The marquis assented by a gesture. “Yes, much too easily, my dear. And, between us, I would not say much about it. How could the officers help accusing our Jacques if his own mother suspects him?” The marchioness had taken up the telegram, and was reading it over once more. “And yet,” she said, answering her own objections, “who in my place would not have been frightened? This name of Claudieuse especially”-- “Why? It is the name of an excellent and most honorable gentleman,--the best man in the world, in spite of his sea-dog manners.” “Jacques hates him, my dear.” “Jacques does not mind him any more than that.” “They have repeatedly quarrelled.” “Of course. Claudieuse is a furious legitimist; and as such he always talks with the utmost contempt of all of us who have been attached to the Orleans family.” “Jacques has been at law with him.” “And he has done right, only he ought to have carried the matter through. Claudieuse has claims on the Magpie, which divides our lands,--absurd claims. He wants at all seasons, and according as he may desire, to direct the waters of the little stream into his own channels, and thus drown the meadows at Boiscoran, which are lower than his own. Even my brother, who was an angel in patience and gentleness, had his troubles with this tyrant.” But the marchioness was not convinced yet. “There was another trouble,” she said. “What?” “Ah! I should like to know myself.” “Has Jacques hinted at any thing?” “No. I only know this. Last year, at the Duchess of Champdoce’s, I met by chance the Countess Claudieuse and her children. The young woman is perfectly charming; and, as we were going to give a ball the week after, it occurred to me to invite her at once. She refused, and did so in such an icy, formal manner, that I did not insist.” “She probably does not like dancing,” growled the marquis. “That same evening I mentioned the matter to Jacques. He seemed to be very angry, and told me, in a manner that was hardly compatible with respect, that I had been very wrong, and that he had his reasons for not desiring to come in contact with those people.” The marquis felt so secure, that he only listened with partial attention, looking all the time aside at his precious _faiences_. “Well,” he said at last, “Jacques detests the Claudieuses. What does that prove? God be thanked, we do not murder all the people we detest!” His wife did not insist any longer. She only asked,-- “Well, what must we do?” She was so little in the habit of consulting her husband, that he was quite surprised. “The first thing is to get Jacques out of jail. We must see--we ought to ask for advice.” At this moment a light knock was heard at the door. “Come in!” he said. A servant came in, bringing a large envelope, marked “Telegraphic Despatch. Private.” “Upon my word!” cried the marquis. “I thought so. Now we shall be all right again.”