At Sauveterre, everybody, M. de Chandore as much as Jacques himself,
blamed the Marquis de Boiscoran. He persisted in remaining in Paris, it
is true: but it was certainly not from indifference; for he was dying
with anxiety. He had shut himself up, and refused to see even his oldest
friends, even his beloved dealers in curiosities. He never went out; the
dust accumulated on his collections; and nothing could arouse him from
this state of prostration, except a letter from Sauveterre.
Every morning he received three or four,--from the marchioness or M.
Folgat, from M. Seneschal or M. Magloire, from M. de Chandore, Dionysia,
or even from Dr. Seignebos. Thus he could follow at a distance all the
phases, and even the smallest changes, in the proceedings. Only one
thing he would not do: he would not come down, however important his
coming might be for his son. He did not move.
Once only he had received, through Dionysia’s agency, a letter from
Jacques himself; and then he ordered his servant to get ready his
trunks for the same evening. But at the last moment he had given
counter-orders, saying that he had reconsidered, and would not go.
“There is something extraordinary going on in the mind of the marquis,”
said the servants to each other.
The fact is, he spent his days, and a part of his nights, in his
cabinet, half-buried in an arm-chair, resting little, and sleeping still
less, insensible to all that went on around him. On his table he had
arranged all his letters from Sauveterre in order; and he read and
re-read them incessantly, examining the phrases, and trying, ever in
vain, to disengage the truth from this mass of details and statements.
He was no longer as sure of his son as at first: far from it! Every day
had brought him a new doubt; every letter, additional uncertainty. Hence
he was all the time a prey to most harassing apprehensions. He put them
aside; but they returned, stronger and more irresistible than before
like the waves of the rising tide.
He was thus one morning in his cabinet. It was very early yet; but he
was more than ever suffering from anxiety, for M. Folgat had written,
“To-morrow all uncertainty will end. To-morrow the close confinement
will be raised, and M. Jacques will see M. Magloire, the counsel whom he
has chosen. We will write immediately.”
It was for this news the marquis was waiting now. Twice already he had
rung to inquire if the mail had not come yet, when all of a sudden his
valet appeared and with a frightened air said,--
“The marchioness. She has just come with Anthony, M. Jacques’s own man.”
He hardly said so, when the marchioness herself entered, looking even
worse than she had done in the prison parlor; for she was overcome by
the fatigue of a night spent on the road.
The marquis had started up suddenly. As soon as the servant had left
the room, and shut the door again, he said with trembling voice, as if
wishing for an answer, and still fearing to hear it,--
“Has any thing unusual happened?”
“Yes.”
“Good or bad?”
“Sad.”
“Great God! Jacques has not confessed?”
“How could he confess when he is innocent?”
“Then he has explained?”
“As far as I am concerned, and M. Folgat, Dr. Seignebos, and all who
know him and love him, yes, but not for the public, for his enemies, or
the law. He has explained every thing; but he has no proof.”
The mournful features of the marquis settled into still deeper gloom.
“In other words, he has to be believed on his own word?” he asked.
“Don’t you believe him?”
“I am not the judge of that, but the jury.”
“Well, for the jury he will find proof. M. Folgat, who has come in the
same train with me, and whom you will see to-day, hopes to discover
proof.”
“Proof of what?”
Perhaps the marchioness was not unprepared for such a reception. She
expected it, and still she was disconcerted.
“Jacques,” she began, “has been the lover of the Countess Claudieuse.”
“Ah, ah!” broke in the marquis.