It had just struck eleven o’clock, when the jailer, Blangin, entered
Jacques’s cell in great excitement, and said,--
“Sir, your father is down stairs.”
The prisoner jumped up, thunderstruck.
The night before he had received a note from M. de Chandore, informing
him of the marquis’s arrival; and his whole time had since been spent in
preparing himself for the interview. How would it be? He had nothing by
which to judge. He had therefore determined to be quite reserved. And,
whilst he was following Blangin along the dismal passage and down the
interminable steps, he was busily composing respectful phrases, and
trying to look self-possessed.
But, before he could utter a single word, he was in his father’s arms.
He felt himself pressed against his heart, and heard him stammer,--
“Jacques, my dear son, my unfortunate child!”
In all his life, long and stormy as it had been, the marquis had not
been tried so severely. Drawing Jacques to one of the parlor-windows,
and leaning back a little, so as to see him better, he was amazed how he
could ever have doubted his son. It seemed to him that he was standing
there himself. He recognized his own feature and carriage, his own frank
but rather haughty expression, his own clear, bright eye.
Then, suddenly noticing details, he was shocked to see Jacques so much
reduced. He found him looking painfully pale, and he actually discovered
at the temples more than one silvery hair amid his thick black curls.
“Poor child!” he said. “How you must have suffered!”
“I thought I should lose my senses,” replied Jacques simply.