“Yes, they are right; but what am I to say?”
He was thinking it over almost painfully, when a maid came in, and told him that Miss Dionysia wanted to see him.
“I am coming,” he said.
And he followed her with heavy steps, and trying to compose his features so as to efface all traces of the terrible emotions through which he had passed. The two aunts had taken Dionysia and the marchioness to the parlor in the upper story. Here M. de Chandore found them all assembled,—the marchioness, pale and overcome, extended in an easy-chair; but Dionysia, walking up and down with burning cheeks and blazing eyes. As soon as he entered, she asked him in a sharp, sad voice,—
“Well? There is no hope, I suppose.”
“More hope than ever, on the contrary,” he replied, trying to smile.
“Then why did M. De Magloire send us all out?”
The old gentleman had had time to prepare a fib.
“Because M. Magloire had to tell us a piece of bad news. There is no chance of no true bill being found. Jacques will have to appear in court.”
The marchioness jumped up like a piece of mechanism, and cried,—