“And here I am,” replied the old lady, “not less certain of my son’s innocence than you are.”
Evidently M. de Chandore had been hoping for something more; for he interrupted her, asking,—
“And the marquis?”
“My husband remained in Paris.”
The old gentleman’s face assumed a curious expression.
“Ah, that is just like him,” he said. “Nothing can move him. His only son is wickedly accused of a crime, arrested, thrown into prison. They write to him; they hope he will come at once. By no means. Let his son get out of trouble as he can. He has his faiences to attend to. Oh, if I had a son!”
“My husband,” pleaded the marchioness, “thinks he can be more useful to Jacques in Paris than here. There will be much to be done there.”
“Have we not the railway?”
“Moreover,” she went on, “he intrusted me to this gentleman.” She pointed out M. Folgat.
“M. Manuel Folgat, who has promised us the assistance of his experience, his talents, and his devotion.”