The clerk shut the door, and looked at her for some time; then, having overcome his own emotions, he said to her,—

"Madame."

But, as she heard his voice, she jumped up, and taking his hands into hers, she broke out,—

"O sir! How can I thank you! How can I ever make you aware of the depth of my gratitude!"

"Don't speak of that," he said almost rudely, trying to conceal his deep feeling.

"I will say nothing more," she replied very gently; "but I must tell you that none of us will ever forget the debt of gratitude which we owe you from this day. You say the great service which you are about to render us is not free from danger. Whatever may happen, you must remember, that, from this moment, you have in us devoted friends."

The interruption caused by his sisters had had the good effect of restoring to Mechinet a good portion of his habitual self-possession. He said,—

"I hope no harm will come of it; and yet I cannot conceal from you, madam, that the service which I am going to try to render you presents more difficulties than I thought."

"Great God!" murmured Dionysia.

"M. Galpin," the clerk went on saying, "is, perhaps, not exactly a superior man; but he understands his profession; he is cunning, and exceedingly suspicious. Only yesterday he told me that he knew the Boiscoran family would try every thing in the world to save M. de Boiscoran from justice. Hence he is all the time on the watch, and takes all kinds of precautions. If he dared to it, he would have his bed put across his cell in the prison."

"That man hates me, M. Mechinet!"

"Oh, no, madam! But he is ambitious: he thinks his success in his profession depends upon his success in this case; and he is afraid the accused might escape or be carried off."

Mechinet was evidently in great perplexity, and scratched his ear. Then he added,—

"How am I to go about to let M. de Boiscoran have your note? If he knew beforehand, it would be easy. But he is unprepared. And then he is just as suspicious as M. Galpin. He is always afraid lest they prepare him a trap; and he is on the lookout. If I make him a sign, I fear he will not understand me; and, if I make him a sign, will not M. Galpin see it? That man is lynx-eyed."

"Are you never alone with M. de Boiscoran?"

"Never for an instant, madam. I only go in with the magistrate, and I come out with him. You will say, perhaps, that in leaving, as I am behind, I might drop the note cleverly. But, when we leave, the jailer is there, and he has good eyes. I should have to dread, besides, M. de Boiscoran's own suspicions. If he saw a letter coming to him in that way, from me, he is quite capable of handing it at once to M. Galpin."

He paused, and after a moment's meditation he went on,—

"The safest way would probably be to win the confidence of M. Blangin, the keeper of the jail, or of some prisoner, whose duty it is to wait on M. de Boiscoran, and to watch him."

"Trumence!" exclaimed Dionysia.

The clerk's face expressed the most startled surprise. He said,—

"What! You know his name?"

"Yes, I do; for Blangin mentioned him to me; and the name struck me the day when M. de Boiscoran's mother and I went to the jail, not knowing what was meant by 'close confinement.'"

The clerk was disappointed.

"Ah!" he said, "now I understand M. Galpin's great trouble. He has, no doubt, heard of your visit, and imagined that you wanted to rob him of his prisoner."

He murmured some words, which Dionysia could not hear; and then, coming to some decision, apparently, he said,—

"Well, never mind! I'll see what can be done. Write your letter, madam: here are pens and ink."

The young girl made no reply, but sat down at Mechinet's table; but, at the moment when she was putting pen to paper she asked,—

"Has M. de Boiscoran any books in his prison?"

"Yes, madam. At his request M. Galpin himself went and selected, in M. Daubigeon's library, some books of travels and some of Cooper's novels for him."

Dionysia uttered a cry of delight.

"O Jacques!" she said, "how glad I am you counted upon me!" and, without noticing how utterly Mechinet seemed to be surprised, she wrote,—

"We are sure of your innocence, Jacques, and still we are in despair. Your mother is here, with a Paris lawyer, a M. Folgat, who is devoted to your interests. What must we do? Give us your instructions. You can reply without fear, as you have our book.

"DIONYSIA."

"Read this," she said to the clerk, when she had finished. But he did not avail himself of the permission. He folded the paper, and slipped it into an envelope, which he sealed.

"Oh, you are very kind!" said the young girl, touched by his delicacy.

"Not at all, madam. I only try to do a dishonest thing in the most honest way. To-morrow, madam, you shall have your answer."

"I will call for it."

Mechinet trembled.

"Take care not to do so," he said. "The good people of Sauveterre are too cunning not to know that just now you are not thinking much of dress; and your calls here would look suspicious. Leave it to me to see to it that you get M. de Boiscoran's answer."

While Dionysia was writing, the clerk had made a parcel of the bonds which she had brought. He handed it to her, and said,—

"Take it, madam. If I want money for Blangin, or for Trumence, I will ask you for it. And now you must go: you need not go in to my sisters. I will explain your visit to them."



VIII.

"What can have happened to Dionysia, that she does not come back?" murmured Grandpapa Chandore, as he walked up and down the Square, and looked, for the twentieth time, at his watch. For some time the fear of displeasing his grandchild, and of receiving a scolding, kept him at the place where she had told him to wait for her; but at last it was too much for him, and he said,—

"Upon my word, this is too much! I'll risk it."

And, crossing the road which separates the Square from the houses, he entered the long, narrow passage in the house of the sisters Mechinet. He was just putting his foot on the first step of the stairs, when he saw a light above. He distinguished the voice of his granddaughter, and then her light step.

"At last!" he thought.

And swiftly, like a schoolboy who hears his teacher coming, and fears to be caught in the act, he slipped back into the Square. Dionysia was there almost at the same moment, and fell on his neck, saying,—

"Dear grandpapa, I bring you back your bonds," and then she rained a shower of kisses upon the old gentleman's furrowed cheeks.

If any thing could astonish M. de Chandore, it was the idea that there should exist in this world a man with a heart hard, cruel, and barbarous enough, to resist his Dionysia's prayers and tears, especially if they were backed by twenty thousand francs. Nevertheless, he said mournfully,—

"Ah! I told you, my dear child, you would not succeed."

"And you were mistaken, dear grandpapa, and you are still mistaken; for I have succeeded!"

"But—you bring back the money?"

"Because I have found an honest man, dearest grandpapa,—a most honorable man. Poor fellow, how I must have tempted his honesty! For he is very much embarrassed, I know it from good authority, ever since he and his sisters bought that house. It was more than comfort, it was a real fortune, I offered him. Ah! you ought to have seen how his eyes brightened up, and how his hands trembled, when he took up the bonds! Well, he refused to take them, after all; and the only reward he asks for the very good service which he is going to render us"—

M. de Chandore expressed his assent by a gesture, and then said,—

"You are right, darling: that clerk is a good man, and he has won our eternal gratitude."

"I ought to add," continued Dionysia, "that I was ever so brave. I should never have thought that I could be so bold. I wish you had been hid in some corner, grandpapa, to see me and hear me. You would not have recognized your grandchild. I cried a little, it is true, when I had carried my point."

"Oh, dear, dear child!" murmured the old gentleman, deeply moved.

"You see, grandpapa, I thought of nothing but of Jacques's danger, and of the glory of proving myself worthy of him, who is so brave himself. I hope he will be satisfied with me."

"He would be hard to please, indeed, if he were not!" exclaimed M. de Chandore.

The grandfather and his child were standing all the while under the trees in the great Square while they were thus talking to each other; and already a number of people had taken the opportunity of passing close by them, with ears wide open, and all eagerness, to find out what was going on: it is a way people have in small towns. Dionysia remembered the clerk's kindly warnings; and, as soon as she became aware of it, she said to her grandfather,—

"Come, grandpapa. People are listening. I will tell you the rest as we are going home."

And so, on their way, she told him all the little details of her interview; and the old gentleman declared, in all earnest, that he did not know which to admire most,—her presence of mind, or Mechinet's disinterestedness.

"All the more reason," said the young girl, "why we should not add to the dangers which the good man is going to run for us. I promised him to tell nobody, and I mean to keep my promise. If you believe me, dear grandpapa, we had better not speak of it to anybody, not even to my aunts."

"You might just as well declare at once, little scamp, that you want to save Jacques quite alone, without anybody's help."

"Ah, if I could do that! Unfortunately, we must take M. Folgat into our confidence; for we cannot do without his advice."

Thus it was done. The poor aunts, and even the marchioness, had to be content with Dionysia's not very plausible explanation of her visit. And a few hours afterwards M. de Chandore, the young girl, and M. Folgat held a council in the baron's study. The young lawyer was even more surprised by Dionysia's idea, and her bold proceedings, then her grandfather; he would never have imagined that she was capable of such a step, she looked so timid and innocent, like a mere child. He was about to compliment her; but she interrupted him eagerly, saying,—

"There is nothing to boast of. I ran no risk."

"A very substantial risk, madam, I assure you."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed M. de Chandore.

"To bribe an official," continued M. Folgat, "is a very grave offence. The Criminal Code has a certain paragraph, No. 179, which does not trifle, and punishes the man who bribes, as well as the man who is bribed."

"Well, so much the better!" cried Dionysia. "If poor M. Mechinet has to go to prison, I'll go with him!"

And, without noticing the dissatisfaction expressed in her grandfather's features, she added, turning to M. Folgat,—

"After all, sir, you see that your wishes have been fulfilled. We shall be able to communicate with M. de Boiscoran: he will give us his instructions."

"Perhaps so, madam."

"How? Perhaps? You said yourself"—

"I told you, madam, it would be useless, perhaps even imprudent, to take any steps before we know the truth. But will we know it? Do you think that M. de Boiscoran, who has good reasons for being suspicious of every thing, will at once tell us all in a letter which must needs pass through several hands before it can reach us?"

"He will tell us all, sir, without reserve, without fear, and without danger."

"Oh!"

"I have taken my precautions. You will see."

"Then we have only to wait."

Alas, yes! They had to wait, and that was what distressed Dionysia. She hardly slept that night. The next day was one unbroken torment. At each ringing of the bell, she trembled, and ran to see.

At last, towards five o'clock, when nothing had come, she said,—

"It is not to be to-day, provided, O God! that poor Mechinet has not been caught."

And, perhaps in order to escape for a time the anguish of her fears, she agreed to accompany Jacques's mother, who wanted to pay some visits.

Ah, if she had but known! She had not left the house ten minutes, when one of those street-boys, who abound at all hours of the day on the great Square, appeared, bringing a letter to her address. They took it to M. de Chandore, who, while waiting for dinner, was walking in the garden with M. Folgat.

