Dionysia alone seemed to have preserved the faculty of reasoning and moving. But her face was deep purple; her dry eyes shone with a painful light; and her body shook as with fever. As soon as the two advocates appeared, she cried,--
"And you call this human justice?"
And, as they were silent, she added,---
"Here is Jacques condemned to penal labor; that is to say, he is judicially dishonored, lost, disgraced, forever cut off from human society. He is innocent; but that does not matter. His best friends will know him no longer: no hand will touch his hand hereafter; and even those who were most proud of his affection will pretend to have forgotten his name."
"I understand your grief but too well, madam," said M. Magloire.
"My grief is not as great as my indignation," she broke in. "Jacques must be avenged, and he shall be avenged! I am only twenty, and he is not thirty yet: there is a whole life before us which we can devote to the work of his rehabilitation; for I do not mean to abandon him. I!
His undeserved misfortunes make him a thousand times dearer to me, and almost sacred. I was his betrothed this morning: this evening I am his wife. His condemnation was our nuptial benediction. And if it is true, as grandpapa says, that the law prohibits a prisoner to marry the woman he loves, well, I will be his without marriage."
Dionysia spoke all this aloud, so loud that it seemed she wanted all the earth to hear what she was saying.
"Ah! let me rea.s.sure you by a single word, madam," said M. Folgat. "We have not yet come to that. The sentence is not final."
The Marquis de Boiscoran and M. de Chandore started.
"What do you mean?"
"An oversight which M. Galpin has committed makes the whole proceeding null and void. You will ask how a man of his character, so painstaking and so formal, should have made such a blunder. Probably because he was blinded by pa.s.sion. Why had n.o.body noticed this oversight? Because fate owed us this compensation. There can be no question about the matter.
The defect is a defect of form; and the law provides expressly for the case. The sentence must be declared void, and we shall have another trial."
"And you never told us anything of that?" asked Dionysia.
"We hardly dared to think of it," replied M. Magloire. "It was one of those secrets which we dare not confide to our own pillow. Remember, that, in the course of the proceedings, the error might have been corrected at any time. Now it is too late. We have time before us; and the conduct of Count Claudieuse relieves us from all restraint of delicacy. The veil shall be torn now."
The door opened violently, interrupting his words. Dr. Seignebos entered, red with anger, and darting fiery glances from under his gold spectacles.
"Count Claudieuse?" M. Folgat asked eagerly.
"Is next door," replied the doctor. "They have had him down on a mattress, and his wife is by his side. What a profession ours is! Here is a man, a wretch, whom I should be most happy to strangle with my own hands; and I am compelled to do all I can to recall him to life: I must lavish my attentions upon him, and seek every means to relieve his sufferings."
"Is he any better?"
"Not at all! Unless a special miracle should be performed in his behalf, he will leave the court-house only feet forward, and that in twenty-four hours. I have not concealed it from the countess; and I have told her, that, if she wishes her husband to die in peace with Heaven, she has but just time to send for a priest."
"And has she sent for one?"
"Not at all! She told me her husband would be terrified by the appearance of a priest, and that would hasten his end. Even when the good priest from Brechy came of his own accord, she sent him off unceremoniously."
"Ah the miserable woman!" cried Dionysia.
And, after a moment"s reflection, she added,--
"And yet that may be our salvation. Yes, certainly. Why should I hesitate? Wait for me here: I am coming back."
She hurried out. Her grandpapa was about to follow her; but M. Folgat stopped him.
"Let her do it," he said,--"let her do it!"
It had just struck ten o"clock. The court-house, just now as full and as noisy as a bee-hive, was silent and deserted. In the immense hall, badly lighted by a smoking lamp, there were only two men to be seen. One was the priest from Brechy, who was praying on his knees close to a door; and the other was the watchman, who was slowly walking up and down, and whose steps resounded there as in a church.
Dionysia went straight up to the latter.
"Where is Count Claudieuse?" she asked.
"There, madam," replied the man, pointing at the door before which the priest was praying,--"there, in the private office of the commonwealth attorney."
"Who is with him?"
"His wife, madam, and a servant."
"Well, go in and tell the Countess Claudieuse,--but so that her husband does not hear you,--that Miss Chandore desires to see her a few moments."
The watchman made no objection, and went in. But, when he came back, he said to the young girl,--
"Madam, the countess sends word that she cannot leave her husband, who is very low."
She stopped him by an impatient gesture, and said,--
"Never mind! Go back and tell the countess, that, if she does not come out, I shall go in this moment; that, if it must be, I shall force my way in; that I shall call for help; that nothing will keep me. I must absolutely see her."
"But, madam"--
"Go! Don"t you see that it is a question of life and death?"
There was such authority in her voice, that the watchman no longer hesitated. He went in once more, and reappeared a moment after.
"Go in," he said to the young girl.
She went in, and found herself in a little anteroom which preceded the office of the commonwealth attorney. A large lamp illuminated the room.
The door leading to the room in which the count was lying was closed.
In the centre of the room stood the Countess Claudieuse. All these successive blows had not broken her indomitable energy. She looked pale, but calm.
"Since you insist upon it, madam," she began, "I come to tell you myself that I cannot listen to you. Are you not aware that I am standing between two open graves,--that of my poor girl, who is dying at my house, and that of my husband, who is breathing his last in there?"
She made a motion as if she were about to retire; but Dionysia stopped her by a threatening look, and said with a trembling voice,--
"If you go back into that room where your husband is, I shall go back with you, and I shall speak before him. I shall ask you right before him, how you dare order a priest away from his bedside at the moment of death, and whether, after having robbed him of all his happiness in life, you mean to make him unhappy in all eternity."
Instinctively the countess drew back.
"I do not understand you," she said.
"Yes, you do understand me, madam. Why will you deny it? Do you not see that I know every thing, and that I have guessed what you have not told me? Jacques was your lover; and your husband has had his revenge."
"Ah!" cried the countess, "that is too much; that is too much!"