"But I did not come here to discuss this question; I came to tell you, that, whatever may happen, your father will stand by you, and that, if you must undergo the disgrace of appearing in court, I will take a seat by your side."

In spite of his own great trouble, Jacques had not been able to avoid seeing his father's unusual excitement and his sudden vehemence. For a second, he had a vague perception of the truth; but, before the suspicion could a.s.sume any shape, it had vanished before this promise which his father made, to face by his side the overwhelming humiliation of a judgment in court,--a promise full of divine self-abnegation and paternal love. His grat.i.tude burst forth in the words,--

"Ah, father! I ought to ask your pardon for ever having doubted your heart for a moment."

M. de Boiscoran tried his best to recover his self-possession. At last he said in an earnest voice,--

"Yes, I love you, my son; and still you must not make me out more of a hero than I am. I still hope we may be spared the appearance in court."

"Has any thing new been discovered?"

"M. Folgat has found some traces which justify legitimate hopes, although, as yet, no real success has been achieved."

Jacques looked rather discouraged.

"Traces?" he asked.

"Be patient. They are feeble traces, I admit, and such as could not be produced in court; but from day to day they may become decisive. And already they have had one good effect: they have brought us back M.

Magloire."

"O G.o.d! Could I really be saved?"

"I shall leave to M. Folgat," continued the marquis, "the satisfaction of telling you the result of his efforts. He can explain their bearing better than I could. And you will not have long to wait; for last night, or rather this morning, when we separated, he and M. Magloire agreed to meet here at the prison, before two o'clock."

A few minutes later a rapid step approached in the pa.s.sage; and Trumence appeared, the prisoner of whom Blangin had made an a.s.sistant, and whom Mechinet had employed to carry Jacques's letters to Dionysia. He was a tall well-made man of twenty-five or six years, whose large mouth and small eyes were perpetually laughing. A vagabond without hearth or home, Trumence had once been a land-owner. At the death of his parents, when he was only eighteen years old, Trumence had come into possession of a house surrounded by a yard, a garden, several acres of land, and a salt meadow; all worth about fifteen thousand francs. Unfortunately the time for the conscription was near. Like many young men of that district, Trumence believed in witchcraft, and had gone to buy a charm, which cost him fifty francs. It consisted of three tamarind-branches gathered on Christmas Eve, and tied together by a magic number of hairs drawn from a dead man's head. Having sewed this charm into his waistcoat, Trumence had gone to town, and, plunging his hand boldly into the urn, had drawn number three. This was unexpected. But as he had a great horror of military service, and, well-made as he was, felt quite sure that he would not be rejected, he determined to employ a chance much more certain to succeed; namely, to borrow money in order to buy a subst.i.tute.

As he was a land-owner, he found no difficulty in meeting with an obliging person, who consented to lend him for two years thirty-five hundred francs, in return for a first mortgage on his property. When the papers were signed, and Trumence had the money in his pocket, he set out for Rochefort, where dealers in subst.i.tutes abounded; and for the sum of two thousand francs, exclusive of some smaller items, they furnished him a subst.i.tute of the best quality.

Delighted with the operation, Trumence was about to return home, when his evil star led him to sup at his inn with a countryman, a former schoolmate, who was now a sailor on board a coal-barge. Of course, countrymen when they meet must drink. They did drink; and, as the sailor very soon scented the twelve hundred francs which remained in Trumence's pockets, he swore that he was going to have a jolly time, and would not return on board his barge as long as there remained a cent in his friend's pocket. So it happened, that, after a fortnight's carouse, the sailor was arrested and put in jail; and Trumence was compelled to borrow five francs from the stage-driver to enable him to get home.

This fortnight was decisive for his life. During these days he had lost all taste for work, and acquired a real pa.s.sion for taverns where they played with greasy cards. After his return he tried to continue this jolly life; and, to do so, he made more debts. He sold, piece after piece, all he possessed that was salable, down to his mattress and his tools. This was not the way to repay the thirty-five hundred francs which he owed. When pay-day came, the creditor, seeing that his security was diminishing every day, lost no time. Before Trumence was well aware of what was going on, an execution was in the house; his lands were sold; and one fine day he found himself in the street, possessing literally nothing in the world but the wretched clothes on his back.

He might easily have found employment; for he was a good workman, and people were fond of him in spite of all. But he was even more afraid of work than he was fond of drink. Whenever want pressed too hard, he worked a few days; but, as soon as he had earned ten francs, good-by!

Off he went, lounging by the road-side, talking with the wagoners, or loafing about the villages, and watching for one of those kind topers, who, rather than drink alone, invite the first-comer. Trumence boasted of being well known all along the coast, and even far into the department. And what was most surprising was that people did not blame him much for his idleness. Good housewives in the country would, it is true, greet him with a "Well, what do you want here, good-for-nothing?"