"A letter for Dionysia!" exclaimed the old gentleman, as soon as the servant had disappeared. "Here is the answer we have been waiting for!"

He boldly tore it open. Alas! It was useless. The note within the envelope ran thus,—

"31:9, 17, 19, 23, 25, 28, 32, 101, 102, 129, 137, 504, 515—37:2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10, 11, 13, 14, 24, 27, 52, 54, 118, 119, 120, 200, 201—41:7, 9, 17, 21, 22, 44, 45, 46"—

And so on, for two pages.

"Look at this, and try to make it out," said M. de Chandore, handing the letter to M. Folgat.

The young man actually tried it; but, after five minutes' useless efforts, he said,—

"I understand now why Miss Chandore promised us that we should know the truth. M. de Boiscoran and she have formerly corresponded with each other in cipher."

Grandpapa Chandore raised his hands to heaven.

"Just think of these little girls! Here we are utterly helpless without her, as she alone can translate those hieroglyphics for you."

If Dionysia had hoped, by accompanying the marchioness on her visits, to escape from the sad presentiments that oppressed her, she was cruelly disappointed. They went to M. Seneschal's house first; but the mayor's wife was by no means calculated to give courage to others in an hour of peril. She could do nothing but embrace alternately Jacques's mother and Dionysia, and, amid a thousand sobs, tell them over and over again, that she looked upon one as the most unfortunate of mothers, and upon the other as the most unfortunate of betrothed maidens.

"Does the woman think Jacques is guilty?" thought Dionysia, and felt almost angry.

And that was not all. As they returned home, and passed the house which had been provisionally taken for Count Claudieuse and his family, they heard a little boy calling out,—

"O mamma, come quick! Here are the murderer's mother and his sweetheart."

Thus the poor girl came home more downcast than before. Immediately, however, her maid, who had evidently been on the lookout for her return, told her that her grandfather and the lawyer from Paris were waiting for her in the baron's study. She hastened there without stopping to take off her bonnet; and, as soon as she came in, M. de Chandore handed her Jacques's letter, saying,—

"Here is your answer."

She could not repress a little cry of delight, and rapidly touched the letter with her lips, repeating,—

"Now we are safe, we are safe!"

M. de Chandore smiled at the happiness of his granddaughter.

"But, Miss Hypocrite," he said, "it seems you had great secrets to communicate to M. de Boiscoran, since you resorted to cipher, like arch conspirators. M. Folgat and I tried to read it; but it was all Greek to us."

Now only the young lady remembered M. Folgat's presence, and, blushing deeply, she said,—

"Latterly Jacques and I had been discussing the various methods to which people resort who wish to carry on a secret correspondence: this led him to teach me one of the ways. Two correspondents choose any book they like, and each takes a copy of the same edition. The writer looks in his volume for the words he wants, and numbers them; his correspondent finds them by the aid of these numbers. Thus, in Jacques's letters, the numbers followed by a colon refer to the pages, and the others to the order in which the words come."

"Ah, ah!" said Grandpapa Chandore, "I might have looked a long time."

"It is a very simple method," replied Dionysia, "very well known, and still quite safe. How could an outsider guess what book the correspondents have chosen? Then there are other means to mislead indiscreet people. It may be agreed upon, for instance, that the numbers shall never have their apparent value, or that they shall vary according to the day of the month or the week. Thus, to-day is Monday, the second day of the week. Well, I have to deduct one from each number of a page, and add one to each number of a word."

"And you will be able to make it all out?" asked M. de Chandore.

"Certainly, dear grandpapa. Ever since Jacques explained it to me, I have tried to learn it as a matter of course. We have chose a book which I am very fond of, Cooper's 'Spy;' and we amused ourselves by writing endless letters. Oh! it is very amusing, and it takes time, because one does not always find the words that are needed, and then they have to be spelled letter by letter."

"And M. de Boiscoran has a copy of Cooper's novels in his prison?" asked M. Folgat.

"Yes, sir. M. Mechinet told me so. As soon as Jacques found he was to be kept in close confinement, he asked for some of Cooper's novels, and M. Galpin, who is so cunning, so smart, and so suspicious, went himself and got them for him. Jacques was counting upon me."

"Then, dear child, go and read your letter, and solve the riddle," said M. de Chandore.

When she had left, he said to his companion,—

"How she loves him! How she loves this man Jacques! Sir, if any thing should happen to him, she would die."

M. Folgat made no reply; and nearly an hour passed, before Dionysia, shut up in her room, had succeeded in finding all the words of which Jacques's letter was composed. But when she had finished, and came back to her grandfather's study, her youthful face expressed the most profound despair.

"This is horrible!" she said.

The same idea crossed, like a sharp arrow, the minds of M. de Chandore and M. Folgat. Had Jacques confessed?

"Look, read yourself!" said Dionysia, handing them the translation.

Jacques wrote,—

"Thanks for your letter, my darling. A presentiment had warned me, and I had asked for a copy of Cooper.

"I understand but too well how grieved you must be at seeing me kept in prison without my making an effort to establish my innocence. I kept silence, because I hoped the proof of my innocence would come from outside. I see that it would be madness to hope so any longer, and that I must speak. I shall speak. But what I have to say is so very serious, that I shall keep silence until I shall have had an opportunity of consulting with some one in whom I can feel perfect confidence. Prudence alone is not enough now: skill also is required. Until now I felt secure, relying on my innocence. But the last examination has opened my eyes, and I now see the danger to which I am exposed.

"I shall suffer terribly until the day when I can see a lawyer. Thank my mother for having brought one. I hope he will pardon me, if I address myself first to another man. I want a man who knows the country and its customs.

"That is why I have chosen M. Magloire; and I beg you will tell him to hold himself ready for the day on which, the examination being completed, I shall be relieved from close confinement.

"Until then, nothing can be done, nothing, unless you can obtain that the case be taken out of M. G——-'s hands, and be given to some one else. That man acts infamously. He wants me to be guilty. He would himself commit a crime in order to charge me with it, and there is no kind of trap he does not lay for me. I have the greatest difficulty in controlling myself every time I see this man enter my cell, who was my friend, and now is my accuser.

"Ah, my dear ones! I pay a heavy price for a fault of which I have been, until now, almost unconscious.

"And you, my only friend, will you ever be able to forgive me the terrible anxiety I cause you?

"I should like to say much more; but the prisoner who has handed me your note says I must be quick, and it takes so much time to pick out the words!

"J."

When the letter had been read, M. Folgat and M. de Chandore sadly turned their heads aside, fearing lest Dionysia should read in their eyes the secret of their thoughts. But she felt only too well what it meant.

"You cannot doubt Jacques, grandpapa!" she cried.

"No," murmured the old gentleman feebly, "no."

"And you, M. Folgat—are you so much hurt by Jacques's desire to consult another lawyer?"

"I should have been the first, madam, to advise him to consult a native."

Dionysia had to summon all her energy to check her tears.

"Yes," she said, "this letter is terrible; but how can it be otherwise? Don't you see that Jacques is in despair, that his mind wanders after all these fearful shocks?"

Somebody knocked gently at the door.

"It is I," said the marchioness.

Grandpapa Chandore, M. Folgat, and Dionysia looked at each other for a moment; and then the advocate said,—

"The situation is too serious: we must consult the marchioness." He rose to open the door. Since the three friends had been holding the council in the baron's study, a servant had come five times in succession to knock at the door, and tell them that the soup was on the table.

"Very well," they had replied each time.

At last, as they did not come down yet, Jacques's mother had come to the conclusion that something extraordinary had occurred.

"Now, what could this be, that they should keep it from her?" she thought. If it were something good, they would not have concealed it from her. She had come up stairs, therefore, with the firm resolution to force them to let her come in. When M. Folgat opened the door, she said instantly,—

"I mean to know all!"

Dionysia replied to her,—

"Whatever you may hear, my dear mother, pray remember, that if you allow a single word to be torn from you, by joy or by sorrow, you cause the ruin of an honest man, who has put us all under such obligations as can never be fully discharged. I have been fortunate enough to establish a correspondence between Jacques and us."

"O Dionysia!"

"I have written to him, and I have received his answer. Here it is."

The marchioness was almost beside herself, and eagerly snatched at the letter. But, as she read on, it was fearful to see how the blood receded from her face, how her eyes grew dim, her lips turned pale, and at last her breath failed to come. The letter slipped from her trembling hands; she sank into a chair, and said, stammering,—

"It is no use to struggle any longer: we are lost!"

There was something grand in Dionysia's gesture and the admirable accent of her voice, as she said,—

"Why don't you say at once, my mother, that Jacques is an incendiary and an assassin?"

Raising her head with an air of dauntless energy, with trembling lips, and fierce glances full of wrath and disdain, she added,—

"And do I really remain the only one to defend him,—him, who, in his days of prosperity, had so many friends? Well, so be it!"

Naturally, M. Folgat had been less deeply moved than either the marchioness or M. de Chandore; and hence he was also the first to recover his calmness.

"We shall be two, madam, at all events," he said; "for I should never forgive myself, if I allowed myself to be influenced by that letter. It would be inexcusable, since I know by experience what your heart has told you instinctively. Imprisonment has horrors which affect the strongest and stoutest of minds. The days in prison are interminable, and the nights have nameless terrors. The innocent man in his lonely cell feels as if he were becoming guilty, as the man of soundest intellect would begin to doubt himself in a madhouse"—

Dionysia did not let him conclude. She cried,—

"That is exactly what I felt, sir; but I could not express it as clearly as you do."

Ashamed at their lack of courage, M. de Chandore and the marchioness made an effort to recover from the doubts which, for a moment, had well-nigh overcome them.

"But what is to be done?" asked the old lady.

"Your son tells us, madam, we have only to wait for the end of the preliminary examination."

"I beg your pardon," said M. de Chandore, "we have to try to get the case handed over to another magistrate."

M. Folgat shook his head.

"Unfortunately, that is not to be dreamt of. A magistrate acting in his official capacity cannot be rejected like a simple juryman."

"However"—

"Article 542 of the Criminal Code is positive on the subject."

"Ah! What does it say?" asked Dionysia.

"It says, in substance, madam, that a demand for a change of magistrate, on the score of well-founded suspicion, can only be entertained by a court of appeals, because the magistrate, within his legitimate sphere, is a court in himself. I do not know if I express myself clearly?"

