only Dionysia and her father,” sighed the marchioness, “have thought of sending a carriage to meet us.”
“Why so?” asked Manuel Folgat.
“Because I do not want all the world to see my grief and my tears.”
The young lawyer shook his head, and said,—
“You will certainly not do that, madame, if you are disposed to follow my advice.”
She looked at him quite amazed; but he insisted.
“I mean you must not look as if you wished not to be seen: that would be a great, almost irreparable mistake. What would they think if they saw you in tears and great distress? They would say you were sure of your son’s guilt; and the few who may still doubt will doubt no longer. You must control public opinion from the beginning; for it is absolute in these small communities, where everybody is under somebody else’s immediate influence. Public opinion is all powerful; and say what you will, it controls even the jurymen in their deliberations.”
“That is true,” said the marchioness: “that is but too true.”
“Therefore, madame, you must summon all your energy, conceal your maternal anxiety in your innermost heart, dry your tears, and show nothing but the most perfect confidence. Let everybody say, as he sees you, ‘No mother could look so who thinks her son guilty.’”
The marchioness straightened herself, and said,—
“You are right, sir; and I thank you. I must try to impress public opinion as you say; and, so far from wishing to find the station deserted, I shall be delighted to see it full of people. I will show you what a woman can do who thinks of her son’s life.”
The Marchioness of Boiscoran was a woman of rare power.
Drawing her comb from her dressing-case, she repaired the disorder of her coiffure; with a few skilful strokes she smoothed her dress; her features, by a supreme effort of will, resumed their usual serenity; she forced her lips to smile without betraying the effort it cost her; and then she said in a clear, firm voice,—
“Look at me, sir. Can I show myself now?”
The train stopped at the station. Manuel Folgat jumped out lightly; and, offering the marchioness his hand to assist her, he said,—
“You will be pleased with yourself, madam. Your courage will not be useless. All Sauveterre seems to be here.”
This was more than half true. Ever since the night before, a report had been current,—no one knew how it had started,—that the “murderer’s mother,” as they charitably called her, would arrive by the nine o’clock train; and everybody had determined to happen to be at the station at that hour. In a place where gossip lives for three days upon the last new dress from Paris, such an opportunity for a little excitement was not to be neglected. No one thought for a moment of what the poor old lady would probably feel upon being compelled thus to face a whole town; for at Sauveterre curiosity has at least the merit, that it is not hypocritical. Everybody is openly indiscreet, and by no means ashamed of it. They place themselves right in front of you, and look at you, and try to find out the secret of your joy or your grief.
It must be borne in mind, however, that public opinion was running strongly against M. de Boiscoran. If there had been nothing against him but the fire at Valpinson, and the attempts upon Count Claudieuse, that would have been a small matter. But the fire had had terrible consequences. Two men had perished in it; and two others had been so severely wounded as to put their lives in jeopardy. Only the evening before, a sad procession had passed through the streets of Sauveterre. In a cart covered with a cloth, and followed by two priests, the almost carbonized remains of Bolton the drummer, and of poor Guillebault, had been brought home. The whole city had seen the widow go to the mayor’s office, holding in her arms her youngest child, while the four others clung to her dress.
All these misfortunes were traced back to Jacques, who was loaded with curses; and the people now thought of receiving his mother, the marchioness, with fierce hootings.
“There she is, there she is!” they said in the crowd, when she appeared in the station, leaning upon M. Folgat’s arm.
But they did not say another word, so great was their surprise at her appearance. Immediately two parties were formed. “She puts a bold face on it,” said some; while others declared, “She is quite sure of her son’s innocence.”
At all events, she had presence of mind enough to see what an impression she produced, and how well she had done to follow M. Folgat’s advice. It gave her additional strength. As she distinguished in the crowd some people whom she knew, she went up to them, and, smiling, said,—
“Well, you know what has happened to us. It is unheard of! Here is the liberty of a man like my son at the mercy of the first foolish notion that enters the head of a magistrate. I heard the news yesterday by telegram, and came down at once with this gentleman, a friend of ours, and one of the first lawyers of Paris.”
M. Folgat looked embarrassed: he would have liked more considerate words. Still he could not help supporting the marchioness in what she had said.
“These gentlemen of the court,” he said in measured tones, “will perhaps be sorry for what they have done.”
Fortunately a young man, whose whole livery consisted in a gold-laced cap, came up to them at this moment.
“M. de Chandore’s carriage is here,” he said.
“Very well,” replied the marchioness.
And bowing to the good people of Sauveterre, who were quite dumfounded by her assurance, she said,—
“Pardon me if I leave you so soon; but M. de Chandore expects us. I shall, however, be happy to call upon you soon, on my son’s arm.”
The house of the Chandore family stands on the other side of the New-Market Place, at the very top of the street, which is hardly more than a line of steps, which the mayor persistently calls upon the municipal council to grade, and which the latter as persistently refuse to improve. The building is quite new, massive but ugly, and has at the side a pretentious little tower with a peaked roof, which Dr. Seignebos calls a perpetual menace of the feudal system.
It is true the Chandores once upon a time were great feudal lords, and for a long time exhibited a profound contempt for all who could not boast of noble ancestors and a deep hatred of revolutionary ideas. But if they had ever been formidable, they had long since ceased to be so. Of the whole great family,—one of the most numerous and most powerful of the province,—only one member survived, the Baron de Chandore, and a girl, his granddaughter, betrothed to Jacques de Boiscoran. Dionysia was an orphan. She was barely three years old, when within five months, she lost her father, who fell in a duel, and her mother, who had not the strength to survive the man whom she had loved. This was certainly for the child a terrible misfortune; but she was not left uncared for nor unloved. Her grandfather bestowed all his affections upon her; and the two sisters of her mother, the Misses Lavarande, then already no longer young, determined never to marry, so as to devote themselves exclusively to their niece. From that day the two good ladies had wished to live in the baron’s house; but from the beginning he had utterly refused to listen to their propositions, asserting that he was perfectly able himself to watch over the child, and wanted to have her all to himself. All he would grant was, that the ladies might spend the day with Dionysia whenever they chose.
Hence
