He came up to her, took her hands in his, and said,—­

“Ah, it is so kind in you to come! and yet I have looked for you ever since the morning.  I have been watching and waiting, and trembling at every noise.  But will you ever forgive me for having made you come to a place like this, untidy and ugly, without the fatal poetry of horror even?”

She looked at him with such obstinate fixedness, that the words expired on his lips.

“Why will you tell me a falsehood?” she said sadly.

“I tell you a falsehood!”

“Yes.  Why do you affect this gayety and tranquillity, which are so far from your heart?  Have you no longer confidence in me?  Do you think I am a child, from whom the truth must be concealed, or so feeble and good for nothing, that I cannot bear my share of your troubles?  Do not smile, Jacques; for I know you have no hope.”

“You are mistaken, Dionysia, I assure you.”

“No, Jacques.  They are concealing something from me, I know, and I do not ask you to tell me what it is.  I know quite enough.  You will have to appear in court.”

“I beg your pardon.  That question has not yet been decided.”

“But it will be decided, and against you.”

Jacques knew very well it would be so, and dreaded it; but he still insisted upon playing his part.

“Well,” he said, “if I appear in court, I shall be acquitted.”

“Are you quite sure of that?”

“I have ninety-nine chances out of a hundred for me.”

“There is one, however, against you,” cried the young girl.  And seizing Jacques’s hands, and pressing them with a force of which he would never have suspected her, she added,—­

“You have no right to run that one chance.”

Jacques trembled in all his limbs.  Was it possible?  Did he understand her?  Did Dionysia herself come and suggest to him that act of supreme despair, from which his counsel had so strongly dissuaded him?

“What do you mean?” he said with trembling voice.

“You must escape.”

“Escape?”

“Nothing so easy.  I have considered the whole matter thoroughly.  The jailers are in our pay.  I have just come to an understanding with Blangin’s wife.  One evening, as soon as night falls, they will open the doors to you.  A horse will be ready for you outside of town, and relays have been prepared.  In four hours you can reach Rochelle.  There, one of those pilot-boats which can stand any storm takes you on board, and carries you to England.”

Jacques shook his head.

“That cannot be,” he replied.  “I am innocent.  I cannot abandon all I hold dear,—­you, Dionysia.”

A deep flush covered the young girl’s cheeks.  She stammered,—­

“I have expressed myself badly.  You shall not go alone.”

He raised his hands to heaven, as if in utter despair.

“Great God!  Thou grantest me this consolation!”