"Oh, very clearly!" said M. de Chandore. "Only, since Jacques wishes it"—

"To be sure; but M. de Boiscoran does not know"—

"I beg your pardon. He knows that the magistrate is his mortal enemy."

"Be it so. But how would that help us? Do you think that a demand for a change of venue would prevent M. Galpin from carrying on the proceedings? Not at all. He would go on until the decision comes from the Court of Appeals. He could, it is true, issue no final order; but that is the very thing M. de Boiscoran ought to desire, since such an order would make an end to his close confinement, and enable him to see an advocate."

"That is atrocious!" murmured M. de Chandore.

"It is atrocious, indeed; but such are the laws of France."

In the meantime Dionysia had been meditating; and now she said to the young advocate,—

"I have understood you perfectly, and to-morrow your objections shall be known to M. de Boiscoran."

"Above all," said the lawyer, "explain to him clearly that any such steps as he proposes to take will turn to his disadvantage. M. Galpin is our enemy; but we can make no specific charge against him. They would always reply, 'If M. de Boiscoran is innocent, why does he not speak?'"

This is what Grandpapa Chandore would not admit.

"Still," he said, "if we could bring influential men to help us?"

"Can you?"

"Certainly. Boiscoran has old friends, who, no doubt, are all-powerful still under the present government. He was, in former years, very intimate with M. de Margeril."

M. Folgat's expression was very encouraging.

"Ah!" he said, "if M. de Margeril could give us a lift! But he is not easily approached."

"We might send Boiscoran to see him, at least. Since he remained in Paris for the purpose of assisting us there, now he will have an opportunity. I will write to him to-night."

Since the name of Margeril had been mentioned, the marchioness had become, if possible, paler than ever. At the old gentleman's last words she rose, and said anxiously,—

"Do not write, sir: it would be useless. I do not wish it."

Her embarrassment was so evident, that the others were quite surprised.

"Have Boiscoran and M. de Margeril had any difficulty?" asked M. de Chandore.

"Yes."

"But," cried Dionysia, "it is a matter of life and death for Jacques."

Alas! The poor woman could not speak of the suspicions which had darkened the whole life of the Marquis de Boiscoran, nor of the cruel penalty which the wife was now called upon to pay for a slight imprudence.

"If it is absolutely necessary," she said with a half-stifled voice, "if that is our very last hope, then I will go and see M. de Margeril myself."

M. Folgat was the only one who suspected what painful antecedents there might be in the life of the marchioness, and how she was harassed by their memory now. He interposed, therefore, saying,—

"At all events, my advice is to await the end of the preliminary investigation. I may be mistaken, however, and, before any answer is sent to M. Jacques, I desire that the lawyer to whom he alludes should be consulted."

"That is certainly the wisest plan," said M. de Chandore. And, ringing for a servant, he sent him at once to M. Magloire, to ask him to call after dinner. Jacques de Boiscoran had chosen wisely. M. Magloire was looked upon in Sauveterre as the most eloquent and most skilful lawyer, not only of the district, but of the whole province. And what is rarer still, and far more glorious, he had, besides, the reputation of being unsurpassed in integrity and a high sense of honor. It was well known that he would never have consented to plead a doubtful cause; and they told of him a number of heroic stories, in which he had thrown clients out of the window, who had been so ill-advised to come to him, money in hand, to ask him to undertake an unclean case. He was naturally not a rich man, and preserved, at fifty-four or five, all the habits of a frugal and thrifty young man.

After having married quite young, M. Magloire had lost his wife after a few months, and had never recovered from the loss. Although thirty years old, the wound had never healed; and regularly, on certain days, he was seen wending his way to the cemetery, to place flowers on a modest grave there. Any other man would have been laughed at for such a thing at Sauveterre; but with him they dared not do so, for they all respected him highly. Young and old knew and reverenced the tall man with the calm, serene face, the clear, bright eyes, and the eloquent lips, which, in their well-cut, delicate lines, by turns glowed with scorn, with tenderness, or with disdain.

Like Dr. Seignebos, M. Magloire also was a Republican; and, at the last Imperial elections, the Bonapartists had had the greatest trouble, aided though they were by the whole influence of the government, and shrinking from no unfair means, to keep him out of the Chamber. Nor would they have been successful after all, but for the influence of Count Claudieuse, who had prevailed upon a number of electors to abstain from voting.

This was the man, who, towards nine o'clock, presented himself, upon the invitation of M. de Chandore, at his house, where he was anxiously expected by all the inmates. His greeting was affectionate, but at the same time so sad, that it touched Dionysia's heart most painfully. She thought she saw that M. Magloire was not far from believing Jacques guilty.

And she was not mistaken; for M. Magloire let them see it clearly, in the most delicate manner, to be sure, but still so as to leave no doubt. He had spent the day in court, and there had heard the opinions of the members of the court, which was by no means favorable to the accused. Under such circumstances, it would have evidently been a grave blunder to yield to Jacques's wishes, and to apply for a change of venue from M. Galpin to some other magistrate.

"The investigation will last a year," cried Dionysia, "since M. Galpin is determined to obtain from Jacques the confession of a crime which he has not committed."

M. Magloire shook his head, and replied,—

"I believe, on the contrary, madam, that the investigation will be very soon concluded."

"But if Jacques keeps silent?"

"Neither the silence of an accused, nor any other caprice or obstinacy of his, can interfere with the regular process. Called upon to produce his justification, if he refuses to do so, the law proceeds without him."

"Still, sir, if an accused person has reasons"—

"There are no reasons which can force a man to let himself be accused unjustly. But even that case has been foreseen. The accused is at liberty not to answer a question which may inculpate him. Nemo tenetur prodere se ipsum. But you must admit that such a refusal to answer justifies a judge in believing that the charges are true which the accused does not refute."

The great calmness of the distinguished lawyer of Sauveterre terrified his listeners more and more, except M. Folgat. When they heard him use all those technical terms, they felt chilled through and through like the friends of a wounded man who hear the grating noise of the surgeon's knife.

"My son's situation appears to you very serious, sir?" asked the marchioness in a feeble voice.

"I said it was dangerous, madam."

"You think, as M. Folgat does, that every day adds to the danger to which he is exposed?"

"I am but too sure of that. And if M. de Boiscoran is really innocent"—

"Ah, M. Magloire!" broke in Dionysia, "how can you, who are a friend of Jacques's, say so?"

M. Magloire looked at the young girl with an air of deep and sincere pity, and then said,—

"It is precisely because I am his friend, madam, that I am bound to tell you the truth. Yes, I know and I appreciate all the noble qualities which distinguish M. de Boiscoran. I have loved him, and I love him still. But this is a matter which we have to look at with the mind, and not with the heart. Jacques is a man; and he will be judged by men. There is clear, public, and absolute evidence of his guilt on hand. What evidence has he to offer of his innocence? Moral evidence only."

"O God!" murmured Dionysia.

"I think, therefore, with my honorable brother"—

And M. Magloire bowed to M. Folgat.

"I think, that, if M. de Boiscoran is innocent, he has adopted an unfortunate system. Ah! if luckily there should be an alibi. He ought to make haste, great haste, to establish it. He ought not to allow matters to go on till he is sent up into court. Once there, an accused is three-fourths condemned already."

For once it looked as if the crimson in M. de Chandore's cheeks was growing pale.

"And yet," he exclaimed, "Jacques will not change his system: any one who knows his mulish obstinacy might be quite sure of that."

"And unfortunately he has made up his mind," said Dionysia, "as M. Magloire, who knows him so well, will see from this letter of his."

Until now nothing had been said to let the Sauveterre lawyer suspect that communications had been opened with the prisoner. Now that the letter had been alluded to, it became necessary to take him into confidence. At first he was astonished, then he looked displeased; and, when he had been told every thing, he said,—

"This is great imprudence! This is too daring!"

Then looking at M. Folgat, he added,—

"Our profession has certain rules which cannot be broken without causing trouble. To bribe a clerk, to profit by his weakness and his sympathy"—

The Paris lawyer had blushed imperceptibly. He said,—

"I should never have advised such imprudence; but, when it was once committed, I did not feel bound to insist upon its being abandoned: and even if I should be blamed for it, or more, I mean to profit by it."

M. Magloire did not reply; but, after having read Jacques's letter, he said,—

"I am at M. de Boiscoran's disposal; and I shall go to him as soon as he is no longer in close confinement. I think, as Miss Dionysia does, that he will insist upon saying nothing. However, as we have the means of reaching him by letter,—well, here I am myself ready to profit by the imprudence that has been committed!—beseech him, in the name of his own interest, in the name of all that is dear to him, to speak, to explain, to prove his innocence."

Thereupon M. Magloire bowed, and withdrew suddenly, leaving his audience in consternation, so very evident was it, that he left so suddenly in order to conceal the painful impression which Jacques's letter had produced upon him.

"Certainly," said M. de Chandore, "we will write to him; but we might just as well whistle. He will wait for the end of the investigation."

"Who knows?" murmured Dionysia.

And, after a moment's reflection, she added,—

"We can try, however."

And, without vouchsafing any further explanation, she left the room, and hastened to her chamber to write the following letter:—

"I must speak to you. There is a little gate in our garden which opens upon Charity Lane, I will wait for you there. However late it may be when you get these lines, come!

"DIONYSIA."

Then having put the note into an envelope, she called the old nurse, who had brought her up, and, with all the recommendations which extreme prudence could suggest, she said to her,—

"You must see to it that M. Mechinet the clerk gets this note to-night. Go! make haste!"



IX.

During the last twenty-four hours, Mechinet had changed so much, that his sisters recognized him no longer. Immediately after Dionysia's departure, they had come to him, hoping to hear at last what was meant by that mysterious interview; but at the first word he had cried out with a tone of voice which frightened his sisters to death,—

"That is none of your business! That is nobody's business!" and he had remained alone, quite overcome by his adventure, and dreaming of the means to make good his promise without ruining himself. That was no easy matter.

