hat they were closely watched all the
time: they knew their good town. Still it was so. Two curious men,
more obstinate than the others, had jumped into the omnibus which runs
between the station and the town; and now, standing a little aside, they
said to each other,--

"I say, what can they be waiting for?"

At last towards one o'clock, a bell rang, and the station seemed
to start into life. The station-master opened his door, the porters
stretched themselves and rubbed their eyes, oaths were heard, doors
slammed, and the large hand-barrows came in sight.

Then a low thunder-like noise came nearer and nearer; and almost
instantly a fierce red light at the far end of the track shone out
in the dark night like a ball of fire. M. de Chandore and the doctor
hastened to the waiting-room.

The train stopped. A door opened, and the marchioness appeared, leaning
on M. Folgat's arm. The marquis, a travelling-bag in hand, followed
next.

"That was it!" said the volunteer spies, who had flattened their noses
against the window-panes.

And, as the train brought no other passengers, they succeeded in making
the omnibus conductor start at once, eager as they were to proclaim the
arrival of the prisoner's father.

The hour was unfavorable: everybody was asleep; but they did not give up
the hope of finding somebody yet at the club. People stay up very late
at the club, for there is play going on there, and at times pretty heavy
play: you can lose your five hundred francs quite readily there. Thus
the indefatigable news-hunters had a fair chance of finding open ears
for their great piece of news. And yet, if they had been less eager to
spread it, they might have witnessed, perhaps not entirely unmoved, this
first interview between M. de Chandore and the Marquis de Boiscoran.

By a natural impulse they had both hastened forward, and shook hands in
the most energetic manner. Tears stood in their eyes. They opened their
lips to speak; but they said nothing. Besides, there was no need of
words between them. That close embrace had told Jacques's father clearly
enough what Dionysia's grandfather must have suffered. They remained
thus standing motionless, looking at each other, when Dr. Seignebos, who
could not be still for any length of time, came up, and asked,--

"The trunks are on the carriage: shall we go?"

They left the station. The night was clear; and on the horizon, above
the dark mass of the sleeping town, there rose a