“O God!” he cried, “one such moment pays for years of torture.”
But Dionysia had sworn to herself, as she came, that nothing should turn her aside from her purpose. So she went on,—
“By the sacred memory of my mother, I assure you, Jacques, that I have never for a moment doubted your innocence.”
The unhappy man looked distressed.
“You,” he said; “but the others? But M. de Chandore?”
“Do you think I would be here, if he thought you were guilty? My aunts and your mother are as sure of it as I am.”
“And my father? You said nothing about him in your letter.”
“Your father remained in Paris in case some influence in high quarters should have to be appealed to.”
Jacque shook his head, and said,—
“I am in prison at Sauveterre, accused of a fearful crime, and my father remains in Paris! It must be true that he never really loved me. And yet I have always been a good son to him down to this terrible catastrophe. He has never had to complain of me. No, my father does not love me.”