Dionysia looked threatening, and said sharply,—
“Your orders cannot apply to this lady, who is the Marchioness de Boiscoran.”
“My orders apply to everybody, madam.”
“You would not, I am sure, keep a poor, distressed mother from seeing her son!”
“Ah! but—madam—it does not rest with me. I? Who am I? Nothing more than one of the bolts, drawn or pushed at will.”
For the first time, it entered the poor girl’s head that her effort might fail: still she tried once more, with tears in her eyes,—
“But I, my dear M. Blangin, think of me! You would not refuse me? Don’t you know who I am? Have you never heard your wife speak of me?”
The jailer was certainly touched. He replied,—
“I know how much my wife and myself are indebted to your kindness, madam. But—I have my orders, and you surely would not want me to lose my place, madam?”
“If you lose your place, M. Blangin, I, Dionysia de Chandore, promise you another place twice as good.”