“And my dear mother, I sent for you, because we want you to help us in
this great work.”
“And here I am,” replied the old lady, “not less certain of my son’s
innocence than you are.”
Evidently M. de Chandore had been hoping for something more; for he
interrupted her, asking,--
“And the marquis?”
“My husband remained in Paris.”
The old gentleman’s face assumed a curious expression.
“Ah, that is just like him,” he said. “Nothing can move him. His only
son is wickedly accused of a crime, arrested, thrown into prison. They
write to him; they hope he will come at once. By no means. Let his son
get out of trouble as he can. He has his _faiences_ to attend to. Oh, if
I had a son!”
“My husband,” pleaded the marchioness, “thinks he can be more useful to
Jacques in Paris than here. There will be much to be done there.”
“Have we not the railway?”
“Moreover,” she went on, “he intrusted me to this gentleman.” She
pointed out M. Folgat.
“M. Manuel Folgat, who has promised us the assistance of his experience,
his talents, and his devotion.”