“Tell me,” he stammered out,--“tell me. I have courage.” She handed him the blue paper which she had brought in, and said slowly,-- “Here. A telegram which I have just received from old Anthony, our son’s valet.” With trembling hands the old marquis unfolded the paper, and read,-- “Terrible misfortune! Master Jacques accused of having set the chateau at Valpinson on fire, and murdered Count Claudieuse. Terrible evidence against him. When examined, hardly any defence. Just arrested and carried to jail. In despair. What must I do?” The marchioness had feared lest the marquis should have been crushed by this despatch, which in its laconic terms betrayed Anthony’s abject terror. But it was not so. He put it back on the table in the calmest manner, and said, shrugging his shoulders,-- “It is absurd!” His wife did not understand it. She began again,-- “You have not read it carefully, my friend”-- “I understand,” he broke in, “that our son is accused of a crime which he has not and can not have committed. You surely do not doubt his innocence? What a mother you would be! On my part, I assure you I am perfectly tranquil. Jacques an incendiary! Jacques a murderer! That is nonsense!” “Ah! you did not read the telegram,” exclaimed the marchioness. “I beg your pardon.” “You did not see that there was evidence against him.” “If there had been none, he could not have been arrested. Of course, the thing is disagreeable: it is painful.” “But he did not defend himself.” “Upon my word! Do you think that if to-morrow somebody accused me of having robbed the till of some shopkeeper, I would take the trouble to defend myself?” “But do you not see that Anthony evidently thinks our son is guilty?” “Anthony is an old fool!” declared the marquis. Then pulling out his snuffbox, and stuffing his nose full of snuff, he said,-- “Besides, let us consider. Did you not tell me that Jacques is in love with that little Dionysia Chandore?” “Desperately. Like a real child.” “And she?” “She adores Jacques.” “Well. And did you not also tell me that the wedding-day was fixed?” “Yes, three days ago.” “Has Jacques written to you about the matter?” “An excellent letter.” “In which he tells you he is coming up?” “Yes: he wanted to purchase the wedding-presents himself.” With a gesture of magnificent indifference the marquis tapped the top of his snuffbox, and said,-- “And you think a boy like our Jacques, a Boiscoran, in love, and beloved, who is about to be married, and has his head full of wedding-presents, could have committed such a horrible crime? Such things are not worth discussing, and, with your leave, I shall return to my occupation.” If doubt is contagious, confidence is still more so. Gradually the marchioness felt reassured by the perfect assurance of her husband. The blood came back to her cheeks; and smiles reappeared on pale lips. She said in a stronger voice,-- “In fact, I may have been too easily frightened.”