“You did not doubt your own child, father?” he asked sadly.
“Never!” cried the marquis, “I never doubted a moment. Ask your mother, and she will tell you that it was this proud assurance I felt which kept me from coming down with her. When I heard of what they accused you, I said ‘It is absurd!’”
Jacques shook his head, and said,—
“The accusation was absurd; and yet you see what it has brought me to.”
Two big tears, which he could no longer retain, burnt in the eyes of the old gentleman.
“You blame me, Jacques,” he said. “You blame your father.”
There is not a man alive who could see his father shed tears, and not feel his heart melt within him. All the resolutions Jacques had formed vanished in an instant. Pressing his father’s hand in his own, he said,—
“No, I do not blame you, father. And still I have no words to tell you how much your absence has added to my sufferings. I thought I was abandoned, disowned.”
For the first time since his imprisonment, the unfortunate man found a heart to whom he could confide all the bitterness that overflowed in his own heart. With his mother and with Dionysia, honor forbade him to show despair. The incredulity of M. Magloire had made all confidence impossible; and M. Folgat, although as sympathetic as man could be was, after all, a perfect stranger.
But now he had near him a friend, the dearest and most precious friend that a man can ever have,—his father: now he had nothing to fear.