that he did not really think; but he was distressed at having
said it under such circumstances. And yet he felt a kind of relief; for,
to tell the truth, he felt as if the horrible doubts which he had kept
secret so many years had vanished as soon as they were spoken out. When
he saw M. Folgat, he asked in a sadly-changed voice,--

"Well?"

The young advocate repeated in detail the account given by the
marchioness; but he added what the latter had not been able to mention,
because she did not know it, the desperate resolution which Jacques had
formed. At this revelation the marquis looked utterly overcome.

"The unhappy man!" he cried. "And I accused him of--He thought of
killing himself!"

"And we had a great trouble, M. Magloire, and myself," added M. Folgat,
"to overcome his resolution, great trouble to make him understand,
that never, under any circumstances, ought an innocent man to think of
committing suicide."

A big tear rolled down the furrowed cheek of the old gentleman; and he
murmured,--

"Ah! I have been cruelly unjust. Poor, unhappy child!"

Then he added aloud,--

"But I shall see him. I have determined to accompany the marchioness to
Sauveterre. When will you leave?"

"Nothing keeps me here in Paris. I have done all that could be done, and
I might return this evening. But I am really too tired. I think I shall
to-morrow take the train at 10.45."

"If you do so, we shall travel in company; you understand? To-morrow
at ten o'clock at the Orleans station. We shall reach Sauveterre by
midnight."

XX.

When the Marchioness de Boiscoran, on the day of her departure for
Paris, had gone to see her son, Dionysia had asked her to let her go
with her. She resisted, and the young girl did not insist.

"I see they are trying to conceal something from me," she said simply;
"but it does not matter."

And she had taken refuge in the sitting-room; and there, taking her
usual seat, as in the happy days when Jacques spent all his evenings by
her side, she had remained long hours immovable, looking as if, with her
mind's eye, she was following invisible scenes far away.

Grandpapa Chandore and the two aunts were indescribably anxious. They
knew their Dionysia, their darling child, better than she knew herself,
having nursed and watched her for twenty years. They knew every
expression of her face, every gesture, every intonation of voice, and
could almost read her thoughts in her features.

"Most as