“Why so?” asked Manuel Folgat.

“Because I do not want all the world to see my grief and my tears.”

The young lawyer shook his head, and said,—­

“You will certainly not do that, madame, if you are disposed to follow my advice.”

She looked at him quite amazed; but he insisted.

“I mean you must not look as if you wished not to be seen:  that would be a great, almost irreparable mistake.  What would they think if they saw you in tears and great distress?  They would say you were sure of your son’s guilt; and the few who may still doubt will doubt no longer.  You must control public opinion from the beginning; for it is absolute in these small communities, where everybody is under somebody else’s immediate influence.  Public opinion is all powerful; and say what you will, it controls even the jurymen in their deliberations.”

“That is true,” said the marchioness:  “that is but too true.”

“Therefore, madame, you must summon all your energy, conceal your maternal anxiety in your innermost heart, dry your tears, and show nothing but the most perfect confidence.  Let everybody say, as he sees you, ‘No mother could look so who thinks her son guilty.’”

The marchioness straightened herself, and said,—­

“You are right, sir; and I thank you.  I must try to impress public opinion as you say; and, so far from wishing to find the station deserted, I shall be delighted to see it full of people.  I will show you what a woman can do who thinks of her son’s life.”

The Marchioness of Boiscoran was a woman of rare power.

Drawing her comb from her dressing-case, she repaired the disorder of her coiffure; with a few skilful strokes she smoothed her dress; her features, by a supreme effort of will, resumed their usual serenity; she forced her lips to smile without betraying the effort it cost her; and then she said in a clear, firm voice,—­

“Look at me, sir.  Can I show myself now?”

The train stopped at the station.  Manuel Folgat jumped out lightly; and, offering the marchioness his hand to assist her, he said,—­

“You will be pleased with yourself, madam.  Your courage will not be useless.  All Sauveterre seems to be here.”

This was more than half true.  Ever since the night before, a report had been current,—­no one knew how it had started,—­that the “murderer’s mother,” as they charitably called her, would arrive by the nine o’clock train; and everybody had determined to happen to be at the station at that hour.  In a place where gossip lives for three days upon the last new dress from Paris, such an opportunity for a little excitement was not to be neglected.  No one thought for a moment of what the poor old lady would probably feel upon being compelled thus to face a whole town; for at Sauveterre curiosity has at least the merit, that it is not hypocritical.  Everybody is openly indiscreet, and by no means ashamed of it.  They place themselves right in front of you, and look at you, and try to find out the secret of your joy or your grief.