As to the English servant-girl who had for three years attended to his house in Vine Street, Jacques had taken her blindly, upon the recommendation of an agency in the suburbs; and he had had nothing to do with her, except to pay her her wages, and, occasionally, some little gratuity besides.  All he could say, and even that he had learned by mere chance, was, that the girl’s name was Suky Wood; that she was a native of Folkstone, where her parents kept a sailor’s tavern; and that, before coming to France, she had been a chambermaid at the Adelphi in Liverpool.

M. Folgat took careful notes of all he could learn.  Then he said,—­

“This is more than enough to begin the campaign.  Now you must give me the name and address of your tradesmen in Passy.”

“You will find a list in a small pocket-book which is in the same drawer with the keys.  In the same drawer are also all the deeds and other papers concerning the house.  Finally, you might take Anthony with you:  he is devoted to me.”

“I shall certainly take him, if you permit me,” replied the lawyer.  Then putting up his notes, he added,—­

“I shall not be absent more than three or four days; and, as soon as I return, we will draw up our plan of defence.  Till then, my dear client, keep up your courage.”

They called Blangin to open the door for them; and, after having shaken hands with Jacques de Boiscoran, M. Folgat and M. Magloire went away.

“Well, are we going down now?” asked the jailer.

But Jacques made no reply.

He had most ardently hoped for his mother’s visit; and now, when he was about to see her, he felt assailed by all kinds of vague and sombre apprehensions.  The last time he had kissed her was in Paris, in the beautiful parlor of their family mansion.  He had left her, his heart swelling with hopes and joy, to go to his Dionysia; and his mother, he remembered distinctly, had said to him, “I shall not see you again till the day before the wedding.”

And now she was to see him again, in the parlor of a jail, accused of an abominable crime.  And perhaps she was doubtful of his innocence.

“Sir, the marchioness is waiting for you,” said the jailer once more.  At the man’s voice, Jacques trembled.

“I am ready,” he replied:  “let us go!” And, while descending the stairs, he tried his best to compose his features, and to arm himself with courage and calmness.

“For,” he said, “She must not become aware of it, how horrible my position is.”

At the foot of the steps, Blangin pointed at a door, and said,—­

“That is the parlor.  When the marchioness wants to go, please call me.”

On the threshold, Jacques paused once more.

The parlor of the jail at Sauveterre is an immense vaulted hall, lighted up by two narrow windows with close, heavy iron gratings.  There is no furniture save a coarse bench fastened to the damp, untidy wall; and on this bench, in the full light of the sun, sat, or rather lay, apparently bereft of all strength, the Marchioness of Boiscoran.