In less than an hour, the eminent advocate of Sauveterre arrived; and when Jacques’s letter had been handed to him, he said with some embarrassment,—­

“I have promised M. de Boiscoran my assistance, and he shall certainly have it.  I shall be at the prison to-morrow morning as soon as the doors open, and I will tell you the result of our interview.”

He would say nothing more.  It was very evident that he did not believe in the innocence of his client, and, as soon as he had left, M. de Chandore exclaimed,—­

“Jacques is mad to intrust his defence to a man who doubts him.”

“M.  Magloire is an honorable man, papa,” said Dionysia; “and, if he thought he could compromise Jacques, he would resign.”

Yes, indeed, M. Magloire was an honorable man, and quite accessible to tender sentiments; for he felt very reluctant to go and see the prisoner, charged as he was with an odious crime, and, as he thought, justly charged,—­a man who had been his friend, and whom, in spite of all, he could not help loving still.

He could not sleep for it that night; and noticed his anxious air as he crossed the street next morning on his way to the jail.  Blangin the keeper was on the lookout for him, and cried,—­

“Ah, come quick, sir!  The accused is devoured with impatience.”

Slowly, and his heart beating furiously, the famous advocate went up the narrow stairs.  He crossed the long passage; Blangin opened a door; he was in Jacques de Boiscoran’s cell.

“At last you are coming,” exclaimed the unhappy young man, throwing himself on the lawyer’s neck.  “At last I see an honest face, and hold a trusty hand.  Ah!  I have suffered cruelly, so cruelly, that I am surprised my mind has not given way.  But now you are here, you are by my side, I am safe.”

The lawyer could not speak.  He was terrified by the havoc which grief had made of the noble and intelligent face of his friend.  He was shocked at the distortion of his features, the unnatural brilliancy of his eyes, and the convulsive laugh on his lips.

“Poor man!” he murmured at last.

Jacques misunderstood him:  he stepped back, as white as the walls of his cell.

“You do not think me guilty?” he exclaimed.

An inexpressibly sad expression convulsed his features.

“To be sure,” he went on with his terrible convulsive laughter, “the charges must be overwhelming indeed, if they have convinced my best friends.  Alas! why did I refuse to speak that first day?  My honor!—­what a phantom!  And still, victimized as I am by an infamous conspiracy, I should still refuse to speak, if my life alone were at stake.  But my honor is at stake.  Dionysia’s honor, the honor of the Boiscorans.  I shall speak.  You, M. Magloire, shall know the truth, you shall see my innocence in a word.”

And, seizing M. Magloire’s hand, he pressed it almost painfully, as he added in a hoarse voice,—­