When the decisive moment arrived, he discovered that he would never be able to get the note into M. de Boiscoran's hands, without being caught by that lynx-eyed M. Galpin: as the letter was burning in his pocket, he saw himself compelled, after long hesitation, to appeal for help to the man who waited on Jacques,—to Trumence, in fine. The latter was, after all, a good enough fellow; his only besetting sin being unconquerable laziness, and his only crime in the eyes of the law perpetual vagrancy. He was attached to Mechinet, who upon former occasions, when he was in jail, had given him some tobacco, or a little money to buy a glass of wine. He made therefore no objection, when the clerk asked him to give a letter to M. de Boiscoran, and to bring back an answer. He acquitted himself, moreover, faithfully and honestly of his commission. But, because every thing had gone well once, it did not follow that Mechinet felt quite at peace. Besides being tormented by the thought that he had betrayed his duty, he felt wretched in being at the mercy of an accomplice. How easily might he not be betrayed! A slight indiscretion, an awkward blunder, an unlucky accident, might do it. What would become of him then?

He would lose his place and all his other employments, one by one. He would lose confidence and consideration. Farewell to all ambitious dreams, all hopes of wealth, all dreams of an advantageous marriage. And still, by an odd contradiction, Mechinet did not repent what he had done, and felt quite ready to do it over again. He was in this state of mind when the old nurse brought him Dionysia's letter.

"What, again?" he exclaimed.

And when he had read the few lines, he replied,—

"Tell your mistress I will be there!" But in his heart he thought some untoward event must have happened.

The little garden-gate was half-open: he had only to push it to enter. There was no moon; but the night was clear, and at a short distance from him, under the trees, he recognized Dionysia, and went towards her.

"Pardon me, sir," she said, "for having dared to send for you."

Mechinet's anxiety vanished instantly. He thought no longer of his strange position. His vanity was flattered by the confidence which this young lady put in him, whom he knew very well as the noblest, the most beautiful, and the richest heiress in the whole country.

"You were quite right to send for me, madam," he replied, "if I can be of any service to you."

In a few words she had told him all; and, when she asked his advice, he replied,—

"I am entirely of M. Folgat's opinion, and think that grief and isolation begin to have their effect upon M. de Boiscoran's mind."

"Oh, that thought is maddening!" murmured the poor girl.

"I think, as M. Magloire does, that M. de Boiscoran, by his silence, only makes his situation much worse. I have a proof of that. M. Galpin, who, at first, was all doubt and anxiety, is now quite reassured. The attorney-general has written him a letter, in which he compliments his energy."

"And then."

"Then we must induce M. de Boiscoran to speak. I know very well that he is firmly resolved not to speak; but if you were to write to him, since you can write to him"—

"A letter would be useless."

"But"—

"Useless, I tell you. But I know a means."

"You must use it promptly, madam: don't lose a moment. There is no time."

The night was clear, but not clear enough for the clerk to see how very pale Dionysia was.

"Well, then, I must see M. de Boiscoran: I must speak to him."

She expected the clerk to start, to cry out, to protest. Far from it: he said in the quietest tone,—

"To be sure; but how?"

"Blangin the keeper, and his wife, keep their places only because they give them a support. Why might I not offer them, in return for an interview with M. de Boiscoran, the means to go and live in the country?"

"Why not?" said the clerk.

And in a lower voice, replying to the voice of his conscience, he went on,—

"The jail in Sauveterre is not at all like the police-stations and prisons of larger towns. The prisoners are few in number; they are hardly guarded. When the doors are shut, Blangin is master within."

"I will go and see him to-morrow," declared Dionysia.

There are certain slopes on which you must glide down. Having once yielded to Dionysia's suggestions, Mechinet had, unconsciously, bound himself to her forever.

"No: do not go there, madam," he said. "You could not make Blangin believe that he runs no danger; nor could you sufficiently arouse his cupidity. I will speak to him myself."

"O sir!" exclaimed Dionysia, "how can I ever?"—

"How much may I offer him?" asked the clerk.

"Whatever you think proper—any thing."

"Then, madam, I will bring you an answer to-morrow, here, and at the same hour."

And he went away, leaving Dionysia so buoyed up by hope, that all the evening, and the next day, the two aunts and the marchioness, neither of whom was in the secret, asked each other incessantly,—

"What is the matter with the child?"

She was thinking, that, if the answer was favorable, ere twenty-four hours had gone by, she would see Jacques; and she kept saying to herself,—

"If only Mechinet is punctual!"

He was so. At ten o'clock precisely, he pushed open the little gate, just as the night before, and said at once,—

"It is all right!"

Dionysia was so terribly excited, that she had to lean against a tree.

"Blangin agrees," the clerk went on. "I promised him sixteen thousand francs. Perhaps that is rather much?"

"It is very little."

"He insists upon having them in gold."

"He shall have it."

"Finally, he makes certain conditions with regard to the interview, which will appear rather hard to you."

The young girl had quite recovered by this time.

"What are they?"

"Blangin is taking all possible precautions against detection, although he is quite prepared for the worst. He has arranged it this way: To-morrow evening, at six o'clock, you will pass by the jail. The door will stand open, and Blangin's wife, whom you know very well, as she has formerly been in your service, will be standing in the door. If she does not speak to you, you keep on: something has happened. If she does speak to you, go up to her, you, quite alone, and she will show you into a small room which adjoins her own. There you will stay till Blangin, perhaps at a late hour, thinks he can safely take you to M. de Boiscoran's cell. When the interview is over, you come back into the little room, where a bed will be ready for you, and you spend the night there; for this is the hardest part of it: you cannot leave the prison till next day."

This was certainly terrible; still, after a moment's reflection, Dionysia said,—

"Never mind! I accept. Tell Blangin, M. Mechinet, that it is all right."

That Dionysia should accept all the conditions of Blangin the jailer was perfectly natural; but to obtain M. de Chandore's consent was a much more difficult task. The poor girl understood this so well, that, for the first time in her life, she felt embarrassed in her grandfather's presence. She hesitated, she prepared her little speech, and she selected carefully her words. But in spite of all her skill, in spite of all the art with which she managed to present her strange request, M. de Chandore had no sooner understood her project than he exclaimed,—

"Never, never, never!"

Perhaps in his whole life the old gentleman had never expressed himself in so positive a manner. His brow had never looked so dark. Usually, when his granddaughter had a petition, his lips might say, "No;" but his eyes always said, "Yes."

"Impossible!" he repeated, and in a tone of voice which seemed to admit of no reply.

Surely, in all these painful events, he had not spared himself, and he had so far done for Dionysia all that she could possibly expect of him. Her will had been his will. As she had prompted, he had said, "Yes," or "No." What more could he have said or done?

Without telling him what she was going to do with it, Dionysia had asked him for twenty thousand francs, and he had given them to her, however big the sum might be everywhere, however immense in a small town like Sauveterre. He was quite ready to give her as much again, or twice as much, without asking any more questions.

But for Dionysia to leave her home one evening at six o'clock, and not to return to it till the next morning—

"That I cannot permit," he repeated.

But for Dionysia to spend a night in the Sauveterre jail, in order to have an interview with her betrothed, who was accused of incendiarism and murder; to remain there all night, alone, absolutely at the mercy of the jailer, a hard, coarse, covetous man—

"That I will never permit," exclaimed the old gentleman once more.

Dionysia remained calm, and let the storm pass. When her grandfather became silent, she said,—

"But if I must?"

M. de Chandore shrugged his shoulders. She repeated in a louder tone,—

"If I must, in order to decide Jacques to abandon this system that will ruin him, to induce him to speak before the investigation is completed?"

"That is not your business, my child," said the old gentleman.

"Oh!"

"That is the business of his mother, the Marchioness of Boiscoran. Whatever Blangin agrees to venture for your sake, he will do as well for her sake. Let the marchioness go and spend the night at the jail. I agree to that. Let her see her son. That is her duty."

"But surely she will never shake Jacques's resolution."

"And you think you have more influence over him than his mother?"

"It is not the same thing, dear papa."

"Never mind!"

This "never mind" of Grandpapa Chandore was as positive as his "impossible;" but he had begun to discuss the question, and to discuss means to listen to arguments on the other side.

"Do not insist, my dear child," he said again. "My mind is made up; and I assure you"—

"Don't say so, papa," said the young girl.

And her attitude was so determined, and her voice so firm, that the old gentleman was quite overwhelmed for a moment.

"But, if I am not willing," he said.

"You will consent, dear papa, you will certainly not force your little granddaughter, who loves you so dearly, to the painful necessity of disobeying you for the first time in her life."

"Because, for the first time in her life I am not doing what my granddaughter wants me to do?"

"Dear papa, let me tell you."

"Rather listen to me, poor child, and let me show you to what dangers, to what misfortunes, you expose yourself. To go and spend a night at this prison would be risking, understand me well, your honor,—that tender, delicate honor which is tarnished by a breath, which involves the happiness and the peace of your whole life."

"But Jacques's honor and life are at stake."

"Poor imprudent girl! How do you know but he would be the very first to blame you cruelly for such a step?"

"He?"

"Men are made so: the most perfect devotion irritates them at times."

"Be it so. I would rather endure Jacques's unjust reproaches than the idea of not having done my duty."

M. de Chandore began to despair.

"And if I were to beg you, Dionysia, instead of commanding. If your old grandfather were to beseech you on his knees to abandon your fatal project."

"You would cause me fearful pain, dear papa: but it would be all in vain; for I must resist your prayers, as I must resist your orders."

"Inexorable!" cried the old gentleman. "She is immovable!" And suddenly changing his tone, he cried,—

"But, after all, I am master here."

"Dear papa, pray!"

"And since nothing can move you, I will speak to Mechinet, I will let Blangin know my will."

Dionysia, turning as pale as death, but with burning eyes, drew back a step, and said,—

"If you do that, grandpapa, if you destroy my last hope"—

"Well?"

"I swear to you by the sacred memory of my mother, I will be in a convent to-morrow, and you will never see me again in your life, not even if I should die, which would certainly soon"—

M. de Chandore, raising his hands to heaven, and with an accent of genuine despair, exclaimed,—

"Ah, my God! Are these our children? And is this what is in store for us old people? We have spent a lifetime in watching over them; we have submissively gratified all their fancies; they have been our greatest anxiety, and our sweetest hope; we have given them our life day by day, and we would not hesitate to give them our life's blood drop by drop; they are every thing to us, and we imagine they love us—poor fools that we are! One fine day, a man goes by, a careless, thoughtless man, with a bright eye and a ready tongue, and it is all over. Our child is no longer our own; our child no longer knows us. Go, old man, and die in your corner."

Overwhelmed by his grief, the old man staggered and sank into a chair, as an old oak, cut by the woodman's axe, trembles and falls.

