In the year 1845 he had reached the summit of his renown by a great speech on the question of public meetings; but at that hour his watch seemed to have stopped.  All his ideas were those of an Orleanist.  His appearance, his costume, his high cravat, his whiskers, and the way he brushed his hair, all betrayed the admirer and friend of the citizen king.  But for all that, he did not trouble himself about politics; in fact, he troubled himself about nothing at all.  With the only condition that his inoffensive passion should be respected, the marchioness was allowed to rule supreme in the house, administering her large fortune, ruling her only son, and deciding all questions without the right of appeal.  It was perfectly useless to ask the marquis any thing:  his answer was invariably,—­

“Ask my wife.”

The good man had, the evening before, purchased a little at haphazard, a large lot of faiences, representing scenes of the Revolution; and at about three o’clock, he was busy, magnifying-glass in hand, examining his dishes and plates, when the door was suddenly opened.

The marchioness came in, holding a blue paper in her hand.  Six or seven years younger than her husband, she was the very companion for such an idle, indolent man.  In her walk, in her manner, and in her voice, she showed at once the woman who stands at the wheel, and means to be obeyed.  Her once celebrated beauty had left remarkable traces enough to justify her pretensions.  She denied having any claims to being considered handsome, since it was impossible to deny or conceal the ravages of time, and hence by far her best policy was to accept old age with good grace.  Still, if the marchioness did not grow younger, she pretended to be older than she really was.  She had her gray hair puffed out with considerable affectation, so as to contrast all the more forcibly with her ruddy, blooming cheeks, which a girl might have envied and she often thought of powdering her hair.

She was so painfully excited, and almost undone, when she came into her husband’s cabinet, that even he, who for many a year had made it a rule of his life to show no emotion, was seriously troubled.  Laying aside the dish which he was examining, he said with an anxious voice,—­

“What is the matter?  What has happened?”

“A terrible misfortune.”

“Is Jacques dead?” cried the old collector.

The marchioness shook her head.

“No!  It is something worse, perhaps”—­

The old man, who has risen at the sight of his wife, sank slowly back into his chair.

“Tell me,” he stammered out,—­“tell me.  I have courage.”

She handed him the blue paper which she had brought in, and said slowly,—­

“Here.  A telegram which I have just received from old Anthony, our son’s valet.”

With trembling hands the old marquis unfolded the paper, and read,—­

“Terrible misfortune!  Master Jacques accused of having set the chateau at Valpinson on fire, and murdered Count Claudieuse.  Terrible evidence against him.  When examined, hardly any defence.  Just arrested and carried to jail.  In despair.  What must I do?”