At the same time he was excited by these revelations, and could not refrain from talking in his turn. The special circle where the affair had been under discussion was now disturbed, the dance being finished, by new arrivals. Conversation began again here and there, breaking out in little separate groups, like smothered fire that sparkles and scatters. The district attorney, Mr. Vallerois, rejoined Mr. Battard in the embrasure of a window. “You will hold the cards when you plead now,” he said. “You can riddle Mrs. Frasne’s husband with sarcasm.” “It isn’t certain yet that I shall make the argument,” replied the lawyer. “What! You are not to make the argument?” Mr. Battard had to explain his confidences, which had escaped him without thinking, by going further into the thing. “That young duffer Maurice doesn’t wish to be seriously defended. He prefers to look out for his mistress’s honour.” He pronounced these last words with disdainful irony, explaining to the attentive magistrate that the accused man threatened to contradict in advance any reference to Mrs. Frasne as the guilty party. “If you don’t argue, then who will?” “I don’t know. Mr. Hamel doubtless.” His tone showed hardly any more respect for the aged lawyer than for the guilty woman. The former’s age and feebleness were thrown into high relief by the single mocking mention of his name. After some moments of silence Mr. Vallerois concluded: “I understand what Roquevillard’s driving at now. He’s suppressing the theft to save his son. It’s his last chance. He doesn’t hesitate to sacrifice his fortune. It’s very fine.” Not very much interested in this praise, Mr. Battard sketched a vague gesture that was susceptible of various interpretations. “All this is between you and me,” he said, to recapture his professional secret. And with his beard carefully displayed against his shirt front, he made his way up to a group of ladies, stepping slowly and majestically, like a peacock preparing himself for a promenade with his mates. Left alone, the magistrate made no haste to search out another guest to talk with. He still thought admiringly of Mr. Roquevillard, recalling the man’s sorrowful and valiant life since that day in the office when he had been told of Mr. Frasne’s complaint. Even then he had shown himself unselfish and proudly prepared for sacrifices. “Why am I the only one here,” Mr. Vallerois asked himself, “to appreciate this great force of character? There isn’t a man here can hold a candle to him, yet these gentlemen just now treated him so loftily, as if misfortune had made him small and insignificant. The provinces are vindictive and envious.”