Overwhelmed by his grief, the old man staggered and sank into a chair, as an old oak, cut by the woodman’s axe, trembles and falls.
“Ah, this is fearful!” murmured Dionysia. “What you say, grandpapa, is too fearful. How can you doubt me?”
She had knelt down. She was weeping; and her hot tears fell upon the old gentleman’s hands. He started up as he felt them on his icy-cold hand; and, making one more effort, he said,—
“Poor, poor child! And suppose Jacques is guilty, and, when he sees you, confesses his crime, what then?”
Dionysia shook her head.
“That is impossible,” she said; “and still, even if it were so, I ought to be punished as much as he is; for I know, if he had asked me, I should have acted in concert with him.”
“She is mad!” exclaimed M. de Chandore, falling back into his chair. “She is mad!”
But he was overcome; and the next day, at five in the afternoon, his heart torn by unspeakable grief, he went down the steep street with his daughter on his arm. Dionysia had chosen her simplest and plainest dress; and the little bag she carried on her arm contained not sixteen but twenty thousand francs. As a matter of course, it had been necessary to take the marchioness into their confidence; but neither she, nor the Misses Lavarande, nor M. Folgat, had raised an objection. Down to the prison, grandfather and grandchild had not exchanged a word; but, when they reached it, Dionysia said,—
“I see Mrs. Blangin at the door: let us be careful.”
They came nearer. Mrs. Blangin saluted them.