arriage to meet us."

"Why so?" asked Manuel Folgat.

"Because I do not want all the world to see my grief and my tears."

The young lawyer shook his head, and said,--

"You will certainly not do that, madame, if you are disposed to follow
my advice."

She looked at him quite amazed; but he insisted.

"I mean you must not look as if you wished not to be seen: that would be
a great, almost irreparable mistake. What would they think if they saw
you in tears and great distress? They would say you were sure of your
son's guilt; and the few who may still doubt will doubt no longer. You
must control public opinion from the beginning; for it is absolute
in these small communities, where everybody is under somebody else's
immediate influence. Public opinion is all powerful; and say what you
will, it controls even the jurymen in their deliberations."

"That is true," said the marchioness: "that is but too true."

"Therefore, madame, you must summon all your energy, conceal your
maternal anxiety in your innermost heart, dry your tears, and show
nothing but the most perfect confidence. Let everybody say, as he sees
you, 'No mother could look so who thinks her son guilty.'"

The marchioness straightened herself, and said,--

"You are right, sir; and I thank you. I must try to impress public
opinion as you say; and, so far from wishing to find the station
deserted, I shall be delighted to see it full of people. I will show you
what a woman can do who thinks of her son's life."

The Marchioness of Boiscoran was a woman of rare power.

Drawing her comb from her dressing-case, she repaired the disorder of
her coiffure; with a few skilful strokes she smoothed her dress; her
features, by a supreme effort of will, resumed their usual serenity; she
forced her lips to smile without betraying the effort it cost her; and
then she said in a clear, firm voice,--

"Look at me, sir. Can I show myself now?"

The train stopped at the station. Manuel Folgat jumped out lightly; and,
offering the marchioness his hand to assist her, he said,--

"You will be pleased with yourself, madam. Your courage will not be
useless. All Sauveterre seems to be here."

This was more than half true. Ever since the night before, a report had
been current,--no one knew how it had started,--that the "murderer's
mother," as they charitably called her, would arrive by the nine o'clock
train; and everybody had determined to happen to be at the station at