j The Crime of C"«F-" the Boulevard ce —m ——— —MMWBP— CHAPTER XV. And now, after having accused Dan 'tn of lying, believing that he was act ing a comedy, after smiling disdain fully at that common invention—a vow which one could not break—the per ception of a possibility entered the magistrate's mind .that this man might be sincere. Hitherto he had closed his heart against sympathy for this man. iThey had met in mutual hostility. The manner in which Jacques Dan tin approached the question, the reso lution with which ho spoke, no longer resembled the obstinate attitude which he laid before assumed in this same room. Reflection, tho prison—the cell, with out doubt—a frightful and stilling cell —had done its work. The man who had been excited to the point of not •peaking now wished to tell all. “Yes,” he said, “since nothing has happened to convince you that I am hot lying.” “I am listening to you, said the magistrate. Then in a long, close conference Jacques Dantin told M. Ginory his •tory. He related how from early youth he and Rovere had been closo friends; of the warm affection which had always existed between them; of the shams and deceptions of which he had been guilty; of the bitterness of his ruined life; of an existence which ought to have been beautiful, and which, so useless, tho life of a vlveur, had almost made him—why?—how?— thr< ugh need of money and a lack of moral sense, descend to crime. This Rovere, whom he was accused of killing, he lcvod, and, to tell the truth, In that strange and troublous ex istence which he had lived Rovere had been tho only 'rue friend whom he had known. Rovere, a sort of pessimistic philosopher, a recluse, lycanthropic, after a life spent in feasting, having ■surfeited himself with pleasure, recog nized also In bin last years that disin forested affection is rare in this world and his savage misanthropy softened before Jacques Bautin's warm friend ship. He continued to search for in what Is called pleasure and what as one's hair whitens becomes vice, in play, in the uproad of Paris, forgetfulness of life, of the dull life of a man growing old, alone, without home or family, an old, •tupld fellow, whom the young people look at with hate and say to each other, •Why Is he still here?' Rovere more and more felt tho need of withdraw ing into solitude, thinking over his adventurous life, as bad and as ruined as mine, and he wished to see no one— a wolf, a wild boar In his lair. Can you understand this friendship between two old fellows, one of whom tried In every way to direct his thoughts from blmself and the other waiting death In a cornqr of his fireside, solitary, un sociable}.'’ ' Perfectly. Go on.” And the magistrate, with eyes rivet ed upon Jacques Bautin, saw this man, excited, making light of this recital of the past, evoking remembrances of for Jrotten events, of this lost affection— ost, as all his life was. "This is not a conference. Is It not eo? You no longer believe that It is a comedy? I loved Rovere. Life had (often separated us. He searched for 'fortune at the other end of the world. I made a mess of mine and ate It in Paris. But we always kept up our re lations, and when he returned to ■Franco we were happy in again seeing •each other. The grayer turned tho buir, tho more tender the heart became. ( had always found hint morose—from his twentieth year he always dragged after him a sinister companion—ennui. He had chosen a consular career, to live far away and in a fashion not at ■all like ours. I have often laughingly