"Proofs!" stammered Hortense. "Proofs!"

"Proofs?" replied Renine, in a loud voice. "Why, there are any number
of proofs; and you know them as well as I do. Who could have killed at
that distance of eight hundred yards, except an expert shot, an ardent
sportsman? You agree, M. d'Aigleroche, do you not?... Proofs? Why was
nothing removed from the house, nothing except the guns, those guns
which an ardent sportsman cannot afford to leave behind--you agree, M.
d'Aigleroche--those guns which we find here, hanging in trophies on the
walls!... Proofs? What about that date, the 5th of September, which was
the date of the crime and which has left such a horrible memory in the
criminal's mind that every year at this time--at this time alone--he
surrounds himself with distractions and that every year, on this same 5th
of September, he forgets his habits of temperance? Well, to-day, is the 5th
of September.... Proofs? Why, if there weren't any others, would that not
be enough for you?"

And Renine, flinging out his arm, pointed to the Comte d'Aigleroche, who,
terrified by this evocation of the past, had sunk huddled into a chair and
was hiding his head in his hands.

Hortense did not attempt to argue with him. She had never liked her uncle,
or rather her husband's uncle. She now accepted the accusation laid against
him.

Sixty seconds passed. Then M. d'Aigleroche walked up to them and said:

"Whether the story be true or not, you can't call a husband a criminal for
avenging his honour and killing his faithless wife."