is a superior man," cried Dionysia, "and whatever he says
is perfectly sure to be the right thing."

His mother's entrance prevented the young lawyer from making any reply.
Two hours' rest had restored to the old lady a part of her energy, and
her usual presence of mind; and she now asked that a telegram should be
sent to her husband.

"It is the least we can do," said M. de Chandore in an undertone,
"although it will be useless, I dare say. Boiscoran does not care that
much for his son. Pshaw! Ah! if it was a rare _faience_, or a plate that
is wanting in his collection, then would it be a very different story."

Still the despatch was drawn up and sent, at the very moment when a
servant came in, and announced that dinner was ready. The meal was less
sad than they had anticipated. Everybody, to be sure, felt a heaviness
at heart as he thought that at the same hour a jailer probably brought
Jacques his meal to his cell; nor could Dionysia keep from dropping a
tear when she saw M. Folgat sitting in her lover's place. But no one,
except the young advocate, thought that Jacques was in real danger.

M. Seneschal, however, who came in just as coffee was handed round,
evidently shared M. Folgat's apprehensions. The good mayor came to hear
the news, and to tell his friends how he had spent the day. The funeral
of the firemen had passed off quietly, although amid deep emotion. No
disturbance had taken place, as was feared; and Dr. Seignebos had not
spoken at the graveyard. Both a disturbance and a row would have been
badly received, said M. Seneschal; for he was sorry to say, the immense
majority of the people of Sauveterre did not doubt M. de Boiscoran's
guilt. In several groups he had heard people say, "And still you will
see they will not condemn him. A poor devil who should commit such a
horrible crime would be hanged sure enough; but the son of the Marquis
de Boiscoran--you will see, he'll come out of it as white as snow."

The rolling of a carriage, which stopped at the door, fortunately
interrupted him at this point.

"Who can that be?" asked Dionysia, half frightened.

They heard in the passage the noise of steps and voices, something like
a scuffle; and almost instantly the tenant's son Michael pushed open the
door of the sitting-room, crying out,--

"I have gotten him! Here he is!"

And with these words he pushed in Cocoleu, all struggling, and looking
around him, like a wild beast caught in a trap.

"Upon m