XVIII.

  At Sauveterre, everybody, M. de Chandore as much as Jacques himself,blamed the Marquis de Boiscoran. He persisted in remaining in Paris, itis true: but it was certainly not from indifference; for he was dyingwith anxiety. He had shut himself up, and refused to see even his oldestfriends, even his beloved dealers in curiosities. He never went out; thedust accumulated on his collections; and nothing could arouse him fromthis state of prostration, except a letter from Sauveterre.

  Every morning he received three or four,--from the marchioness or M.Folgat, from M. Seneschal or M. Magloire, from M. de Chandore, Dionysia,or even from Dr. Seignebos. Thus he could follow at a distance all thephases, and even the smallest changes, in the proceedings. Only onething he would not do: he would not come down, however important hiscoming might be for his son. He did not move.

  Once only he had received, through Dionysia's agency, a letter fromJacques himself; and then he ordered his servant to get ready histrunks for the same evening. But at the last moment he had givencounter-orders, saying that he had reconsidered, and would not go.

  "There is something extraordinary going on in the mind of the marquis,"said the servants to each other.

  The fact is, he spent his days, and a part of his nights, in hiscabinet, half-buried in an arm-chair, resting little, and sleeping stillless, insensible to all that went on around him. On his table he hadarranged all his letters from Sauveterre in order; and he read andre-read them incessantly, examining the phrases, and trying, ever invain, to disengage the truth from this mass of details and statements.He was no longer as sure of his son as at first: far from it! Every dayhad brought him a new doubt; every letter, additional uncertainty. Hencehe was all the time a prey to most harassing apprehensions. He put themaside; but they returned, stronger and more irresistible than beforelike the waves of the rising tide.

  He was thus one morning in his cabinet. It was very early yet; but hewas more than ever suffering from anxiety, for M. Folgat had written,"To-morrow all uncertainty will end. To-morrow the close confinementwill be raised, and M. Jacques will see M. Magloire, the counsel whom hehas chosen. We will write immediately."

  It was for this news the marquis was waiting now. Twice already he hadrung to inquire if the mail had not come yet, when all of a sudden hisvalet appeared and with a frightened air said,--

  "The marchioness. She has just come with Anthony, M. Jacques's own man."

  He hardly said so, when the marchioness herself entered, looking evenworse than she had done in the prison parlor; for she was overcome bythe fatigue of a night spent on the road.

  The marquis had started up suddenly. As soon as the servant had leftthe room, and shut the door again, he said with trembling voice, as ifwishing for an answer, and still fearing to hear it,--

  "Has any thing unusual happened?"

  "Yes."

  "Good or bad?"

  "Sad."

  "Great God! Jacques has not confessed?"

  "How could he confess when he is innocent?"

  "Then he has explained?"

  "As far as I am concerned, and M. Folgat, Dr. Seignebos, and all whoknow him and love him, yes, but not for the public, for his enemies, orthe law. He has explained every thing; but he has no proof."

  The mournful features of the marquis settled into still deeper gloom.

  "In other words, he has to be believed on his own word?" he asked.

  "Don't you believe him?"

  "I am not the judge of that, but the jury."

  "Well, for the jury he will find proof. M. Folgat, who has come in thesame train with me, and whom you will see to-day, hopes to discoverproof."

  "Proof of what?"

  Perhaps the marchioness was not unprepared for such a reception. Sheexpected it, and still she was disconcerted.

  "Jacques," she began, "has been the lover of the Countess Claudieuse."

  "Ah, ah!" broke in the marquis.

  And, in a tone of offensive irony, he added,--

  "No doubt another story of adultery; eh?"

  The marchioness did not answer. She quietly went on,--

  "When the countess heard of Jacques's marriage, and that he abandonedher, 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 abortivestory--was that the reason of his obstinate silence?"

  "You do not let me finish. Our son is the victim of unparalleledcoincidences."

  "Of course! Unparalleled coincidences! That is what every one of thethousand or two thousand rascals say who are sentenced every year. Doyou think they confess? Not they! Ask them, and they will prove to youthat they are the victims of fate, of some dark plot, and, finally, ofan error of judgment. As if justice could err in these days of ours,after all these preliminary examinations, long inquiries, and carefulinvestigations."

