In spite of his own great trouble, Jacques had not been able to avoid seeing his father’s unusual excitement and his sudden vehemence. For a second, he had a vague perception of the truth; but, before the suspicion could assume any shape, it had vanished before this promise which his father made, to face by his side the overwhelming humiliation of a judgment in court,—a promise full of divine self-abnegation and paternal love. His gratitude burst forth in the words,—
“Ah, father! I ought to ask your pardon for ever having doubted your heart for a moment.”
M. de Boiscoran tried his best to recover his self-possession. At last he said in an earnest voice,—
“Yes, I love you, my son; and still you must not make me out more of a hero than I am. I still hope we may be spared the appearance in court.”
“Has any thing new been discovered?”
“M. Folgat has found some traces which justify legitimate hopes, although, as yet, no real success has been achieved.”
Jacques looked rather discouraged.
“Traces?” he asked.
“Be patient. They are feeble traces, I admit, and such as could not be produced in court; but from day to day they may become decisive. And already they have had one good effect: they have brought us back M. Magloire.”
“O God! Could I really be saved?”