“I only want to do one thing, and that is to give up my keys as soon as possible. I am tired of this profession of jailer. Besides, I shall not be able to stay here much longer. This escape has put a flea into the ear of the authorities, and they are going to give me an assistant, a former police sergeant, who is as bad as a watchdog. Ah! the good days of M. de Boiscoran are over: no more stolen visits, no more promenades. He is to be watched day and night.” Blangin had stopped at the foot of the staircase to give all these explanations. “Let us go up,” he said now, as M. Folgat showed signs of growing impatience. He found Jacques lying on his bed, all dressed; and at the first glance he saw that a great misfortune had happened. “One more hope gone?” he asked. The prisoner raised himself up with difficulty, and sat up on the side of his bed; then he replied in a voice of utter despair,-- “I am lost, and this time hopelessly.” “Oh!” “Just listen!” The young advocate could not help shuddering as he heard the account given by Jacques of what had happened the night before. And when it was finished, he said,-- “You are right. If Count Claudieuse carries out his threat, it may be a condemnation.” “It must be a condemnation, you mean. Well, you need not doubt. He will carry out his threat.” And shaking his head with an air of desolation, he added,-- “And the most formidable part of it is this: I cannot blame him for doing it. The jealousy of husbands is often nothing more than self-love. When they find they have been deceived, their vanity is offended; but their heart remains whole. But in this case it is very different. He not only loved his wife, he worshipped her. She was his happiness, life itself. When I took her from him, I robbed him of all he had,--yes, of all! I never knew what adultery meant till I saw him overcome with shame and rage. He was left without any thing in a moment. His wife had a lover: his favorite daughter was not his own! I suffer terribly; but it is nothing, I am sure, in comparison with what he suffers. And you expect, that, holding a weapon in his hand, he should not use it? It is a treacherous, dishonest weapon, to be sure; but have I been frank and honest? It would be a mean, ignoble vengeance, you will say; but what was the offence? In his place, I dare say, I should do as he does.” M. Folgat was thunderstruck. “But after that,” he asked, “when you left the house?” Jacques passed his hand mechanically over his forehead, as if to gather his thoughts, and then went on,--