“Well, are we going down now?” asked the jailer.
But Jacques made no reply.
He had most ardently hoped for his mother’s visit; and now, when he was about to see her, he felt assailed by all kinds of vague and sombre apprehensions. The last time he had kissed her was in Paris, in the beautiful parlor of their family mansion. He had left her, his heart swelling with hopes and joy, to go to his Dionysia; and his mother, he remembered distinctly, had said to him, “I shall not see you again till the day before the wedding.”
And now she was to see him again, in the parlor of a jail, accused of an abominable crime. And perhaps she was doubtful of his innocence.
“Sir, the marchioness is waiting for you,” said the jailer once more. At the man’s voice, Jacques trembled.
“I am ready,” he replied: “let us go!” And, while descending the stairs, he tried his best to compose his features, and to arm himself with courage and calmness.
“For,” he said, “She must not become aware of it, how horrible my position is.”
At the foot of the steps, Blangin pointed at a door, and said,—
“That is the parlor. When the marchioness wants to go, please call me.”
On the threshold, Jacques paused once more.