“Oh, what words! Go to work, Mr. Advocate, to work, I say. Come, shall
we go?”
They were leaving the room when M. de Chandore called them back by a
gesture. He said,--
“So far, gentlemen, we have thought of Jacques alone. And Dionysia?”
The others looked at him, full of surprise.
“What am I to say if she asks me what the result of M. Magloire’s
interview with Jacques has been, and why you would say nothing in her
presence?”
Dr. Seignebos had confessed it more than once: he was no friend of
concealment.
“You will tell her the truth,” was his advice.
“What? How can I tell her that Jacques has been the lover of the
Countess Claudieuse?”
“She will hear of it sooner or later. Miss Dionysia is a sensible,
energetic girl.”
“Yes; but Miss Dionysia is as ignorant as a holy angel,” broke in M.
Folgat eagerly, “and she loves M. de Boiscoran. Why should we trouble
the purity of her thoughts and her happiness? Is she not unhappy enough?
M. de Boiscoran is no longer kept in close confinement. He will see his
betrothed, and, if he thinks proper, he can tell her. He alone has the
right to do so. I shall, however, dissuade him. From what I know of Miss
Chandore’s character, it would be impossible for her to control herself,
if she should meet the Countess Claudieuse.”
“M. de Chandore ought not to say any thing,” said M. Magloire
decisively. “It is too much already, to have to intrust the marchioness
with the secret; for you must not forget, gentlemen, that the slightest
indiscretion would certainly ruin all of M. Folgat’s delicate plans.”
Thereupon all went out; and M. de Chandore, left alone, said to
himself,--
“Yes, they are right; but what am I to say?”
He was thinking it over almost painfully, when a maid came in, and told
him that Miss Dionysia wanted to see him.
“I am coming,” he said.
And he followed her with heavy steps, and trying to compose his features
so as to efface all traces of the terrible emotions through which he
had passed. The two aunts had taken Dionysia and the marchioness to
the parlor in the upper story. Here M. de Chandore found them all
assembled,--the marchioness, pale and overcome, extended in an
easy-chair; but Dionysia, walking up and down with burning cheeks and
blazing eyes. As soon as he entered, she asked him in a sharp, sad
voice,--
“Well? There is no hope, I suppose.”
“More hope than ever, on the contrary,” he replied, trying to smile.
“Then why did M. De Magloire send us all out?”
The old gentleman had had time to prepare a fib.
“Because M. Magloire had to tell us a piece of bad news. There is no
chance of no true bill being found. Jacques will have to appear in
court.”