But they would rarely refuse him a bowl of soup or a gla.s.s of white wine. His unchanging good-humor, and his obliging disposition, explained this forbearance. This man, who would refuse a well-paid job, was ever ready to lend a hand for nothing. And he was handy at every thing, by land and by water, he called it, so that the farmer whose business was pressing, and the fisherman in his boat who wanted help, appealed alike to Trumence.

The mischief, however, is, that this life of rural beggary, if it has its good days, also has its evil times. On certain days, Trumence could not find either kind-hearted topers or hospitable housewives. Hunger, however, was ever on hand; then he had to become a marauder; dig some potatoes, and cook them in a corner of a wood, or pilfer the orchards.

And if he found neither potatoes in the fields, nor apples in the orchards, what could he do but climb a fence, or scale a wall?

Relatively speaking, Trumence was an honest man, and incapable of stealing a piece of money; but vegetables, fruits, chickens--

Thus it had come about that he had been arrested twice, and condemned to several days' imprisonment; and each time he had vowed solemnly that he would never be caught at it again, and that he was going to work hard.

And yet he had been caught again.

The poor fellow had told his misfortunes to Jacques; and Jacques, who owed it to him that he could, when still in close confinement, correspond with Dionysia, felt very kindly towards him. Hence, when he saw him come up very respectful, and cap in hand, he asked,--

"What is it, Trumence?"

"Sir," replied the vagrant, "M. Blangin sends you word that the two advocates are coming up to your room."

Once more the marquis embraced his son, saying,--

"Do not keep them waiting, and keep up your courage."

XXIII.

The Marquis de Boiscoran had not been mistaken about M. Magloire. Much shaken by Dionysia's statement, he had been completely overcome by M.

Folgat's explanations; and, when he now came to the jail, it was with a determination to prove Jacques's innocence.

"But I doubt very much whether he will ever forgive me for my incredulity," he said to M. Folgat while they were waiting for the prisoner in his cell.

Jacques came in, still deeply moved by the scene with his father. M.

Magloire went up to him, and said,--

"I have never been able to conceal my thoughts, Jacques. When I thought you guilty, and felt sure that you accused the Countess Claudieuse falsely, I told you so with almost brutal candor. I have since found out my error, and am now convinced of the truth of your statement: so I come and tell you as frankly, Jacques, I was wrong to have had more faith in the reputation of a woman than in the words of a friend. Will you give me your hand?"

The prisoner grasped his hand with a profusion of joy, and cried,--

"Since you believe in my innocence, others may believe in me too, and my salvation is drawing near."

The melancholy faces of the two advocates told him that he was rejoicing too soon. His features expressed his grief; but he said with a firm voice,--

"Well, I see that the struggle will be a hard one, and that the result is still uncertain. Never mind. You may be sure I will not give way."

In the meantime M. Folgat had spread out on the table all the papers he had brought with him,--copies furnished by Mechinet, and notes taken during his rapid journey.

"First of all, my dear client," he said, "I must inform you of what has been done."

And when he had stated every thing, down to the minutest details of what Goudar and he had done, he said,--

"Let us sum up. We are able to prove three things: 1. That the house in Vine Street belongs to you, and that Sir Francis Burnett, who is known there, and you are one; 2. That you were visited in this house by a lady, who, from all the precautions she took, had powerful reasons to remain unknown; 3. That the visits of this lady took place at certain epochs every year, which coincided precisely with the journeys which the Countess Claudieuse yearly made to Paris."

The great advocate of Sauveterre expressed his a.s.sent.

"Yes," he said, "all this is fully established."

"For ourselves, we have another certainty,--that Suky Wood, the servant of the false Sir Francis Burnett, has watched the mysterious lady; that she has seen her, and consequently would know her again."

"True, that appears from the deposition of the girl's friend."

"Consequently, if we discover Suky Wood, the Countess Claudieuse is unmasked."

"If we discover her," said M. Magloire. "And here, unfortunately, we enter into the region of suppositions."

"Suppositions!" said M. Folgat. "Well, call them so; but they are based upon positive facts, and supported by a hundred precedents. Why should we not find this Suky Wood, whose birthplace and family we know, and who has no reason for concealment? Goudar has found very different people; and Goudar is on our side. And you may be sure he will not be asleep.

I have held out to him a certain hope which will make him do miracles,--the hope of receiving as a reward, if he succeeds, the house in Vine Street. The stakes are too magnificent: he must win the game,--he who has won so many already. Who knows what he may not have discovered since we left him? Has he not done wonders already?"