The fact is, he spent his days, and a part of his nights, in his cabinet, half-buried in an arm-chair, resting little, and sleeping still less, insensible to all that went on around him. On his table he had arranged all his letters from Sauveterre in order; and he read and re-read them incessantly, examining the phrases, and trying, ever in vain, to disengage the truth from this mass of details and statements. He was no longer as sure of his son as at first: far from it! Every day had brought him a new doubt; every letter, additional uncertainty. Hence he was all the time a prey to most harassing apprehensions. He put them aside; but they returned, stronger and more irresistible than before like the waves of the rising tide. He was thus one morning in his cabinet. It was very early yet; but he was more than ever suffering from anxiety, for M. Folgat had written, “To-morrow all uncertainty will end. To-morrow the close confinement will be raised, and M. Jacques will see M. Magloire, the counsel whom he has chosen. We will write immediately.” It was for this news the marquis was waiting now. Twice already he had rung to inquire if the mail had not come yet, when all of a sudden his valet appeared and with a frightened air said,-- “The marchioness. She has just come with Anthony, M. Jacques’s own man.” He hardly said so, when the marchioness herself entered, looking even worse than she had done in the prison parlor; for she was overcome by the fatigue of a night spent on the road. The marquis had started up suddenly. As soon as the servant had left the room, and shut the door again, he said with trembling voice, as if wishing for an answer, and still fearing to hear it,-- “Has any thing unusual happened?” “Yes.” “Good or bad?” “Sad.” “Great God! Jacques has not confessed?” “How could he confess when he is innocent?” “Then he has explained?” “As far as I am concerned, and M. Folgat, Dr. Seignebos, and all who know him and love him, yes, but not for the public, for his enemies, or the law. He has explained every thing; but he has no proof.” The mournful features of the marquis settled into still deeper gloom. “In other words, he has to be believed on his own word?” he asked. “Don’t you believe him?” “I am not the judge of that, but the jury.” “Well, for the jury he will find proof. M. Folgat, who has come in the same train with me, and whom you will see to-day, hopes to discover proof.” “Proof of what?” Perhaps the marchioness was not unprepared for such a reception. She expected it, and still she was disconcerted. “Jacques,” she began, “has been the lover of the Countess Claudieuse.” “Ah, ah!” broke in the marquis. And, in a tone of offensive irony, he added,-- “No doubt another story of adultery; eh?” The marchioness did not answer. She quietly went on,-- “When the countess heard of Jacques’s marriage, and that he abandoned her, she became exasperated, and determined to be avenged.”