XI.
Baron Chandore had had one terrible night in his life, every minute of which he had counted by the ebbing pulse of his only son.
The evening before, the physicians had said,—
“If he lives this night, he may be saved.”
At daybreak he had expired.
Well, the old gentleman had hardly suffered more during that fatal night than he did this night, during which Dionysia was away from the house. He knew very well that Blangin and his wife were honest people, in spite of their avarice and their covetousness; he knew that Jacques de Boiscoran was an honourable man.
But still, during the whole night, his old servant heard him walk up and down his room; and at seven o’clock in the morning he was at the door, looking anxiously up and down the street. Towards half-past seven, M. Folgat came up; but he hardly wished him good-morning, and he certainly did not hear a word of what the lawyer told him to reassure him. At last, however, the old man cried,—
“Ah, there she is!”
He was not mistaken. Dionysia was coming round the corner. She came up to the house in feverish haste, as if she had known that her strength was at an end, and would barely suffice to carry her to the door.
Grandpapa Chandore met her with a kind of fierce joy, pressed her in his arms, and said over and over again,—