“I suppose not, after what has passed.”
And thereupon, speaking with all the eloquence of a pious woman who
is trying to wither an impious man, she poured upon him a stream of
reproaches for what she called his infamous treachery. What? How could
he appear against Jacques, who was his friend, and who had actually
aided him in obtaining the promise of a great match. By that one hope
he had become, so to say, a member of the family. Did he not know that
among kinsmen it was a sacred duty to set aside all personal feelings
for the purpose of protecting that sacred patrimony called family honor?
M. Galpin felt like a man upon whom a handful of stones falls from the
fifth story of a house. Still he preserved his self-control, and even
asked himself what advantage he might obtain from this extraordinary
scene. Might it open a door for reconciliation?
As soon, therefore, as Miss Adelaide stopped, he began justifying
himself, painting in hypocritical colors the grief it had given him,
swearing that he was able to control the events, and that Jacques was as
dear to him now as ever.
“If he is so dear to you,” broke in Miss Adelaide, “why don’t you set
him free?”
“Ah! how can I?”
“At least give his family and his friends leave to see him.”
“The law will not let me. If he is innocent, he has only to prove it. If
he is guilty, he must confess. In the first case, he will be set free;
in the other case, he can see whom he wishes.”
“If he is so dear to you, how could you dare read the letter he had
written to Dionysia?”
“It is one of the most painful duties of my profession to do so.”
“Ah! And does that profession also prevent you from giving us that
letter after having read it?”
“Yes. But I may tell you what is in it.”
He took it out of a drawer, and the younger of the two sisters, Miss
Elizabeth, copied it in pencil. Then they withdrew, almost without
saying good-by.