Dionysia alone seemed to have preserved the faculty of reasoning and moving. But her face was deep purple; her dry eyes shone with a painful light; and her body shook as with fever. As soon as the two advocates appeared, she cried,—
“And you call this human justice?”
And, as they were silent, she added,—-
“Here is Jacques condemned to penal labor; that is to say, he is judicially dishonored, lost, disgraced, forever cut off from human society. He is innocent; but that does not matter. His best friends will know him no longer: no hand will touch his hand hereafter; and even those who were most proud of his affection will pretend to have forgotten his name.”
“I understand your grief but too well, madam,” said M. Magloire.
“My grief is not as great as my indignation,” she broke in. “Jacques must be avenged, and he shall be avenged! I am only twenty, and he is not thirty yet: there is a whole life before us which we can devote to the work of his rehabilitation; for I do not mean to abandon him. I! His undeserved misfortunes make him a thousand times dearer to me, and almost sacred. I was his betrothed this morning: this evening I am his wife. His condemnation was our nuptial benediction. And if it is true, as grandpapa says, that the law prohibits a prisoner to marry the woman he loves, well, I will be his without marriage.”
Dionysia spoke all this aloud, so loud that it seemed she wanted all the earth to hear what she was saying.
“Ah! let me reassure you by a single word, madam,” said M. Folgat. “We have not yet come to that. The sentence is not final.”
The Marquis de Boiscoran and M. de Chandore started.
“What do you mean?”