“Ah, forgetful old man that I am! Why did I not think of it? But you
will pardon me, I am sure. I am so completely upset. Anthony, what can
you let us have?”
“The housekeeper has eggs, potted fowl, ham”--
“Whatever can be made ready first will be the best,” said the young
lawyer.
“In a quarter of an hour the table shall be set,” replied the servant.
He hurried away, while M. de Chandore invited M. Folgat into the
sitting-room. The poor grandfather summoned all his energy to keep up
appearances.
“This fact about the gun will save him, won’t it?” he asked.
“Perhaps so,” replied the famous advocate.
And they were silent,--the grandfather thinking of the grief of his
grandchild, and cursing the day on which he had opened his house
to Jacques, and with him to such heart-rending anguish; the lawyer
arranging in his mind the facts he had learned, and preparing the
questions he was going to ask. They were both so fully absorbed by their
thoughts, that they started when Anthony reappeared, and said,--
“Gentlemen, breakfast is ready!”
The table had been set in the dining-room; and, when the two gentlemen
had taken their seats, old Anthony placed himself, his napkin over his
arm, behind them; but M. de Chandore called him, saying,--
“Put another plate, Anthony, and breakfast with us.”
“Oh, sir,” protested the old servant,--“sir”--
“Sit down,” repeated the baron: “if you eat after us, you will make us
lose time, and an old servant like you is a member of the family.”
Anthony obeyed, quite overcome, but blushing with delight at the honor
that was done him; for the Baron de Chandore did not usually distinguish
himself to familiarity. When the ham and eggs of the housekeeper had
been disposed of, M. Folgat said,--
“Now let us go back to business. Keep cool, my dear Anthony, and
remember, that, unless we get the court to say that there is no case,
your answers may become the basis of our defence. What were M. de
Boiscoran’s habits when he was here?”
“When he was here, sir, he had, so to say, no habits. We came here very
rarely, and only for a short time.”
“Never mind: what was he doing here?”
“He used to rise late; he walked about a good deal; he sometimes went
out hunting; he sketched; he read, for master is a great reader, and is
as fond of his books as the marquis, his father, is of his porcelains.”
“Who came here to see him?”
“M. Galpin most frequently, Dr. Seignebos, the priest from Brechy, M.
Seneschal, M. Daubigeon.”
“How did he spend his evenings?”
“At M. de Chandore’s, who can tell you all about it.”
“He had no other relatives in this country?”
“No.”
“You do not know that he had any lady friend?”
Anthony looked as if he would have blushed.
“Oh, sir!” he said, “you do not know, I presume, that master is engaged
to Miss Dionysia?”
The Baron de Chandore was not a baby, as he liked to call it. Deeply
interested as he was, he got up, and said,--
“I want to take a little fresh air.”
And he went out, understanding very well that his being Dionysia’s
grandfather might keep Anthony from telling the truth.
“That is a sensible man,” thought M. Folgat.