Dr. Seignebos had confessed it more than once: he was no friend of concealment. “You will tell her the truth,” was his advice. “What? How can I tell her that Jacques has been the lover of the Countess Claudieuse?” “She will hear of it sooner or later. Miss Dionysia is a sensible, energetic girl.” “Yes; but Miss Dionysia is as ignorant as a holy angel,” broke in M. Folgat eagerly, “and she loves M. de Boiscoran. Why should we trouble the purity of her thoughts and her happiness? Is she not unhappy enough? M. de Boiscoran is no longer kept in close confinement. He will see his betrothed, and, if he thinks proper, he can tell her. He alone has the right to do so. I shall, however, dissuade him. From what I know of Miss Chandore’s character, it would be impossible for her to control herself, if she should meet the Countess Claudieuse.” “M. de Chandore ought not to say any thing,” said M. Magloire decisively. “It is too much already, to have to intrust the marchioness with the secret; for you must not forget, gentlemen, that the slightest indiscretion would certainly ruin all of M. Folgat’s delicate plans.” Thereupon all went out; and M. de Chandore, left alone, said to himself,-- “Yes, they are right; but what am I to say?” He was thinking it over almost painfully, when a maid came in, and told him that Miss Dionysia wanted to see him. “I am coming,” he said. And he followed her with heavy steps, and trying to compose his features so as to efface all traces of the terrible emotions through which he had passed. The two aunts had taken Dionysia and the marchioness to the parlor in the upper story. Here M. de Chandore found them all assembled,--the marchioness, pale and overcome, extended in an easy-chair; but Dionysia, walking up and down with burning cheeks and blazing eyes. As soon as he entered, she asked him in a sharp, sad voice,-- “Well? There is no hope, I suppose.” “More hope than ever, on the contrary,” he replied, trying to smile. “Then why did M. De Magloire send us all out?” The old gentleman had had time to prepare a fib. “Because M. Magloire had to tell us a piece of bad news. There is no chance of no true bill being found. Jacques will have to appear in court.” The marchioness jumped up like a piece of mechanism, and cried,-- “What! Jacques before the assizes? My son? A Boiscoran?” And she fell back into her chair. Not a muscle in Dionysia’s face had moved. She said in a strange tone of voice,-- “I was prepared for something worse. One may avoid the court.” With these words she left the room, shutting the door so violently, that both the Misses Lavarande hastened after her. Now M. de Chandore thought he might speak freely. He stood up before the marchioness, and gave vent to that fearful wrath which had been rising within him for a long time. “Your son,” he cried, “your Jacques, I wish he were dead a thousand times! The wretch who is killing my child, for you see he is killing her.”