“When the countess heard of Jacques’s marriage, and that he abandoned
her, she became exasperated, and determined to be avenged.”
“And, in order to be avenged, she attempted to murder her husband; eh?”
“She wished to be free.”
The Marquis de Boiscoran interrupted his wife with a formidable oath.
Then he cried,--
“And that is all Jacques could invent! And to come to such an abortive
story--was that the reason of his obstinate silence?”
“You do not let me finish. Our son is the victim of unparalleled
coincidences.”
“Of course! Unparalleled coincidences! That is what every one of the
thousand or two thousand rascals say who are sentenced every year. Do
you think they confess? Not they! Ask them, and they will prove to you
that they are the victims of fate, of some dark plot, and, finally, of
an error of judgment. As if justice could err in these days of ours,
after all these preliminary examinations, long inquiries, and careful
investigations.”
“You will see M. Folgat. He will tell you what hope there is.”
“And if all hope fails?”
The marchioness hung her head.
“All would not be lost yet. But then we should have to endure the pain
of seeing our son brought up in court.”
The tall figure of the old gentleman had once more risen to its full
height; his face grew red; and the most appalling wrath flashed from his
eyes.
“Jacques brought up in court?” he cried, with a formidable voice. “And
you come and tell me that coolly, as if it were a very simple and quite
natural matter! And what will happen then, if he is in court? He will be
condemned; and a Boiscoran will go to the galleys. But no, that cannot
be! I do not say that a Boiscoran may not commit a crime, passion makes
us do strange things; but a Boiscoran, when he regains his senses, knows
what becomes him to do. Blood washes out all stains. Jacques prefers the
executioner; he waits; he is cunning; he means to plead. If he but save
his head, he is quite content. A few years at hard labor, I suppose,
will be a trifle to him. And that coward should be a Boiscoran: my blood
should flow in his veins! Come, come, madam, Jacques is no son of mine.”
Crushed as the marchioness had seemed to be till now, she rose under
this atrocious insult.
“Sir!” she cried.
But M. de Boiscoran was not in a state to listen to her.
“I know what I am saying,” he went on. “I remember every thing, if you
have forgotten every thing. Come, let us go back to your past. Remember
the time when Jacques was born, and tell me what year it was when M. de
Margeril refused to meet me.”