  "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 painof seeing our son brought up in court."

  The tall figure of the old gentleman had once more risen to its fullheight; his face grew red; and the most appalling wrath flashed from hiseyes.

  "Jacques brought up in court?" he cried, with a formidable voice. "Andyou come and tell me that coolly, as if it were a very simple and quitenatural matter! And what will happen then, if he is in court? He will becondemned; and a Boiscoran will go to the galleys. But no, that cannotbe! I do not say that a Boiscoran may not commit a crime, passion makesus do strange things; but a Boiscoran, when he regains his senses, knowswhat becomes him to do. Blood washes out all stains. Jacques prefers theexecutioner; he waits; he is cunning; he means to plead. If he but savehis 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 bloodshould 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 underthis 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 youhave forgotten every thing. Come, let us go back to your past. Rememberthe time when Jacques was born, and tell me what year it was when M. deMargeril refused to meet me."

  Indignation restored to the marchioness her strength. She cried,--

  "And you come and tell me this to-day, after thirty years, and God knowsunder what circumstances!"

  "Yes, after thirty years. Eternity might pass over these recollections,and it would not efface them. And, but for these circumstances to whichyou refer, I should never have said any thing. At the time to which Iallude, I had to choose between two evils,--either to be ridiculous, orto be hated. I preferred to keep silence, and not to inquire too far.My happiness was gone; but I wished to save my peace. We have livedtogether on excellent terms; but there has always been between us thishigh wall, this suspicion. As long as I was doubtful, I kept silent. Butnow, when the facts confirm my doubts, I say again, 'Jacques is no sonof mine!'"

  Overcome with grief, shame, and indignation, the Marchioness deBoiscoran was wringing her hands; then she cried,--

  "What a humiliation! What you are saying is too horrible. It is unworthyof you to add this terrible suffering to the martyrdom which I amenduring."

  M. de Boiscoran laughed convulsively.

  "Have I brought about this catastrophe?"

  "Well then yes! One day I was imprudent and indiscreet. I was young; Iknew nothing of life; the world worshipped me; and you, my husband, myguide, gave yourself up to your ambition, and left me to myself. I couldnot foresee the consequences of a very
inoffensive piece of coquetry."

  "You see, then, now these consequences. After thirty years, I disown thechild that bears my name; and I say, that, if he is innocent, he suffersfor his mother's sins. Fate would have it that your son should covet hisneighbor's wife, and, having taken her, it is but justice that he shoulddie the death of the adulterer."

  "But you know very well that I have never forgotten my duty."

  "I know nothing."

  "You have acknowledged it, because you refused to hear the explanationwhich would have justified me."

  "True, I did shrink from an explanation, which, with your unbearablepride, would necessarily have led to a rupture, and thus to a fearfulscandal."

  The marchioness might have told her husband, that, by refusing to hearher explanation, he had forfeited all right to utter a reproach; but shefelt it would be useless, and thus he went on,--

  "All I do know is, that there is somewhere in this world a man whom Iwanted to kill. Gossiping people betrayed his name to me. I went to him,and told him that I demanded satisfaction, and that I hoped he wouldconceal the real reason for our encounter even from our seconds. Herefused to give me satisfaction, on the ground that he did not owe meany, that you had been calumniated, and that he would meet me only if Ishould insult him publicly."

  "Well?"

  "What could I do after that? Investigate the matter? You had no doubttaken your precautions, and it would have amounted to nothing. Watchyou? I should only have demeaned myself uselessly; for you were no doubton your guard. Should I ask for a divorce? The law afforded me thatremedy. I might have dragged you into court, held you up to the sarcasmsof my counsel, and exposed you to the jests of your own. I had a rightto humble you, to dishonor my name, to proclaim your disgrace, topublish it in the newspapers. Ah, I would have died rather!"

  The marchioness seemed to be puzzled.

  "That was the explanation of your conduct?"

  "Yes, that was my reason for giving up public life, ambitious as Iwas. That was the reason why I withdrew from the world; for I thoughteverybody smiled as I passed. That is why I gave up to you themanagement of our house and the education of your son, why I became apassionate collector, a half-mad original. And you find out only to-daythat you have ruined my life?"

