The countess shook her head.
“It would be useless to try. You do not know the count. He is a man of iron. You might tear his flesh inch by inch with hot iron pincers, and he would not take back one of his words. You cannot conceive what he has suffered, nor the depth of the hatred, the rage, and the thirst of vengeance, which have accumulated in his heart. It was to torture me that he brought me here to his bedside. Only five minutes ago he told me that he died content, since Jacques was declared guilty, and condemned through his evidence.”
She was conquered: her energy was exhausted, and tears came to her eyes.
“He has been so cruelly tried!” she went on. “He loved me to distraction; he loved nothing in the world but me. And I—Ah, if we could know, if we could foresee! No, I shall never be able to induce him to retract.”
Dionysia almost forgot her own great grief.
“Nor do I expect you to obtain that favor,” she said very gently.
“Who, then?”
“The priest from Brechy. He will surely find words to shake even the firmest resolution. He can speak in the name of that God, who, even on the cross, forgave those who crucified Him.”
One moment longer the countess hesitated; and then, overcoming finally the last rebellious impulses of her pride, she said,—
“Well, I will call the priest.”