“Jacques,” said the marquis, “the Countess Claudieuse hints, as you say, that one of her daughters, the youngest, is your child?” “That may be so.” The Marquis de Boiscoran shuddered. Then he exclaimed bitterly,-- “That may be so! You say that carelessly, indifferently, madman! Did you never think of the grief Count Claudieuse would feel if he should learn the truth? And even if he merely suspected it! Can you not comprehend that such a suspicion is quite sufficient to embitter a whole life, to ruin the life of that girl? Have you never told yourself that such a doubt inflicts a more atrocious punishment than any thing you have yet suffered?” He paused. A few words more, and he would have betrayed his secret. Checking his excitement by an heroic effort, he said,-- “But I did not come here to discuss this question; I came to tell you, that, whatever may happen, your father will stand by you, and that, if you must undergo the disgrace of appearing in court, I will take a seat by your side.” In spite of his own great trouble, Jacques had not been able to avoid seeing his father’s unusual excitement and his sudden vehemence. For a second, he had a vague perception of the truth; but, before the suspicion could assume any shape, it had vanished before this promise which his father made, to face by his side the overwhelming humiliation of a judgment in court,--a promise full of divine self-abnegation and paternal love. His gratitude burst forth in the words,-- “Ah, father! I ought to ask your pardon for ever having doubted your heart for a moment.” M. de Boiscoran tried his best to recover his self-possession. At last he said in an earnest voice,-- “Yes, I love you, my son; and still you must not make me out more of a hero than I am. I still hope we may be spared the appearance in court.” “Has any thing new been discovered?” “M. Folgat has found some traces which justify legitimate hopes, although, as yet, no real success has been achieved.” Jacques looked rather discouraged. “Traces?” he asked. “Be patient. They are feeble traces, I admit, and such as could not be produced in court; but from day to day they may become decisive. And already they have had one good effect: they have brought us back M. Magloire.” “O God! Could I really be saved?” “I shall leave to M. Folgat,” continued the marquis, “the satisfaction of telling you the result of his efforts. He can explain their bearing better than I could. And you will not have long to wait; for last night, or rather this morning, when we separated, he and M. Magloire agreed to meet here at the prison, before two o’clock.”