"Ah, this is fearful!" murmured Dionysia. "What you say, grandpapa, is too fearful. How can you doubt me?"

She had knelt down. She was weeping; and her hot tears fell upon the old gentleman's hands. He started up as he felt them on his icy-cold hand; and, making one more effort, he said,—

"Poor, poor child! And suppose Jacques is guilty, and, when he sees you, confesses his crime, what then?"

Dionysia shook her head.

"That is impossible," she said; "and still, even if it were so, I ought to be punished as much as he is; for I know, if he had asked me, I should have acted in concert with him."

"She is mad!" exclaimed M. de Chandore, falling back into his chair. "She is mad!"

But he was overcome; and the next day, at five in the afternoon, his heart torn by unspeakable grief, he went down the steep street with his daughter on his arm. Dionysia had chosen her simplest and plainest dress; and the little bag she carried on her arm contained not sixteen but twenty thousand francs. As a matter of course, it had been necessary to take the marchioness into their confidence; but neither she, nor the Misses Lavarande, nor M. Folgat, had raised an objection. Down to the prison, grandfather and grandchild had not exchanged a word; but, when they reached it, Dionysia said,—

"I see Mrs. Blangin at the door: let us be careful."

They came nearer. Mrs. Blangin saluted them.

"Come, it is time," said the young girl. "Till to-morrow, dear papa! Go home quickly, and be not troubled about me."

Then joining the keeper's wife, she disappeared inside the prison.



X.

The prison of Sauveterre is in the castle at the upper end of town, in a poor and almost deserted suburb. This castle, once upon a time of great importance, had been dismantled at the time of the siege of Rochelle; and all that remains are a few badly-repaired ruins, ramparts with fosses that have been filled up, a gate surmounted by a small belfry, a chapel converted into a magazine, and finally two huge towers connected by an immense building, the lower rooms in which are vaulted.

Nothing can be more mournful than these ruins, enclosed within an ivy-covered wall; and nothing would indicate the use that is made of them, except the sentinel which stands day and night at the gate. Ancient elm-trees overshadow the vast courts; and on the old walls, as well as in every crevice, there grow and bloom enough flowers to rejoice a hundred prisoners. But this romantic prison is without prisoners.

"It is a cage without birds," says the jailer often in his most melancholy voice.

He takes advantage of this to raise his vegetables all along the slopes; and the exposure is so excellent, that he is always the first in Sauveterre who had young peas. He has also taken advantage of this—with leave granted by the authorities—to fit up very comfortable lodgings for himself in one of the towers. He has two rooms below, and a chamber up stairs, which you reach by a narrow staircase in the thickness of the wall. It was to this chamber that the keeper's wife took Dionysia with all the promptness of fear. The poor girl was out of breath. Her heart was beating violently; and, as soon as she was in the room, she sank into a chair.

"Great God!" cried the woman. "You are not sick, my dear young lady? Wait, I'll run for some vinegar."

"Never mind," replied Dionysia in a feeble voice. "Stay here, my dear Colette: don't go away!"

For Colette was her name, though she was as dark as gingerbread, nearly forty-five years old, and boasted of a decided mustache on her upper lip.

"Poor young lady!" she said. "You feel badly at being here."

"Yes," replied Dionysia. "But where is your husband?"

"Down stairs, on the lookout, madam. He will come up directly." Very soon afterwards, a heavy step was heard on the stairs; and Blangin came in, looking pale and anxious, like a man who feels that he is running a great risk.

"Neither seen nor known," he cried. "No one is aware of your presence here. I was only afraid of that dog of a sentinel; and, just as you came by, I had managed to get him round the corner, offering him a drop of something to drink. I begin to hope I shall not lose my place."

Dionysia accepted these words as a summons to speak out.

"Ah!" she said, "don't mind your place: don't you know I have promised you a better one?"

And, with a gayety which was very far from being real, she opened her little bag, and put upon the table the rolls which it contained.

"Ah, that is gold!" said Blangin with eager eyes.

"Yes. Each one of these rolls contains a thousand francs; and here are sixteen."

An irresistible temptation seized the jailer.

"May I see?" he asked.

"Certainly!" replied the young girl. "Look for yourself and count."

She was mistaken. Blangin did not think of counting, not he. What he wanted was only to gratify his eye by the sight of the gold, to hear its sound, to handle it.

With feverish eagerness he tore open the wrappings, and let the pieces fall in cascades upon the table; and, as the heap increased, his lips turned white, and perspiration broke out on his temples.

"And all that is for me?" he said with a stupid laugh.

"Yes, it is yours," replied Dionysia.

"I did not know how sixteen thousand francs would look. How beautiful gold is! Just look, wife."

But Colette turned her head away. She was quite as covetous as her husband, and perhaps even more excited; but she was a woman, and she knew how to dissemble.

"Ah, my dear young lady!" she said, "never would my old man and myself have asked you for money, if we had only ourselves to think of. But we have children."

"Your duty is to think of your children," replied Dionysia.

"I know sixteen thousand francs is a big sum. Perhaps you will be sorry to give us so much money."

"I am not sorry at all: I would even add to it willingly." And she showed them one of the other four rolls in her bag.

"Then, to be sure, what do I care for my place!" cried Blangin. And, intoxicated by the sight and the touch of the gold, he added,—

"You are at home here, madam; and the jail and the jailer are at your disposal. What do you desire? Just speak. I have nine prisoners, not counting M. de Boiscoran and Trumence. Do you want me to set them all free?"

"Blangin!" said his wife reprovingly.

"What? Am I not free to let the prisoners go?"

"Before you play the master, wait, at least, till you have rendered our young lady the service which she expects from you."

"Certainly."

"Then go and conceal this money," said the prudent woman; "or it might betray us."

And, drawing from her cupboard a woollen stocking, she handed it to her husband, who slipped the sixteen thousand francs into it, retaining about a dozen gold-pieces, which he kept in his pocket so as always to have in his hands some tangible evidence of his new fortune. When this was done, and the stocking, full to overflowing, had been put back in the cupboard under a pile of linen, she ordered her husband,—

"Now, you go down. Somebody might be coming; and, if you were not there to open when they knock, that might look suspicious."

Like a well-trained husband, Blangin obeyed without saying a word; and then his wife bethought herself how to entertain Dionysia. She hoped, she said, her dear young lady would do her the honor to take something. That would strengthen her, and, besides, help her to pass the time; for it was only seven o'clock, and Blangin could not take her to M. de Boiscoran's cell before ten, without great danger.

"But I have dined," Dionysia objected. "I do not want any thing."

The woman insisted only the more. She remembered (God be thanked!) her dear young lady's taste; and she had made her an admirable broth, and some beautiful dessert. And, while thus talking, she set the table, having made up her mind that Dionysia must eat at all hazards; at least, so says the tradition of the place.

The eager zeal of the woman had, at least, this advantage,—that it prevented Dionysia from giving way to her painful thoughts.

Night had come. It was nine o'clock; then it struck ten. At last, the watch came round to relieve the sentinels. A quarter of an hour after that, Blangin reappeared, holding a lantern and an enormous bunch of keys in his hands.

"I have seen Trumence to bed," he said. "You can come now, madam."

Dionysia was all ready.

"Let us go," she said simply.

Then she followed the jailer along interminable passages, through a vast vaulted hall, in which their steps resounded as in a church, then through a long gallery. At last, pointing at a massive door, through the cracks of which the light was piercing, he said,—

"Here we are."

But Dionysia seized his arm, and said in an almost inaudible voice,—

"Wait a moment."

She was almost overcome by so many successive emotions. She felt her legs give way under her, and her eyes become dim. In her heart she preserved all her usual energy; but the flesh escaped from her will and failed her at the last moment.

"Are you sick?" asked the jailer. "What is the matter?"

She prayed to God for courage and strength: when her prayer was finished, she said,—

"Now, let us go in."

And, making a great noise with the keys and the bolts, Blangin opened the door to Jacques de Boiscoran's cell.

Jacques counted no longer the days, but the hours. He had been imprisoned on Friday morning, June 23, and this was Wednesday night, June 28, He had been a hundred and thirty-two hours, according to the graphic description of a great writer, "living, but struck from the roll of the living, and buried alive."

Each one of these hundred and thirty-two hours had weighed upon him like a month. Seeing him pale and haggard, with his hair and beard in disorder, and his eyes shining brightly with fever, like half-extinguished coals, one would hardly have recognized in him the happy lord of Boiscoran, free from care and trouble, upon whom fortune had ever smiled,—that haughty sceptical young man, who from the height of the past defied the future.

The fact is, that society, obliged to defend itself against criminals, has invented no more fearful suffering than what is called "close confinement." There is nothing that will sooner demoralize a man, crush his will, and utterly conquer the most powerful energy. There is no struggle more distressing than the struggle between an innocent man accused of some crime, and the magistrate,—a helpless being in the hands of a man armed with unlimited power.

If great sorrow was not sacred, to a certain degree, Dionysia might have heard all about Jacques. Nothing would have been easier. She would have been told by Blangin, who was watching M. de Boiscoran like a spy, and by his wife, who prepared his meals, through what anguish he had passed since his imprisonment.

Stunned at first, he had soon recovered; and on Friday and Saturday he had been quiet and confident, talkative, and almost cheerful. But Sunday had been a fatal day. Two gendarmes had carried him to Boiscoran to take off the seals; and on his way out he had been overwhelmed with insults and curses by the people who had recognized him. He had come back terribly distressed.

On Tuesday, he had received Dionysia's letter, and answered it. This had excited him fearfully, and, during a part of the night, Trumence had seen him walk up and down in his cell with all the gestures and incoherent imprecations of a madman.

He had hoped for a letter on Wednesday. When none came, he had sunk into a kind of stupor, during which M. Galpin had been unable to draw a word from him. He had taken nothing all day long but a little broth and a cup of coffee. When the magistrate left him, he had sat down, leaning his head on his elbows, facing the window; and there he had remained, never moving, and so deeply absorbed in his reveries, that he had taken no notice when they brought him light. He was still in this state, when, a little after ten o'clock, he heard the grating of the bolts of his cell. He had become so well acquainted with the prison that he knew all its regulations. He knew at what hours his meals were brought, at what time Trumence came to clean up his room, and when he might expect the magistrate. After night, he knew he was his own master till next morning. So late a visit therefore, must needs bring him some unexpected news, his liberty, perhaps,—that visitor for whom all prisoners look so anxiously.

