“And I say M. de Boiscoran may count upon me, because I have my reasons.
I have formed very singular suspicions, sir,--very singular.”
M. Folgat, Dionysia, and the marchioness urged him to explain; but he
declared that the moment had not come yet, that he was not perfectly
sure yet.
And he left again, vowing that he was overworked, that he had forsaken
his patients for forty-eight hours, and that the Countess Claudieuse was
waiting for him, as her husband was getting worse and worse.
“What can the old man suspect?” Grandpapa Chandore asked again, an hour
after the doctor had left.
M. Folgat might have replied that these probable suspicions were no
doubt his own suspicions, only better founded, and more fully developed.
But why should he say so, since all inquiry was prohibited, and a single
imprudent word might ruin every thing? Why, also, should he excite new
hopes, when they must needs wait patiently till it should seem good to
M. Galpin to make an end to this melancholy suspense?
They heard very little nowadays of Jacques de Boiscoran. The
examinations took place only at long intervals; and it was sometimes
four or five days before Mechinet brought another letter.
“This is intolerable agony,” repeated the marchioness over and over
again.
The end was, however, approaching.
Dionysia was alone one afternoon in the sitting-room, when she thought
she heard the clerk’s voice in the hall. She went out at once and found
him there.
“Ah!” she cried, “the investigation is ended!” For she knew very well
that nothing less would have emboldened Mechinet to show himself openly
at their house.
“Yes, indeed, madam!” replied the good man; “and upon M. Galpin’s own
order I bring you this letter from M. de Boiscoran.”
She took it, read it at a single glance, and forgetting every thing,
half delirious with joy, she ran to her grandfather and M. Folgat,
calling upon a servant at the same time to run and fetch M. Magloire.
In less than an hour, the eminent advocate of Sauveterre arrived;
and when Jacques’s letter had been handed to him, he said with some
embarrassment,--
“I have promised M. de Boiscoran my assistance, and he shall certainly
have it. I shall be at the prison to-morrow morning as soon as the doors
open, and I will tell you the result of our interview.”
He would say nothing more. It was very evident that he did not believe
in the innocence of his client, and, as soon as he had left, M. de
Chandore exclaimed,--
“Jacques is mad to intrust his defence to a man who doubts him.”
“M. Magloire is an honorable man, papa,” said Dionysia; “and, if he
thought he could compromise Jacques, he would resign.”
Yes, indeed, M. Magloire was an honorable man, and quite accessible
to tender sentiments; for he felt very reluctant to go and see the
prisoner, charged as he was with an odious crime, and, as he thought,
justly charged,--a man who had been his friend, and whom, in spite of
all, he could not help loving still.
He could not sleep for it that night; and noticed his anxious air as
he crossed the street next morning on his way to the jail. Blangin the
keeper was on the lookout for him, and cried,--
“Ah, come quick, sir! The accused is devoured with impatience.”
Slowly, and his heart beating furiously, the famous advocate went up the
narrow stairs. He crossed the long passage; Blangin opened a door; he
was in Jacques de Boiscoran’s cell.
“At last you are coming,” exclaimed the unhappy young man, throwing
himself on the lawyer’s neck. “At last I see an honest face, and hold
a trusty hand. Ah! I have suffered cruelly, so cruelly, that I am
surprised my mind has not given way. But now you are here, you are by my
side, I am safe.”
The lawyer could not speak. He was terrified by the havoc which grief
had made of the noble and intelligent face of his friend. He was shocked
at the distortion of his features, the unnatural brilliancy of his eyes,
and the convulsive laugh on his lips.
“Poor man!” he murmured at last.
Jacques misunderstood him: he stepped back, as white as the walls of his
cell.
“You do not think me guilty?” he exclaimed.
An inexpressibly sad expression convulsed his features.
“To be sure,” he went on with his terrible convulsive laughter, “the
charges must be overwhelming indeed, if they have convinced my best
friends. Alas! why did I refuse to speak that first day? My honor!--what
a phantom! And still, victimized as I am by an infamous conspiracy, I
should still refuse to speak, if my life alone were at stake. But my
honor is at stake. Dionysia’s honor, the honor of the Boiscorans. I
shall speak. You, M. Magloire, shall know the truth, you shall see my
innocence in a word.”
And, seizing M. Magloire’s hand, he pressed it almost painfully, as he
added in a hoarse voice,--
“One word will explain the whole thing to you: I was the lover of the
Countess Claudieuse!”