It had just struck eleven o'clock, when the jailer, Blangin, entered Jacques's cell in great excitement, and said,--"Sir, your father is down stairs."
The prisoner jumped up, thunderstruck.
The night before he had received a note from M. de Chandore, informing him of the marquis's arrival; and his whole time had since been spent in preparing himself for the interview. How would it be? He had nothing by which to judge. He had therefore determined to be quite reserved. And, whilst he was following Blangin along the dismal passage and down the interminable steps, he was busily composing respectful phrases, and trying to look self-possessed.
But, before he could utter a single word, he was in his father's arms.
He felt himself pressed against his heart, and heard him stammer,--"Jacques, my dear son, my unfortunate child!"In all his life, long and stormy as it had been, the marquis had not been tried so severely. Drawing Jacques to one of the parlor-windows, and leaning back a little, so as to see him better, he was amazed how he could ever have doubted his son. It seemed to him that he was standing there himself. He recognized his own feature and carriage, his own frank but rather haughty expression, his own clear, bright eye.
Then, suddenly noticing details, he was shocked to see Jacques so much reduced. He found him looking painfully pale, and he actually discovered at the temples more than one silvery hair amid his thick black curls.
"Poor child!" he said. "How you must have suffered!""I thought I should lose my senses," replied Jacques simply.
And with a tremor in his voice, he asked,--"But, dear father, why did you give me no sign of life? Why did you stay away so long?"The marquis was not unprepared for such a question. But how could he answer it? Could he ever tell Jacques the true secret of his hesitation? Turning his eyes aside, he answered,--"I hoped I should be able to serve you better by remaining in Paris."But his embarrassment was too evident to escape Jacques.
"You did not doubt your own child, father?" he asked sadly.
"Never!" cried the marquis, "I never doubted a moment. Ask your mother, and she will tell you that it was this proud assurance I felt which kept me from coming down with her. When I heard of what they accused you, I said 'It is absurd!' "Jacques shook his head, and said,--
"The accusation was absurd; and yet you see what it has brought me to."Two big tears, which he could no longer retain, burnt in the eyes of the old gentleman.
"You blame me, Jacques," he said. "You blame your father."There is not a man alive who could see his father shed tears, and not feel his heart melt within him. All the resolutions Jacques had formed vanished in an instant. Pressing his father's hand in his own, he said,--"No, I do not blame you, father. And still I have no words to tell you how much your absence has added to my sufferings. I thought I was abandoned, disowned."For the first time since his imprisonment, the unfortunate man found a heart to whom he could confide all the bitterness that overflowed in his own heart. With his mother and with Dionysia, honor forbade him to show despair. The incredulity of M. Magloire had made all confidence impossible; and M. Folgat, although as sympathetic as man could be was, after all, a perfect stranger.
But now he had near him a friend, the dearest and most precious friend that a man can ever have,--his father: now he had nothing to fear.
"Is there a human being in this world," he said, "whose misfortunes equal mine? To be innocent, and not to be able to prove it! To know the guilty one, and not to dare mention the name. Ah! at first I did not take in the whole horror of my situation. I was frightened, to be sure; but I had recovered, thinking that surely justice would not be slow in discovering the truth. Justice! It was my friend Galpin who represented it, and he cared little enough for truth: his only aim was to prove that the man whom he accused was the guilty man. Read the papers, father, and you will see how I have been victimized by the most unheard-of combination of circumstances. Every thing is against me. Never has that mysterious, blind, and absurd power manifested itself so clearly,--that awful power which we call fate.
"First I was kept by a sense of honor from mentioning the name of the Countess Claudieuse, and then by prudence. The first time I mentioned it to M. Magloire, he told me I lied. Then I thought every thing lost.
I saw no other end but the court, and, after the trial, the galleys or the scaffold. I wanted to kill myself. My friends made me understand that I did not belong to myself, and that, as long as I had a spark of energy and a ray of intelligence left me, I had no right to dispose of my life.""Poor, poor child!" said the marquis. "No, you have no such right.""Yesterday," continued Jacques, "Dionysia came to see me. Do you know what brought her here? She offered to flee with me. Father, that temptation was terrible. Once free, and Dionysia by my side, what cared I for the world? She insisted, like the matchless girl that she is; and look there, there, on the spot where you now stand, she threw herself at my feet, imploring me to flee. I doubt whether I can save my life; but I remain here."He felt deeply moved, and sank upon the rough bench, hiding his face in his hands, perhaps to conceal his tears.
Suddenly, however, he was seized with one of those attacks of rage which had come to him but too often during his imprisonment, and he exclaimed,--"But what have I done to deserve such fearful punishment?"The brow of the marquis suddenly darkened; and he replied solemnly,--"You have coveted your neighbor's wife, my son."Jacques shrugged his shoulders. He said,--"I loved the Countess Claudieuse, and she loved me.""Adultery is a crime, Jacques."
