M. Folgat’s expression was very encouraging.
“Ah!” he said, “if M. de Margeril could give us a lift! But he is not easily approached.”
“We might send Boiscoran to see him, at least. Since he remained in Paris for the purpose of assisting us there, now he will have an opportunity. I will write to him to-night.”
Since the name of Margeril had been mentioned, the marchioness had become, if possible, paler than ever. At the old gentleman’s last words she rose, and said anxiously,—
“Do not write, sir: it would be useless. I do not wish it.”
Her embarrassment was so evident, that the others were quite surprised.
“Have Boiscoran and M. de Margeril had any difficulty?” asked M. de Chandore.
“Yes.”
“But,” cried Dionysia, “it is a matter of life and death for Jacques.”
Alas! The poor woman could not speak of the suspicions which had darkened the whole life of the Marquis de Boiscoran, nor of the cruel penalty which the wife was now called upon to pay for a slight imprudence.