  There was more compassion than resentment in the manner in which themarchioness looked at her husband.

  "You had mentioned to me your unjust suspicions," she replied; "but Ifelt strong in my innocence, and I was in hope that time and my conductwould efface them."

  "Faith once lost never comes back again."

  "The fearful idea that you could doubt of your paternity had never evenoccurred to me."

  The marquis shook his head.

  "Still it was so," he replied. "I have suffered terribly. I lovedJacques. Yes, in spite of all, in spite of myself, I loved him. Had henot all the qualities which are the pride and the joy of a family?Was he not generous and noble-hearted, open to all lofty sentiments,affectionate, and always anxious to please me? I never had to complainof him. And even lately, during this abominable war, has he not againshown his courage, and valiantly earned the cross which they gave him?At all times, and from all sides, I have been congratulated on hisaccount. They praised his talents and his assiduity. Alas! at the verymoment when they told me what a happy father I was, I was the mostwretched of men. How many times would I have drawn him to my heart! Butimmediately that terrible doubt rose within me, if he should not be myson; and I pushed him back, and looked in his features for a trace ofanother man's features."

  His wrath had cooled down, perhaps by its very excess.

  He felt a certain tenderness in his heart, and sinking into his chair,and hiding his face in his hands, he murmured,--

  "If he should be my son, however; if he should be innocent! Ah, thisdoubt is intolerable! And I who would not move from here,--I who havedone nothing for him,--I might have done every thing at first. It wouldhave been easy for me to obtain a change of venue to free him from thisGalpin, formerly his friend, and now his enemy."

  M. de Boiscoran was right when he said that his wife's pride wasunmanageable. And still, as cruelly wounded as woman well could be, shenow suppressed her pride, and, thinking only of her son, remained quitehumble. Drawing from her bosom the letter which Jacques had sent toher the day before she left Sauveterre, she handed it to her husband,saying,--

  "Will you read what our son says?"

  The marquis's hand trembled as he took the letter; and, when he had tornit open, he read,--

  "Do you forsake me too, father, when everybody forsakes me? And yet Ihave never needed your love as much as now. The peril is imminent. Everything is against me. Never has such a combination of fatal circumstancesbeen seen before. I may not be able to prove my innocence; but you,--yousurely cannot think your son guilty of such an absurd and heinous crime!Oh, no! surely not. My mind is made up. I shall fight to the bitter end.To my last breath I shall defend, not my life, but my honor. Ah, if youbut knew! But there are things which cannot be written, and which onlya father can be told. I beseech you come to me, let me see you, let mehold your hand in mine. Do not refuse this last and greatest comfort toyour unhappy son."

  The marquis had started up.

  "Oh, yes, very unhappy indeed!" he cried.

  And, bowing to his wife, he said,--

  "I interrupted you. Now, pray tell me all."

  Maternal love conquered womanly resentment. Without a shadow ofhesitation, and as if nothing had taken place, the marchioness gaveher husband the whole of Jacques's statement as he had made it to M.Magloire.

  The marquis seemed to be amazed.

  "That is unheard of!" he said.

  And, when his wife had finished, he added,--

  "That was the reason why Jacques was so very angry when you spoke ofinviting the Countess Claudieuse, and why he told you, that, if hesaw her enter at one door, he would walk out of the other. We did notunderstand his aversion."

  "Alas! it was not aversion. Jacques only obeyed at that time the cunninglessons given him by the countess."

  In less than one minute the most contradictory resolutions seemed toflit across the marquis's face. He hesitated, and at last he said,--

  "Whatever can be done to make up for my inaction, I will do. I will goto Sauveterre. Jacques must be saved. M. de Margeril is all-powerful. Goto him. I permit it. I beg you will do it."

  The eyes of the marchioness filled with tears, hot tears, the first shehad shed since the beginning of this scene.

  "Do you not see," she asked, "that what you wish me to do is nowimpossible? Every thing, yes, every thing in the world but that. ButJacques and I--we are innocent. God will have pity on us. M. Folgat willsave us."