He started up. As soon as he distinguished in the darkness the jailer's rugged face, he asked eagerly,—

"Who wants me?"

Blangin bowed. He was a polite jailer. Then he replied,—

"Sir, I bring you a visitor."

And, moving aside, he made way for Dionysia, or, rather, he pushed her into the room; for she seemed to have lost all power to move.

"A visitor?" repeated M. de Boiscoran.

But the jailer had raised his lantern, and the poor man could recognize his betrothed.

"You," he cried, "you here!"

And he drew back, afraid of being deceived by a dream, or one of those fearful hallucinations which announce the coming of insanity, and take hold of the brains of sick people in times of over-excitement.

"Dionysia!" he barely whispered, "Dionysia!"

If not her own life (for she cared nothing for that), but Jacques's life, had at that moment depended on a single word, Dionysia could not have uttered it. Her throat was parched, and her lips refused to move. The jailer took it upon himself to answer,—

"Yes," he said, "Miss Chandore."

"At this hour, in my prison!"

"She had something important to communicate to you. She came to me"—

"O Dionysia!" stammered Jacques, "what a precious friend"—

"And I agreed," said Blangin in a paternal tone of voice, "to bring her in secretly. It is a great sin I commit; and if it ever should become known—But one may be ever so much a jailer, one has a heart, after all. I tell you so merely because the young lady might not think of it. If the secret is not kept carefully, I should lose my place, and I am a poor man, with wife and children."

"You are the best of men!" exclaimed M. de Boiscoran, far from suspecting the price that had been paid for Blangin's sympathy, "and, on the day on which I regain my liberty, I will prove to you that we whom you have obliged are not ungrateful."

"Quite at your service," replied the jailer modestly.

Gradually, however, Dionysia had recovered her self-possession. She said gently to Blangin,—

"Leave us now, my good friend."

As soon as he had disappeared, and without allowing M. de Boiscoran to say a word, she said, speaking very low,—

"Jacques, grandpapa has told me, that by coming thus to you at night, alone, and in secret, I run the risk of losing your affection, and of diminishing your respect."

"Ah, you did not think so!"

"Grandpapa has more experience than I have, Jacques. Still I did not hesitate. Here I am; and I should have run much greater risks; for your honor is at stake, and your honor is my honor, as your life is my life. Your future is at stake, our future, our happiness, all our hopes here below."

Inexpressible joy had illumined the prisoner's face.

"O God!" he cried, "one such moment pays for years of torture."

But Dionysia had sworn to herself, as she came, that nothing should turn her aside from her purpose. So she went on,—

"By the sacred memory of my mother, I assure you, Jacques, that I have never for a moment doubted your innocence."

The unhappy man looked distressed.

"You," he said; "but the others? But M. de Chandore?"

"Do you think I would be here, if he thought you were guilty? My aunts and your mother are as sure of it as I am."

"And my father? You said nothing about him in your letter."

"Your father remained in Paris in case some influence in high quarters should have to be appealed to."

Jacque shook his head, and said,—

"I am in prison at Sauveterre, accused of a fearful crime, and my father remains in Paris! It must be true that he never really loved me. And yet I have always been a good son to him down to this terrible catastrophe. He has never had to complain of me. No, my father does not love me."

Dionysia could not allow him to go off in this way.

"Listen to me, Jacques," she said: "let me tell you why I ran the risk of taking this serious step, that may cost me so dear. I come to you in the name of all your friends, in the name of M. Folgat, the great advocate whom your mother has brought down from Paris and in the name of M. Magloire, in whom you put so much confidence. They all agree you have adopted an abominable system. By refusing obstinately to speak, you rush voluntarily into the gravest danger. Listen well to what I tell you. If you wait till the examination is over, you are lost. If you are once handed over to the court, it is too late for you to speak. You will only, innocent as you are, make one more on the list of judicial murders."

Jacques de Boiscoran had listened to Dionysia in silence, his head bowed to the ground, as if to conceal its pallor from her. As soon as she stopped, all out of breath, he murmured,—

"Alas! Every thing you tell me I have told myself more than once."

"And you did not speak?"

"I did not."

"Ah, Jacques, you are not aware of the danger you run! You do not know"—

"I know," he said, interrupting her in a harsh, hoarse voice,—"I know that the scaffold, or the galleys, are at the end."

Dionysia was petrified with horror.

Poor girl! She had imagined that she would only have to show herself to triumph over Jacques's obstinacy, and that, as soon as she had heard what he had to say, she would feel reassured. And instead of that—

"What a misfortune!" she cried. "You have taken up these fearful notions, and you will not abandon them!"

"I must keep silent."

"You cannot. You have not considered!—"

"Not considered," he repeated.

And in a lower tone he added,—

"And what do you think I have been doing these hundred and thirty mortal hours since I have been alone in this prison,—alone to confront a terrible accusation, and a still more terrible emergency?"

"That is the difficulty, Jacques: you are the victim of your own imagination. And who could help it in your place? M. Folgat said so only yesterday. There is no man living, who, after four days' close confinement, can keep his mind cool. Grief and solitude are bad counsellors. Jacques, come to yourself; listen to your dearest friends who speak to you through me. Jacques, your Dionysia beseeches you. Speak!"

"I cannot."

"Why not?"

She waited for some seconds; and, as he did not reply, she said, not without a slight accent of bitterness in her voice,—

"Is it not the first duty of an innocent man to establish his innocence?"

The prisoner, with a movement of despair, clasped his hands over his brow. Then bending over Dionysia, so that she felt his breath in her hair, he said,—

"And when he cannot, when he cannot, establish his innocence?"

She drew back, pale unto death, tottering so that she had to lean against the wall, and cast upon Jacques de Boiscoran glances in which the whole horror of her soul was clearly expressed.

"What do you say?" she stammered. "O God!"

He laughed, the wretched man! with that laugh which is the last utterance of despair. And then he replied,—

"I say that there are circumstances which upset our reason; unheard-of circumstances, which could make one doubt of one's self. I say that every thing accuses me, that every thing overwhelms me, that every thing turns against me. I say, that if I were in M. Galpin's place, and if he were in mine, I should act just as he does."

"That is insanity!" cried Dionysia.

But Jacques de Boiscoran did not hear her. All the bitterness of the last days rose within him: he turned red, and became excited. At last, with gasping vice, he broke forth,—

"Establish my innocence! Ah! that is easily said. But how? No, I am not guilty: but a crime has been committed; and for this crime justice will have a culprit. If it is not I who fired at Count Claudieuse, and set Valpinson on fire, who is it? 'Where were you,' they ask me, 'at the time of the murder?' Where was I? Can I tell it? To clear myself is to accuse others. And if I should be mistaken? Or if, not being mistaken, I should be unable to prove the truthfulness of my accusation? The murderer and the incendiary, of course, took all possible precautions to escape detection, and to let the punishment fall upon me. I was warned beforehand. Ah, if we could always foresee, could know beforehand! How can I defend myself? On the first day I said, 'Such a charge cannot reach me: it is a cloud that a breath will scatter.' Madman that I was! The cloud has become an avalanche, and I may be crushed. I am neither a child nor a coward; and I have always met phantoms face to face. I have measured the danger, and I know it is fearful."

Dionysia shuddered. She cried,—

"What will become of us?"

This time M. de Boiscoran heard her, and was ashamed of his weakness. But, before he could master his feelings, the young girl went on, saying,—

"But never mind. These are idle thoughts. Truth soars invincible, unchangeable, high above all the ablest calculations and the most skilful combinations. Jacques, you must tell the truth, the whole truth, without subterfuge or concealment."

"I can do so no longer," murmured he.

"Is it such a terrible secret?"

"It is improbable."

Dionysia looked at him almost with fear. She did not recognize his old face, nor his eye, nor the tone of his voice. She drew nearer to him, and taking his hand between her own small white hands, she said,—

"But you can tell it to me, your friend, your"—

He trembled, and, drawing back, he said,—

"To you less than anybody else."

And, feeling how mortifying such an answer must be, he added,—

"Your mind is too pure for such wretched intrigues. I do not want your wedding-dress to be stained by a speck of that mud into which they have thrown me."

Was she deceived? No; but she had the courage to seem to be deceived. She went on quietly,—

"Very well, then. But the truth will have to be told sooner or later."

"Yes, to M. Magloire."

"Well, then, Jacques, write down at once what you mean to tell him. Here are pen and ink: I will carry it to him faithfully."

"There are things, Dionysia, which cannot be written."

She felt she was beaten; she understood that nothing would ever bend that iron will, and yet she said once more,—

"But if I were to beseech you, Jacques, by our past and our future, by that great and eternal love which you have sworn?"

"Do you really wish to make my prison hours a thousand times harder than they are? Do you want to deprive me of my last remnant of strength and of courage? Have you really no confidence in me any longer? Could you not believe me a few days more?"

He paused. Somebody knocked at the door; and almost at the same time Blangin the jailer called out through the wicket,—

"Time is passing. I want to be down stairs when they relieve guard. I am running a great risk. I am a father of a family."

"Go home now, Dionysia," said Jacques eagerly, "go home. I cannot think of your being seen here."

Dionysia had paid dear enough to know that she was quite safe; still she did not object. She offered her brow to Jacques, who touched it with his lips; and half dead, holding on to the walls, she went back to the jailer's little room. They had made up a bed for her, and she threw herself on it, dressed as she was, and remained there, immovable, as if she had been dead, overcome by a kind of stupor which deprived her even of the faculty of suffering.

It was bright daylight, it was eight o'clock, when she felt somebody pulling her sleeve. The jailer's wife said to her,—

"My dear young lady, this would be a good time for you to slip away. Perhaps they will wonder to see you alone in the street; but they will think you are coming home from seven o'clock mass."

Without saying a word, Dionysia jumped down, and in a moment she had arranged her hair and her dress. Then Blangin came, rather troubled at not seeing her leave the house; and she said to him, giving him one of the thousand-franc rolls that were still in her bag,—

"This is for you: I want you to remember me, if I should need you again."

And, dropping her veil over her face, she went away.



XI.

Baron Chandore had had one terrible night in his life, every minute of which he had counted by the ebbing pulse of his only son.

The evening before, the physicians had said,—

"If he lives this night, he may be saved."

At daybreak he had expired.

