o him, "I shall not see you again till
the day before the wedding."

And now she was to see him again, in the parlor of a jail, accused of an
abominable crime. And perhaps she was doubtful of his innocence.

"Sir, the marchioness is waiting for you," said the jailer once more. At
the man's voice, Jacques trembled.

"I am ready," he replied: "let us go!" And, while descending the stairs,
he tried his best to compose his features, and to arm himself with
courage and calmness.

"For," he said, "She must not become aware of it, how horrible my
position is."

At the foot of the steps, Blangin pointed at a door, and said,--

"That is the parlor. When the marchioness wants to go, please call me."

On the threshold, Jacques paused once more.

The parlor of the jail at Sauveterre is an immense vaulted hall, lighted
up by two narrow windows with close, heavy iron gratings. There is no
furniture save a coarse bench fastened to the damp, untidy wall; and on
this bench, in the full light of the sun, sat, or rather lay, apparently
bereft of all strength, the Marchioness of Boiscoran.

When Jacques saw her, he could hardly suppress a cry of horror and
grief. Was that really his mother,--that thin old lady with the sallow
complexion, the red eyes, and trembling hands?

"O God, O God!" he murmured.

She heard him, for she raised her head; and, when she recognized him,
she wanted to rise; but her strength forsook her, and she sank back upon
the bench, crying,--

"O Jacques, my child!"

She, also, was terrified when she saw what two months of anguish and
sleeplessness had done for Jacques. But he was kneeling at her feet upon
the muddy pavement, and said in a barely intelligible voice,--

"Can you pardon me the great grief I cause you?"

She looked at him for a moment with a bewildered air; and then, all of
a sudden, she took his head in her two hands, kissed him with passionate
vehemence, and said,--

"Will I pardon you? Alas, what have I to pardon? If you were guilty, I
should love you still; and you are innocent."

Jacques breathed more freely. In his mother's voice he felt that she, at
least, was sure of him.

"And father?" he asked.

There was a faint blush on the pale cheeks of the marchioness.

"I shall see him to-morrow," she replied; "for I leave to-night with M.
Folgat."

"What! In this state of weakness?"

"I must."

"Could not father leave his collections for a few days? Why did he not
come down?