“You see, gentlemen, Count Claudieuse withdraws his charge
unconditionally. He asks for nothing in return: he only wants the truth
to be established. And yet I beg leave to express the last wishes of a
dying man. I beseech you, in the new trial, to make no mention of the
name of the countess.”
Tears were seen in all eyes.
“You may rest assured, reverend father,” said M. Daubigeon, “that Count
Claudieuse’s last wishes shall be attended to. The name of the countess
shall not appear. There will be no need for it. The secret of her wrongs
shall be religiously kept by those who know it.”
It was four o’clock now.
An hour later there arrived at the court-house a gendarme and Michael,
the son of the Boiscoran tenant, who had been sent out to ascertain if
Cocoleu’s statement was true. They brought back the gun which the wretch
had used, and which he had concealed in that den which he had dug
out for himself in the forest of Rochepommier, and where Michael had
discovered him the day after the crime.
Henceforth Jacques’s innocence was as clear as daylight; and although
he had to bear the burden of his sentence till the judgment was declared
void, it was decided, with the consent of the president of the court,
M. Domini, and the active cooperation of M. Gransiere, that he should be
set free that same evening.
M. Folgat and M. Magloire were charged with the pleasant duty of
informing the prisoner of this happy news. They found him walking up and
down in his cell like a madman, devoured by unspeakable anguish, and not
knowing what to make of the words of hope which M. Daubigeon had spoken
to him in the morning.
He was hopeful, it is true; and yet when he was told that he was safe,
that he was free, he sank, an inert mass, into a chair, being less able
to bear joy than sorrow.
But such emotions are not apt to last long. A few moments later, and
Jacques de Boiscoran, arm in arm with his counsel, left his prison,
in which he had for several months suffered all that an honest man can
suffer. He had paid a fearful penalty for what, in the eyes of so many
men, is but a trifling wrong.
When they reached the street in which the Chandores lived, M. Folgat
said to his client,--
“They do not expect you, I am sure. Go slowly, while I go ahead to
prepare them.”
He found Jacques’s parents and friends assembled in the parlor,
suffering great anxiety; for they had not been able to ascertain if
there were any truth in the vague rumors which had reached them.
The young advocate employed the utmost caution in preparing them for the
truth; but at the first words Dionysia asked,--
“Where is Jacques?”
Jacques was kneeling at her feet, overcome with gratitude and love.