Well, the old gentleman had hardly suffered more during that fatal night than he did this night, during which Dionysia was away from the house. He knew very well that Blangin and his wife were honest people, in spite of their avarice and their covetousness; he knew that Jacques de Boiscoran was an honourable man.

But still, during the whole night, his old servant heard him walk up and down his room; and at seven o'clock in the morning he was at the door, looking anxiously up and down the street. Towards half-past seven, M. Folgat came up; but he hardly wished him good-morning, and he certainly did not hear a word of what the lawyer told him to reassure him. At last, however, the old man cried,—

"Ah, there she is!"

He was not mistaken. Dionysia was coming round the corner. She came up to the house in feverish haste, as if she had known that her strength was at an end, and would barely suffice to carry her to the door.

Grandpapa Chandore met her with a kind of fierce joy, pressed her in his arms, and said over and over again,—

"O Dionysia! Oh, my darling child, how I have suffered! How long you have been! But it is all over now. Come, come, come!"

And he almost carried her into the parlor, and put her down tenderly into a large easy-chair. He knelt down by her, smiling with happiness; but, when he had taken her hands in his, he said,—

"Your hands are burning. You have a fever!"

He looked at her: she had raised her veil.

"You are pale as death!" he went on. "Your eyes are red and swollen!"

"I have cried, dear papa," she replied gently.

"Cried! Why?"

"Alas, I have failed!"

As if moved by a sudden shock, M. de Chandore started up, and cried,—

"By God's holy name the like has not been heard since the world was made! What! you went, you Dionysia de Chandore, to him in his prison; you begged him"—

"And he remained inflexible. Yes, dear papa. He will say nothing till after the preliminary investigation is over."

"We were mistaken in the man: he has no courage and no feeling."

Dionysia had risen painfully, and said feebly,—

"Ah, dear papa! Do not blame him, do not accuse him! he is so unhappy!"

"But what reasons does he give?"

"He says the facts are so very improbable that he should certainly not be believed; and that he should ruin himself if he were to speak as long as he is kept in close confinement, and has no advocate. He says his position is the result of a wicked conspiracy. He says he thinks he knows the guilty one, and that he will denounce the person, since he is forced to do so in self-defence."

M. Folgat, who had until now remained a silent witness of the scene, came up, and asked,—

"Are you quite sure, madam, that that was what M. de Boiscoran said?"

"Oh, quite sure, sir! And, if I lived a thousand years, I should never forget the look of his eyes, or the tone of his voice."

M. de Chandore did not allow her to be interrupted again.

"But surely, my dear child, Jacques told you—you—something more precise?"

"No."

"You did not ask him even what those improbable facts were?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Well?"

"He said that I was the very last person who could be told."

"That man ought to be burnt over a slow fire," said M. de Chandore to himself. Then he added in a louder voice,—

"And you do not think all this very strange, very extraordinary?"

"It seems to me horrible!"

"I understand. But what do you think of Jacques?"

"I think, dear papa, that he cannot act otherwise, or he would not do it. Jacques is too intelligent and too courageous to deceive himself easily. As he alone knows every thing, he alone can judge. I, of course, am bound to respect his will more than anybody else."

But the old gentleman did not think himself bound to respect it; and, exasperated as he was by this resignation of his grandchild, he was on the point of telling her his mind fully, when she got up with some effort, and said, in an almost inaudible voice,—

"I am broken to pieces! Excuse me, grandpapa, if I go to my room." She left the parlor. M. de Chandore accompanied her to the door, remained there till he had seen her get up stairs, where her maid was waiting for her, and then came back to M. Folgat.

"They are going to kill me, sir!" he cried, with an explosion of wrath and despair which was almost frightful in a man of his age. "She had in her eyes the same look that her mother had when she told me, after her husband's death, 'I shall not survive him.' And she did not survive my poor son. And then I, old man, was left alone with that child; and who knows but she may have in her the germ of the same disease which killed her mother? Alone! And for these twenty years I have held my breath to listen if she is still breathing as naturally and regularly"—

"You are needlessly alarmed," began the advocate.

But Grandpapa Chandore shook his head, and said,—

"No, no. I fear my child has been hurt in her heart's heart. Did you not see how white she looked, and how faint her voice was? Great God! wilt thou leave me all alone here upon earth? O God! for which of my sins dost thou punish me in my children? For mercy's sake, call me home before she also leaves me, who is the joy of my life. And I can do nothing to turn aside this fatality—stupid inane old man that I am! And this Jacques de Boiscoran—if he were guilty, after all? Ah the wretch! I would hang him with my own hands!"

Deeply moved, M. Folgat had watched the old gentleman's grief. Now he said,—

"Do not blame M. de Boiscoran, sir, now that every thing is against him! Of all of us, he suffers, after all, most; for he is innocent."

"Do you still think so?"

"More than ever. Little as he has said, he has told Miss Dionysia enough to confirm me in my conjecture, and to prove to me that I have guessed right."

"When?"

"The day we went to Boiscoran."

The baron tried to remember.

"I do not recollect," he said.

"Don't you remember," said the lawyer, "that you left us, so as to permit Anthony to answer my questions more freely?"

"To be sure!" cried M. de Chandore, "to be sure! And then you thought"—

"I thought I had guessed right, yes, sir; but I am not going to do any thing now. M. de Boiscoran tells us that the facts are improbable. I should, therefore, in all probability, soon be astray; but, since we are now bound to be passive till the investigation is completed, I shall employ the time in examining the country people, who will, probably, tell me more than Anthony did. You have, no doubt, among your friends, some who must be well informed,—M. Seneschal, Dr. Seignebos."

The latter did not keep M. Folgat waiting long; for his name had hardly been mentioned, when he himself repeated it in the passage, telling a servant,—

"Say it is I, Dr. Seignebos, Dr. Seignebos."

He fell like a bombshell into the room. It was four days now since he had last presented himself there; for he had not come himself for his report and the shot he had left in M. Folgat's hands. He had sent for them, excusing himself on the score of his many engagements. The fact was, however, that he had spent nearly the whole of these four days at the hospital, in company with one of his brother-practitioners, who had been sent for by the court to proceed, "jointly with Dr. Seignebos," to an examination of Cocoleu's mental condition.

"And this is what brings me here," he cried, still in the door; "for this opinion, if it is not put into proper order, will deprive M. de Boiscoran of his best and surest chance of escape."

After what Dionysia had told them, neither M. de Chandore nor M. Folgat attached much importance to the state of Cocoleu's mind: still this word "escape" attracted their attention. There is nothing unimportant in a criminal trial.

"Is there any thing new?" asked the advocate.

The doctor first went to close the doors carefully, and then, putting his cane and broad-brimmed hat upon the table, he said,—

"No, there is nothing new. They still insist, as before, upon ruining M. de Boiscoran; and, in order to do that, they shrink from nothing."

"They! Who are they?" asked M. de Chandore.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

"Are you really in doubt, sir?" he replied. "And yet the facts speak clearly enough. In this department, there is a certain number of physicians who are not very keenly alive to the honor of their profession, and who are, to tell the truth, consummate apes."

Grave as the situation was, M. Folgat could hardly suppress a smile, the doctor's manner was so very extraordinary.

"But there is one of these apes," he went on, "who, in length of ears and thickness of skin, surpasses all the others. Well, he is the very one whom the court has chosen and associated with me."

Upon this subject it was desirable to put a check upon the doctor. M. de Chandore therefore interrupted him, saying,—

"In fine"—

"In fine, my learned brother is fully persuaded that his mission as a physician employed by a court of justice is to say 'Amen' to all the stories of the prosecution. 'Cocoleu is an idiot,' says M. Galpin peremptorily. 'He is an idiot, or ought to be one,' reechoes my learned brother. 'He spoke on the occasion of the crime by an inspiration from on high,' the magistrate goes on to say. 'Evidently,' adds the brother, 'there was an inspiration from on high.' For this is the conclusion at which my learned brother arrives in his report: 'Cocoleu is an idiot who had been providentially inspired by a flash of reason.' He does not say it in these words; but it amounts to the same thing."

He had taken off his spectacles, and was wiping them industriously.

"But what do you think, doctor?" asked M. Folgat.

Dr. Seignebos solemnly put on again his spectacles, and replied coldly,—

"My opinion, which I have fully developed in my report, is, that Cocoleu is not idiotic at all."

M. Chandore started: the proposition seemed to him monstrous. He knew Cocoleu very well; he had seen him wander through the streets of Sauveterre during the eighteen months which the poor creature had spent under the doctor's treatment.

"What! Cocoleu not idiotic?" he repeated.

"No!" Dr. Seignebos declared peremptorily; "and you have only to look at him to be convinced. Has he a large flat face, disproportionate mouth, a yellow, tanned complexion, thick lips, defective teeth, and squinting eyes? Does his deformed head sway from side to side, being too heavy to be supported by his neck? Is his body deformed, and his spine crooked? Do you find that his stomach is big and pendent, that his hands drop upon his thighs, that his legs are awkward, and the joints unusually large? These are the symptoms of idiocy, gentleman, and you do not find them in Cocoleu. I, for my part, see in him a scamp, who has an iron constitution, who uses his hands very cleverly, climbs trees like a monkey, and leaps ditches ten feet wide. To be sure, I do not pretend that his intellect is normal; but I maintain that he is one of those imbeciles who have certain faculties very fully developed, while others, more essential, are missing."

While M. Folgat listened with the most intense interest, M. de Chandore became impatient, and said,—

"The difference between an idiot and an imbecile"—

"There is a world between them," cried the doctor.

And at once he went on with overwhelming volubility,—

"The imbecile preserves some fragments of intelligence. He can speak, make known his wants, and express his feelings. He associates ideas, compares impressions, remembers things, and acquires experience. He is capable of cunning and dissimulation. He hates and likes and fears. If he is not always sociable, he is susceptible of being influenced by others. You can easily obtain perfect control over him. His inconsistency is remarkable; and still he shows, at times, invincible obstinacy. Finally, imbeciles are, on account of this semi-lucidity, often very dangerous. You find among them almost all those monomaniacs whom society is compelled to shut up in asylums, because they cannot master their instincts."

"Very well said," repeated M. Folgat, who found here some elements of a plea,—"very well said."

The doctor bowed.

"Such a creature is Cocoleu. Does it follow that I hold him responsible for his actions? By no means! But it follows that I look upon him as a false witness brought forth to ruin an honest man."

It was evident that such views did not please M. de Chandore.

"Formerly," he said, "you did not think so."

