It must be borne in mind, however, that public opinion was running strongly against M. de Boiscoran.  If there had been nothing against him but the fire at Valpinson, and the attempts upon Count Claudieuse, that would have been a small matter.  But the fire had had terrible consequences.  Two men had perished in it; and two others had been so severely wounded as to put their lives in jeopardy.  Only the evening before, a sad procession had passed through the streets of Sauveterre.  In a cart covered with a cloth, and followed by two priests, the almost carbonized remains of Bolton the drummer, and of poor Guillebault, had been brought home.  The whole city had seen the widow go to the mayor’s office, holding in her arms her youngest child, while the four others clung to her dress.

All these misfortunes were traced back to Jacques, who was loaded with curses; and the people now thought of receiving his mother, the marchioness, with fierce hootings.

“There she is, there she is!” they said in the crowd, when she appeared in the station, leaning upon M. Folgat’s arm.

But they did not say another word, so great was their surprise at her appearance.  Immediately two parties were formed.  “She puts a bold face on it,” said some; while others declared, “She is quite sure of her son’s innocence.”

At all events, she had presence of mind enough to see what an impression she produced, and how well she had done to follow M. Folgat’s advice.  It gave her additional strength.  As she distinguished in the crowd some people whom she knew, she went up to them, and, smiling, said,—­

“Well, you know what has happened to us.  It is unheard of!  Here is the liberty of a man like my son at the mercy of the first foolish notion that enters the head of a magistrate.  I heard the news yesterday by telegram, and came down at once with this gentleman, a friend of ours, and one of the first lawyers of Paris.”

M. Folgat looked embarrassed:  he would have liked more considerate words.  Still he could not help supporting the marchioness in what she had said.

“These gentlemen of the court,” he said in measured tones, “will perhaps be sorry for what they have done.”

Fortunately a young man, whose whole livery consisted in a gold-laced cap, came up to them at this moment.

“M. de Chandore’s carriage is here,” he said.

“Very well,” replied the marchioness.

And bowing to the good people of Sauveterre, who were quite dumfounded by her assurance, she said,—­

“Pardon me if I leave you so soon; but M. de Chandore expects us.  I shall, however, be happy to call upon you soon, on my son’s arm.”

The house of the Chandore family stands on the other side of the New-Market Place, at the very top of the street, which is hardly more than a line of steps, which the mayor persistently calls upon the municipal council to grade, and which the latter as persistently refuse to improve.  The building is quite new, massive but ugly, and has at the side a pretentious little tower with a peaked roof, which Dr. Seignebos calls a perpetual menace of the feudal system.