When Jacques saw her, he could hardly suppress a cry of horror and grief.  Was that really his mother,—­that thin old lady with the sallow complexion, the red eyes, and trembling hands?

“O God, O God!” he murmured.

She heard him, for she raised her head; and, when she recognized him, she wanted to rise; but her strength forsook her, and she sank back upon the bench, crying,—­

“O Jacques, my child!”

She, also, was terrified when she saw what two months of anguish and sleeplessness had done for Jacques.  But he was kneeling at her feet upon the muddy pavement, and said in a barely intelligible voice,—­

“Can you pardon me the great grief I cause you?”

She looked at him for a moment with a bewildered air; and then, all of a sudden, she took his head in her two hands, kissed him with passionate vehemence, and said,—­

“Will I pardon you?  Alas, what have I to pardon?  If you were guilty, I should love you still; and you are innocent.”

Jacques breathed more freely.  In his mother’s voice he felt that she, at least, was sure of him.

“And father?” he asked.

There was a faint blush on the pale cheeks of the marchioness.

“I shall see him to-morrow,” she replied; “for I leave to-night with M. Folgat.”

“What!  In this state of weakness?”

“I must.”

“Could not father leave his collections for a few days?  Why did he not come down?  Does he think I am guilty?”

“No; it is just because he is so sure of your innocence, that he remains in Paris.  He does not believe you in danger.  He insists upon it that justice cannot err.”

“I hope so,” said Jacques with a forced smile.

Then changing his tone,—­

“And Dionysia?  Why did she not come with you?”

“Because I would not have it.  She knows nothing.  It has been agreed upon that the name of the Countess Claudieuse is not to be mentioned in her presence; and I wanted to speak to you about that abominable woman.  Jacques, my poor child, where has that unlucky passion brought you!”

He made no reply.

“Did you love her?” asked the marchioness.

“I thought I did.”

“And she?”

“Oh, she!  God alone knows the secret of that strange heart.”

“There is nothing to hope from her, then, no pity, no remorse?”

“Nothing.  I have given her up.  She has had her revenge.  She had forewarned me.”

The marchioness sighed.

“I thought so,” she said.  “Last Sunday, when I knew as yet of nothing, I happened to be close to her at church, and unconsciously admired her profound devotion, the purity of her eye, and the nobility of her manner.  Yesterday, when I heard the truth, I shuddered.  I felt how formidable a woman must be who can affect such calmness at a time when her lover lies in prison accused of the crime which she has committed.”