"No, I even said the contrary," replied Dr. Seignebos, not without dignity. "I had not studied Cocoleu sufficiently, and I was taken in by him: I confess it openly. But this avowal of mine is an evidence of the cunning and the astute obstinacy of these wretched creatures, and of their capacity to carry out a design. After a year's experience, I sent Cocoleu away, declaring, and certainly believing, that he was incurable. The fact is, he did not want to be cured. The country-people, who observe carefully and shrewdly, were not taken in; they will tell you, almost to a man, that Cocoleu is bad, but not an idiot. That is the truth. He has found out, that, by exaggerating his imbecility, he could live without work; and he has done it. When he was taken in by Count Claudieuse, he was clever enough to show just so much intelligence as was necessary to make him endurable, without being compelled to do any work."

"In a word," said M. de Chandore incredulously, "Cocoleu is a great actor."

"Great enough to have deceived me," replied the doctor: "yes, sir."

Then turning to M. Folgat, he went on,—

"All this I had told my learned brother, before taking him to the hospital. There we found Cocoleu more obstinate than ever in his silence, which even M. Galpin had not induced him to break. All our efforts to obtain a word from him were fruitless, although it was very evident to me that he understood very well. I proposed to resort to quite legitimate means, which are employed to discover feigned defects and diseases; but my learned brother refused and was encouraged in his resistance by M. Galpin: I do not know upon what ground. Then I asked that the Countess Claudieuse should be sent for, as she has a talent of making him talk. M. Galpin would not permit it—and there we are."

It happens almost daily, that two physicians employed as experts differ in their opinions. The courts would have a great deal to do, if they had to force them to agree. They appoint simply a third expert, whose opinion is decisive. This was necessarily to be done in Cocoleu's case.

"And as necessarily," continued Dr. Seignebos, "the court, having appointed a first ass, will associate with me a second ass. They will agree with each other, and I shall be accused and convicted of ignorance and presumption."

He came, therefore, as he now said, to ask M. de Chandore to render him a little service. He wanted the two families, Chandore and Boiscoran, to employ all their influence to obtain that a commission of physicians from outside—if possible, from Paris—should be appointed to examine Cocoleu, and to report on his mental condition.

"I undertake," he said, "to prove to really enlightened men, that this poor creature is partly pretending to be imbecile, and that his obstinate speechlessness is only adopted in order to avoid answers which would compromise him."

At first, however, neither M. de Chandore nor M. Folgat gave any answer. They were considering the question.

"Mind," said the doctor again, shocked at their silence, "mind, I pray, that if my view is adopted, as I have every reason to hope, a new turn will be given to the whole case."

Why yes! The ground of the accusation might be taken from under the prosecution; and that was what kept M. Folgat thinking.

"And that is exactly," he commenced at last, "what makes me ask myself whether the discovery of Cocoleu's rascality would not be rather injurious than beneficial to M. de Boiscoran."

The doctor was furious. He cried,—

"I should like to know"—

"Nothing can be more simple," replied the advocate. "Cocoleu's idiocy is, perhaps the most serious difficulty in the way of the prosecution, and the most powerful argument for the defence. What can M. Galpin say, if M. de Boiscoran charges him with basing a capital charge upon the incoherent words of a creature void of intelligence, and, consequently, irresponsible."

"Ah! permit me," said Dr. Seignebos.

But M. de Chandore heard every syllable.

"Permit yourself, doctor," he said. "This argument of Cocoleu's imbecility is one which you have pleaded from the beginning, and which appeared to you, you said, so conclusive, that there was no need of looking for any other."

Before the doctor could find an answer, M. Folgat went on,—

"Let it be, on the contrary, established that Cocoleu really knows what he says, and all is changed. The prosecution is justified, by an opinion of the faculty, in saying to M. de Boiscoran, 'You need not deny any longer. You have been seen; here is a witness.'"

These arguments must have struck Dr. Seignebos very forcibly; for he remained silent for at least ten long seconds, wiping his gold spectacles with a pensive air. Had he really done harm to Jacques de Boiscoran, while he meant to help him? But he was not the man to be long in doubt. He replied in a dry tone,—

"I will not discuss that, gentlemen. I will ask you, only one question: 'Yes or no, do you believe in M. de Boiscoran's innocence?'"

"We believe in it fully," replied the two men.

"Then, gentlemen, it seems to me we are running no risk in trying to unmask an impostor."

That was not the young lawyer's opinion.

"To prove that Cocoleu knows what he says," he replied, "would be fatal, unless we can prove at the same time that he has told a falsehood, and that his evidence has been prompted by others. Can we prove that? Have we any means to prove that his obstinacy in not replying to any questions arises from his fear that his answers might convict him of perjury?"

The doctor would hear nothing more. He said rather uncourteously,—

"Lawyer's quibbles! I know only one thing; and that is truth."

"It will not always do to tell it," murmured the lawyer.

"Yes, sir, always," replied the physician,—"always, and at all hazards, and whatever may happen. I am M. de Boiscoran's friend; but I am still more the friend of truth. If Cocoleu is a wretched impostor, as I am firmly convinced, our duty is to unmask him."

Dr. Seignebos did not say—and he probably did not confess it to himself—that it was a personal matter between Cocoleu and himself. He thought Cocoleu had taken him in, and been the cause of a host of small witticisms, under which he had suffered cruelly, though he had allowed no one to see it. To unmask Cocoleu would have given him his revenge, and return upon his enemies the ridicule with which they had overwhelmed him.

"I have made up my mind," he said, "and, whatever you may resolve, I mean to go to work at once, and try to obtain the appointment of a commission."

"It might be prudent," M. Folgat said, "to consider before doing any thing, to consult with M. Magloire."

"I do not want to consult with Magloire when duty calls."

"You will grant us twenty-four hours, I hope."

Dr. Seignebos frowned till he looked formidable.

"Not an hour," he replied; "and I go from here to M. Daubigeon, the commonwealth attorney."

Thereupon, taking his hat and cane, he bowed and left, as dissatisfied as possible, without stopping even to answer M. de Chandore, who asked him how Count Claudieuse was, who was, according to reports in town, getting worse and worse.

"Hang the old original!" cried M. de Chandore before the doctor had left the passage.

Then turning to M. Folgat, he added,—

"I must, however, confess that you received the great news which he brought rather coldly."

"The very fact of the news being so very grave," replied the advocate, "made me wish for time to consider. If Cocoleu pretends to be imbecile, or, at least, exaggerates his incapacity, then we have a confirmation of what M. de Boiscoran last night told Miss Dionysia. It would be the proof of an odious trap of a long-premeditated vengeance. Here is the turning-point of the affair evidently."

M. de Chandore was bitterly undeceived.

"What!" he said, "you think so, and you refuse to support Dr. Seignebos, who is certainly an honest man?"

The young lawyer shook his head.

"I wanted to have twenty-four hours' delay, because we must absolutely consult M. de Boiscoran. Could I tell the doctor so? Had I a right to take him into Miss Dionysia's secret?"

"You are right," murmured M. de Chandore, "you are right."

But, in order to write to M. de Boiscoran, Dionysia's assistance was necessary; and she did not reappear till the afternoon, looking very pale, but evidently armed with new courage.

M. Folgat dictated to her certain questions to ask the prisoner.

She hastened to write them in cipher; and about four o'clock the letter was sent to Mechinet, the clerk.

The next evening the answer came.

"Dr. Seignebos is no doubt right, my dear friends," wrote Jacques. "I have but too good reasons to be sure that Cocoleu's imbecility is partly assumed, and that his evidence has been prompted by others. Still I must beg you will take no steps that would lead to another medical investigation. The slightest imprudence may ruin me. For Heaven's sake wait till the end of the preliminary investigation, which is now near at hand, from what M. Galpin tells me."

The letter was read in the family circle; and the poor mother uttered a cry of despair as she heard those words of resignation.

"Are we going to obey him," she said, "when we all know that he is ruining himself by his obstinacy?"

Dionysia rose, and said,—

"Jacques alone can judge his situation, and he alone, therefore, has the right to command. Our duty is to obey. I appeal to M. Folgat."

The young advocate nodded his head.

"Every thing has been done that could be done," he said. "Now we can only wait."



XII.

The famous night of the fire at Valpinson had been a godsend to the good people of Sauveterre. They had henceforth an inexhaustible topic of discussion, ever new and ever rich in unexpected conjectures,—the Boiscoran case. When people met in the streets, they simply asked,—

"What are they doing now?"

Whenever, therefore, M. Galpin went from the court-house to the prison, or came striding up National Street with his stiff, slow step, twenty good housewives peeped from behind their curtains to read in his face some of the secrets of the trial. They saw, however, nothing there but traces of intense anxiety, and a pallor which became daily more marked. They said to each other,—

"You will see poor M. Galpin will catch the jaundice from it."

The expression was commonplace; but it conveyed exactly the feelings of the ambitious lawyer. This Boiscoran case had become like a festering wound to him, which irritated him incessantly and intolerably.

"I have lost my sleep by it," he told the commonwealth attorney. Excellent M. Daubigeon, who had great trouble in moderating his zeal, did not pity him particularly. He would say in reply,—

"Whose fault is it? But you want to rise in the world; and increasing fortune is always followed by increasing care.

"Ah!" said the magistrate. "I have only done my duty, and, if I had to begin again, I would do just the same."

Still every day he saw more clearly that he was in a false position. Public opinion, strongly arrayed against M. de Boiscoran, was not, on that account, very favorable to him. Everybody believed Jacques guilty, and wanted him to be punished with all the rigor of the law; but, on the other hand, everybody was astonished that M. Galpin should choose to act as magistrate in such a case. There was a touch of treachery in this proceeding against a former friend, in looking everywhere for evidence against him, in driving him into court, that is to say, towards the galleys or the scaffold; and this revolted people's consciences.

The very way in which people returned his greeting, or avoided him altogether, made the magistrate aware of the feelings they entertained for him. This only increased his wrath against Jacques, and, with it his trouble. He had been congratulated, it is true, by the attorney-general; but there is no certainty in a trial, as long as the accused refuses to confess. The charges against Jacques, to be sure, were so overwhelming, that his being sent before the court was out of question. But by the side of the court there is still the jury.

"And in fine, my dear," said the commonwealth attorney, "you have not a single eye-witness. And from time immemorial an eye-witness has been looked upon as worth a hundred hearsays."