had already confessed to her grandfather;
viz., the propositions she had made to Jacques, and his obstinate
refusal to accede to them.

"Well done, madame!" said Dr. Seignebos, full of enthusiasm. "Well done!
Jacques is very unfortunate, and still he is to be envied."

Dionysia finished her recital. Then, turning with a triumphant air to M.
Magloire, she added,--

"After that, is there any one yet who could believe that Jacques is a
vile assassin?"

The eminent advocate of Sauveterre was not one of those men who prize
their opinions more highly than truth itself.

"I confess," he said, "that, if I were to go and see Jacques to-morrow
for the first time, I should not speak to him as I did before."

"And I," exclaimed the Marquis de Boiscoran,--"I declare that I answer
for my son as for myself, and I mean to tell him so to-morrow."

Then turning towards his wife, and speaking so low, that she alone could
hear him, he added,--

"And I hope you will forgive me those suspicions which now fill me with
horror."

But the marchioness had no strength left: she fainted, and had to be
removed, accompanied by Dionysia and the Misses Lavarande. As soon as
they were out of the room, Dr. Seignebos locked the door, rested his
elbow on the chimney, and, taking off his spectacles to wipe them, said
to M. Folgat,--

"Now we can speak freely. What news do you bring us?"

XXII.

It had just struck eleven o'clock, when the jailer, Blangin, entered
Jacques's cell in great excitement, and said,--

"Sir, your father is down stairs."

The prisoner jumped up, thunderstruck.

The night before he had received a note from M. de Chandore, informing
him of the marquis's arrival; and his whole time had since been spent in
preparing himself for the interview. How would it be? He had nothing by
which to judge. He had therefore determined to be quite reserved. And,
whilst he was following Blangin along the dismal passage and down the
interminable steps, he was busily composing respectful phrases, and
trying to look self-possessed.

But, before he could utter a single word, he was in his father's arms.
He felt himself pressed against his heart, and heard him stammer,--

"Jacques, my dear son, my unfortunate child!"

In all his life, long and stormy as it had been, the marquis had not
been tried so severely. Drawing Jacques to one of the parlor-windows,
and leaning back a little, so as to see him better, he was amazed how he
coul