“You do not let me finish. Our son is the victim of unparalleled coincidences.”
“Of course! Unparalleled coincidences! That is what every one of the thousand or two thousand rascals say who are sentenced every year. Do you think they confess? Not they! Ask them, and they will prove to you that they are the victims of fate, of some dark plot, and, finally, of an error of judgment. As if justice could err in these days of ours, after all these preliminary examinations, long inquiries, and careful investigations.”
“You will see M. Folgat. He will tell you what hope there is.”
“And if all hope fails?”
The marchioness hung her head.
“All would not be lost yet. But then we should have to endure the pain of seeing our son brought up in court.”
The tall figure of the old gentleman had once more risen to its full height; his face grew red; and the most appalling wrath flashed from his eyes.
“Jacques brought up in court?” he cried, with a formidable voice. “And you come and tell me that coolly, as if it were a very simple and quite natural matter! And what will happen then, if he is in court? He will be condemned; and a Boiscoran will go to the galleys. But no, that cannot be! I do not say that a Boiscoran may not commit a crime, passion makes us do strange things; but a Boiscoran, when he regains his senses, knows what becomes him to do. Blood washes out all stains. Jacques prefers the executioner; he waits; he is cunning; he means to plead. If he but save his head, he is quite content. A few years at hard labor, I suppose, will be a trifle to him. And that coward should be a Boiscoran: my blood should flow in his veins! Come, come, madam, Jacques is no son of mine.”
Crushed as the marchioness had seemed to be till now, she rose under this atrocious insult.
“Sir!” she cried.