M. Folgat had not uttered a word; but his pallor betrayed his emotions.

“You will understand, gentlemen,” Blangin went on, “that I did not feel quite reassured.  It is a bad cell that in which M. de Boiscoran is staying.  Since I have been at Sauveterre, one man has killed himself in it, and one man has tried to commit suicide.  So I called Trumence, a poor vagrant who assists me in the jail; and we arranged it that one of us would always be on guard, never losing the prisoner out of sight for a moment.  But it was a useless precaution.  At night, when they carried M. de Boiscoran his supper, he was perfectly calm; and he even said he would try to eat something to keep his strength.  Poor man!  If he has no other strength than what his meal would give him, he won’t go far.  He had not swallowed four mouthfuls, when he was almost smothered; and Trumence and I at one time thought he would die on our hands:  I almost thought it might be fortunate.  However, about nine o’clock he was a little better; and he remained all night long at his window.”

M. Magloire could stand it no longer.

“Let us go up,” he said to his colleague.

They went up.  But, as they entered the passage, they noticed Trumence, who was making signs to them to step lightly.

“What is the matter?” they asked in an undertone.

“I believe he is asleep,” replied the prisoner.  “Poor man!  Who knows but he dreams he is free, and in his beautiful chateau?”

M. Folgat went on tiptoe to the wicket.  But Jacques had waked up.  He had heard steps and voices, and he had just risen.  Blangin, therefore, opened the door; and at once M. Magloire said the prisoner,—­

“I bring you reenforcements,—­M.  Folgat, my colleague, who has come down from Paris, with your mother.”

Coolly, and without saying a word, M. de Boiscoran bowed.

“I see you are angry with me,” continued M. Magloire.  “I was too quick yesterday, much too quick.”

Jacques shook his head, and said in an icy tone,—­

“I was angry; but I have reflected since, and now I thank you for your candor.  At least, I know my fate.  Innocent though I be, if I go into court, I shall be condemned as an incendiary and a murderer.  I shall prefer not going into court at all.”

“Poor man!  But all hope is not lost.”

“Yes.  Who would believe me, if you, my friend, cannot believe me?”

“I would,” said M. Folgat promptly, “I, who, without knowing you, from the beginning believed in your innocence,—­I who, now that I have seen you, adhere to my conviction.”

Quicker than thought, M. de Boiscoran had seized the young advocate’s hand, and, pressing it convulsively, said,—­

“Thanks, oh, thanks for that word alone!  I bless you, sir, for the faith you have in me!”

This was the first time that the unfortunate man, since his arrest, felt a ray of hope.  Alas! it passed in a second.  His eye became dim again; his brow clouded over; and he said in a hoarse voice,—­