was so little in the habit of consulting her husband, that he was quite surprised.
“The first thing is to get Jacques out of jail. We must see—we ought to ask for advice.”
At this moment a light knock was heard at the door.
“Come in!” he said.
A servant came in, bringing a large envelope, marked “Telegraphic Despatch. Private.”
“Upon my word!” cried the marquis. “I thought so. Now we shall be all right again.”
The servant had left the room. He tore open the envelope; but at the first glance at the contents the smile vanished, he turned pale, and just said,—
“Great God!”
Quick as lightning, the marchioness seized the fatal paper. She read at a glance,—
“Come quick. Jacques in prison; close confinement; accused of horrible crime. The whole town says he is guilty, and that he has confessed. Infamous calumny! His judge is his former friend, Galpin, who was to marry his cousin Lavarande. Know nothing except that Jacques is innocent. Abominable intrigue! Grandpa Chandore and I will do what can be done. Your help indispensable. Come, come!
“DIONYSIA CHANDORE.”
“Ah, my son is lost!” cried the marchioness with tears in her eyes. The marquis, however, had recovered already from the shock.
“And I—I say more than ever, with Dionysia, who is a brave girl, Jacques is innocent. But I see he is in danger. A criminal prosecution is always an ugly affair. A man in close confinement may be made to say any thing.”
“We must do something,” said the mother, nearly mad with grief.
“Yes, and without losing a minute. We have friends: let us see who among them can help us.”
“I might write to M. Margeril.”
The marquis, who had turned quite pale, became livid.
“What!” he cried. “You dare utter that name in my presence?”
“He is all powerful; and my son is in danger.”
The marquis stopped her with a threatening gesture, and cried with an accent of bitter hatred,—
“I would a thousand times rather my son should die innocent on the scaffold than owe his safety to that man!”
His wife seemed to be on the point of fainting.
“Great God! And yet you know very well that I was only a little indiscreet.”
“No more!” said the marquis harshly.
Then, recovering his self-control by a powerful effort, he went on,—
“Before we attempt any thing, we must know how the matter stands. You will leave for Sauveterre this evening.”
“Alone?”
“No. I will find some able lawyer,—a reliable jurist, who is not a politician,—if such a one can be found nowadays. He will tell you what to do, and will write to me, so that I can do here whatever may be best. Dionysia is right. Jacques must be the victim of some abominable intrigue. Nevertheless, we shall save him; but we must keep cool, perfectly cool.”
And as he said this he rang the bell so violently, that a number of servants came rushing in at once.
“Quick,” he said; “send for my lawyer, Mr. Chapelain. Take a carriage.”
The servant who took the order was so expeditious, that, in less than twenty minutes, M. Chapelain arrived.
“Ah! we want all your experience, my friend,” said the marquis to him. “Look here. Read these telegrams.”
Fortunately, the lawyer had such control over himself, that he did not betray what he felt; for he believed Jacques guilty, knowing as he did how reluctant courts generally are to order the arrest of a suspected person.
“I know the man for the marchioness,” he said at last.
“Ah!”
“A young man whose modesty alone has kept him from distinguishing himself so far, although I know he is one of the best jurists at the bar, and an admirable speaker.”
“What is his name?”
“Manuel Folgat. I shall send him to you at once.”
Two hours later, M. Chapelain’s protégé appeared at the house of the Boiscorans. He was a man of thirty-one or thirty-two, with large, wide-open eyes, whose whole appearance was breathing intelligence and energy.
The marquis was pleased with him, and after having told him all he knew about Jacques’s position, endeavored to inform him as to the people down at Sauveterre,—who would be likely to be friends, and who enemies, recommending to him, above all, to trust M. Seneschal, an old friend of the family, and a most influential man in that community.
“Whatever is humanly possible shall be done, sir,” said the lawyer.
That same evening, at fifteen minutes past eight, the Marchioness of Boiscoran and Manuel Folgat took their seats in the train for Orleans.
II.
The railway which connects Sauveterre with the Orleans line enjoys a certain celebrity on account of a series of utterly useless curves, which defy all common sense, and which would undoubtedly be the source of countless accidents, if the trains were not prohibited from going faster than eight or ten miles an hour.
The depot has been built—no doubt for the greater convenience of travellers—at a distance of two miles from town, on a place where formerly the first banker of Sauveterre had his beautiful gardens. The pretty road which leads to it is lined on both sides with inns and taverns, on market-days full of peasants, who try to rob each other, glass in hand, and lips overflowing with protestations of honesty. On ordinary days even, the road is quite lively; for the walk to the railway has become a favorite promenade. People go out to see the trains start or come in, to examine the new arrivals, or to exchange confidences as to the reasons why Mr. or Mrs. So-and-so have made up their mind to travel.
It was nine o’clock in the morning when the train which brought the marchioness and Manuel Folgat at last reached Sauveterre. The former was overcome by fatigue and anxiety, having spent the whole night in discussing the chances for her son’s safety, and was all the more exhausted as the lawyer had taken care not to encourage her hopes.
For he also shared, in secret at least, M. Chapelain’s doubts. He, also, had said to himself, that a man like M. de Boiscoran is not apt to be arrested, unless there are strong reasons, and almost overwhelming proofs of his guilt in the hands of the authorities.
The
