“Well, he has escaped.”

“Ah, the scamp!”

“And we must find him again.  They have put the gendarmes on his track; but will they catch him?”

Michael burst out laughing.

“Never in his life!” he said.  “Trumence will make his way to Oleron, where he has friends; the gendarmes will be after him in vain.”

M. Folgat slapped Michael amicably on the shoulder, and said,—­

“But you, if you choose?  Oh! do not look angry at me.  We do not want to have him arrested.  All I want you to do is to hand him a letter from me, and to bring me back his answer.”

“If that is all, then I am your man.  Just give me time to change my clothes, and to let father know, and I am off.”

Thus M. Folgat began, as far as in him lay, to prepare for future action, trying to counteract all the cunning measures of the prosecution by such combinations as were suggested to him by his experience and his genius.

Did it follow from this, that his faith in ultimate success was strong enough to make him speak of it to his most reliable friends, even, say to Dr. Seignebos, to M. Magloire, or to good M. Mechinet?

No; for, bearing all the responsibility on his own shoulders, he had carefully weighed the contrary chances of the terrible game in which he proposed to engage, and in which the stakes were the honor and the life of a man.  He knew, better than anybody else, that a mere nothing might destroy all his plans, and that Jacques’s fate was dependent on the most trivial accident.

Like a great general on the eve of a battle, he managed to control his feelings, affecting, for the benefit of others, a confidence which he did not really feel, and allowing no feature of his face to betray the great anxiety which generally kept him awake more than half the night.

And certainly it required a character of marvellous strength to remain impassive and resolute under such circumstances.

Everybody around him was in despair, and gave up all hope.

The house of M. de Chandore, once so full of life and merriment, had become as silent and sombre as a tomb.

The last two months had made of M. de Chandore an old man in good earnest.  His tall figure had begun to stoop, and he looked bent and broken.  He walked with difficulty, and his hands began to tremble.

The Marquis de Boiscoran had been hit even harder.  He, who only a few weeks before looked robust and hearty, now appeared almost decrepit.  He did not eat, so to say, and did not sleep.  He became frightfully thin.  It gave him pain to utter a word.

As to the marchioness, the very sources of life seemed to have been sapped within her.  She had had to hear M. Magloire say that Jacques’s safety would have been put beyond all doubt if they had succeeded in obtaining a change of venue, or an adjournment of the trial.  And it was her fault that such a change had not been applied for.  That thought was death to her.  She had hardly strength enough left to drag herself every day as far as the jail to see her son.