The railway which connects Sauveterre with the Orleans line enjoys a
certain celebrity on account of a series of utterly useless curves,
which defy all common sense, and which would undoubtedly be the source
of countless accidents, if the trains were not prohibited from going
faster than eight or ten miles an hour.
The depot has been built--no doubt for the greater convenience of
travellers--at a distance of two miles from town, on a place where
formerly the first banker of Sauveterre had his beautiful gardens.
The pretty road which leads to it is lined on both sides with inns and
taverns, on market-days full of peasants, who try to rob each other,
glass in hand, and lips overflowing with protestations of honesty.
On ordinary days even, the road is quite lively; for the walk to the
railway has become a favorite promenade. People go out to see the
trains start or come in, to examine the new arrivals, or to exchange
confidences as to the reasons why Mr. or Mrs. So-and-so have made up
their mind to travel.
It was nine o’clock in the morning when the train which brought the
marchioness and Manuel Folgat at last reached Sauveterre. The former
was overcome by fatigue and anxiety, having spent the whole night
in discussing the chances for her son’s safety, and was all the more
exhausted as the lawyer had taken care not to encourage her hopes.
For he also shared, in secret at least, M. Chapelain’s doubts. He, also,
had said to himself, that a man like M. de Boiscoran is not apt to
be arrested, unless there are strong reasons, and almost overwhelming
proofs of his guilt in the hands of the authorities.
The train was slackening speed.
“If only Dionysia and her father,” sighed the marchioness, “have thought
of sending a carriage to meet us.”
“Why so?” asked Manuel Folgat.
“Because I do not want all the world to see my grief and my tears.”