleau to see a friend,
with whom she spent every Tuesday and Saturday. Usually she took the
nine o’clock train.
“This was on a Tuesday; and during the next three days a great struggle
went on in my heart. I was desperately in love with the countess, and
still I was afraid of her. But my evil star conquered; and the next
Saturday, at nine o’clock, I was at the station again.
“The countess has since confessed to me that she expected me. When she
saw me, she made a sign; and, when they opened the doors, I managed to
find a place by her side.”
M. Magloire had for some minutes given signs of great impatience; now he
broke forth,--
“This is too improbable!”
At first Jacques de Boiscoran made no reply. It was no easy task for
a man, tried as he had been of late, to stir up thus the ashes of the
past; and it made him shudder. He was amazed at seeing on his lips this
secret which he had so long buried in his innermost heart. Besides, he
had loved, loved in good earnest; and his love had been returned. And
there are certain sensations which come to us only once in life, and
which can never again be effaced. He was moved to tears. But as the
eminent advocate of Sauveterre repeated his words, and even added,--
“No, it is not credible!”
“I do not ask you to believe me,” he said gently: “I only ask you to
hear me.”
And, overcoming with all his energy the kind of torpor which was
mastering him, he continued,--
“This trip to Fontainebleau decided our fate. Other trips followed. The
countess spent her days with her friend, and I passed the long hours
in roaming through the woods. But in the evening we met again at the
station. We took a _coupe_, which I had engaged beforehand, and I
accompanied her in a carriage to her father’s house.
“Finally, one evening, she left her friend’s house at the usual hour;
but she did not return to her father’s house till the day after.”
“Jacques!” broke in M. Magloire, shocked, as if he had heard a
curse,--“Jacques!”