And, as the train brought no other passengers, they succeeded in making the omnibus conductor start at once, eager as they were to proclaim the arrival of the prisoner’s father. The hour was unfavorable: everybody was asleep; but they did not give up the hope of finding somebody yet at the club. People stay up very late at the club, for there is play going on there, and at times pretty heavy play: you can lose your five hundred francs quite readily there. Thus the indefatigable news-hunters had a fair chance of finding open ears for their great piece of news. And yet, if they had been less eager to spread it, they might have witnessed, perhaps not entirely unmoved, this first interview between M. de Chandore and the Marquis de Boiscoran. By a natural impulse they had both hastened forward, and shook hands in the most energetic manner. Tears stood in their eyes. They opened their lips to speak; but they said nothing. Besides, there was no need of words between them. That close embrace had told Jacques’s father clearly enough what Dionysia’s grandfather must have suffered. They remained thus standing motionless, looking at each other, when Dr. Seignebos, who could not be still for any length of time, came up, and asked,-- “The trunks are on the carriage: shall we go?” They left the station. The night was clear; and on the horizon, above the dark mass of the sleeping town, there rose against the pale-blue sky the two towers of the old castle, which now served as prison to Sauveterre. “That is the place where my Jacques is kept,” murmured the marquis. “There my son is imprisoned, accused of horrible crimes.” “We will get him out of it,” said the doctor cheerfully, as he helped the old gentleman into the carriage. But in vain did he try, during the drive, to rouse, as he called it, the spirits of his companions. His hopes found no echo in their distressed hearts. M. Folgat inquired after Dionysia, whom he had been surprised not to see at the station. M. de Chandore replied that she had staid at home with the Misses Lavarande, to keep M. Magloire company; and that was all. There are situations in which it is painful to talk. The marquis had enough to do to suppress the spasmodic sobs which now and then would rise in his throat. He was upset by the thought that he was at Sauveterre. Whatever may be said to the contrary, distance does not weaken our emotions. Shaking hands with M. de Chandore in person had moved him more deeply than all the letters he had received for a month. And when he saw Jacques’s prison from afar, he had the first clear notion of the horrible tortures endured by his son. The marchioness was utterly exhausted: she felt as if all the springs in her system were broken. M. de Chandore trembled when he looked at them, and saw how they all were on the point of succumbing. If they despaired, what could he hope for,--he, who knew how indissolubly Dionysia’s fate in life was connected with Jacques?