“Is he any better?”

“Not at all!  Unless a special miracle should be performed in his behalf, he will leave the court-house only feet forward, and that in twenty-four hours.  I have not concealed it from the countess; and I have told her, that, if she wishes her husband to die in peace with Heaven, she has but just time to send for a priest.”

“And has she sent for one?”

“Not at all!  She told me her husband would be terrified by the appearance of a priest, and that would hasten his end.  Even when the good priest from Brechy came of his own accord, she sent him off unceremoniously.”

“Ah the miserable woman!” cried Dionysia.

And, after a moment’s reflection, she added,—­

“And yet that may be our salvation.  Yes, certainly.  Why should I hesitate?  Wait for me here:  I am coming back.”

She hurried out.  Her grandpapa was about to follow her; but M. Folgat stopped him.

“Let her do it,” he said,—­“let her do it!”

It had just struck ten o’clock.  The court-house, just now as full and as noisy as a bee-hive, was silent and deserted.  In the immense hall, badly lighted by a smoking lamp, there were only two men to be seen.  One was the priest from Brechy, who was praying on his knees close to a door; and the other was the watchman, who was slowly walking up and down, and whose steps resounded there as in a church.

Dionysia went straight up to the latter.

“Where is Count Claudieuse?” she asked.

“There, madam,” replied the man, pointing at the door before which the priest was praying,—­“there, in the private office of the commonwealth attorney.”

“Who is with him?”

“His wife, madam, and a servant.”

“Well, go in and tell the Countess Claudieuse,—­but so that her husband does not hear you,—­that Miss Chandore desires to see her a few moments.”

The watchman made no objection, and went in.  But, when he came back, he said to the young girl,—­

“Madam, the countess sends word that she cannot leave her husband, who is very low.”

She stopped him by an impatient gesture, and said,—­

“Never mind!  Go back and tell the countess, that, if she does not come out, I shall go in this moment; that, if it must be, I shall force my way in; that I shall call for help; that nothing will keep me.  I must absolutely see her.”

“But, madam”—­

“Go!  Don’t you see that it is a question of life and death?”

There was such authority in her voice, that the watchman no longer hesitated.  He went in once more, and reappeared a moment after.

“Go in,” he said to the young girl.

She went in, and found herself in a little anteroom which preceded the office of the commonwealth attorney.  A large lamp illuminated the room.  The door leading to the room in which the count was lying was closed.

In the centre of the room stood the Countess Claudieuse.  All these successive blows had not broken her indomitable energy.  She looked pale, but calm.