LITMIR.BIZ

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office; and when he was, at a later period of his life, attacked by the fever of political ambition, and offered to “sacrifice himself for his country” by becoming mayor of Sauveterre, and a member of the general council, their support had been of great service to him.

      Hence he was well-nigh overcome when he returned, on that fatal morning, to Sauveterre. He looked so pale and undone, that his wife was seriously troubled.

      “Great God, Augustus! What has happened?” she asked.

      “Something terrible has happened,” he replied in so tragic a manner, that his wife began to tremble.

      To be sure, Mrs. Seneschal trembled very easily. She was a woman of forty-five or fifty years, very dark, short, and fat, trying hard to breathe in the corsets which were specially made for her by the Misses Mechinet, the clerk’s sisters. When she was young, she had been rather pretty: now she still kept the red cheeks of her younger days, a forest of jet black hair, and excellent teeth. But she was not happy. Her life had been spent in wishing for children, and she had none.

      She consoled herself, it is true, by constantly referring to all the most delicate details on the subject, mentioning not to her intimate friends only, but to any one who would listen, her constant disappointments, the physicians she had consulted, the pilgrimages she had undertaken, and the quantities of fish she had eaten, although she abominated fish. All had been in vain, and as her hopes fled with her years, she had become resigned, and indulged now in a kind of romantic sentimentality, which she carefully kept alive by reading novels and poems without end. She had a tear ready for every unfortunate being, and some words of comfort for every grief. Her charity was well known. Never had a poor woman with children appealed to her in vain. In spite of all that, she was not easily taken in. She managed her household with her hand as well as with her eye; and no one surpassed her in the extent of her washings, or the excellence of her dinners.

      She was quite ready, therefore, to sigh and to sob when her husband told her what had happened during the night. When he had ended, she said,—

      “That poor Dionysia is capable of dying of it. In your place, I would go at once to M. de Chandore, and inform him in the most cautious manner of what has happened.”

      “I shall take good care not to do so,” replied M. Seneschal; “and I tell you expressly not to go there yourself.”

      For he was by no means a philosopher; and, if he had been his own master, he would have taken the first train, and gone off a hundred miles, so as not to see the grief of the Misses Lavarande and Grandpapa Chandore. He was exceedingly fond of Dionysia: he had been hard at work for years to settle and to add to her fortune, as if she had been his own daughter, and now to witness her grief! He shuddered at the idea. Besides, he really did not know what to believe, and influenced by M. Galpin’s assurance, misled by public opinion, he had come to ask himself if Jacques might not, after all, have committed the crimes with which he was charged.

      Fortunately his duties were on that day so numerous and so troublesome, that he had no time to think. He had to provide for the recovery and the transportation of the remains of the two unfortunate victims of the fire; he had to receive the mother of one, and the widow and children of the other, and to listen to their complaints, and try to console them by promising the former a small pension, and the latter some help in the education of their children. Then he had to give directions to have the wounded men brought home; and, after that, he had gone out in search of a house for Count Claudieuse and his wife, which had given him much trouble. Finally, a large part of the afternoon had been taken up by an angry discussion with Dr. Seignebos. The doctor, in the name of outraged society, as he called it, and in the name of justice and humanity, demanded the immediate arrest of Cocoleu, that wretch whose unconscious statement formed the basis of the accusation. He demanded with a furious oath that the epileptic idiot should be sent to the hospital, and kept there so as to be professionally examined by experts. The mayor had for some time refused to grant the request, which seemed to him unreasonable; but he doctor had talked so loud and insisted so strongly, that at last he had sent two gendarmes to Brechy with orders to bring back Cocoleu.

      They had returned several hours later with empty hands. The idiot had disappeared; and no one in the whole district had been able to give any information as to this whereabouts.

      “And you think that is natural?” exclaimed Dr. Seignebos, whose eyes were glaring at the mayor from under his spectacles. “To me that looks like an absolute proof that a plot has been hatched to ruin M. de Boiscoran.”

      “But can’t you be quiet?” M. Seneschal said angrily. “Do you think Cocoleu is lost? He will turn up again.”

      The doctor had left him without insisting any longer; but before going home, he had dropped in at his club, and there, in the presence of twenty people he had declared that he had positive proof of a plot formed against M. de Boiscoran, whom the Monarchists had never forgiven for having left them; and that the Jesuits were certainly mixed up with the business.

      This interference was more injurious than useful to Jacques; and the consequences were soon seen. That same evening, when M. Galpin crossed the New-Market Place, he was wantonly insulted. Very naturally he went, almost in a fury, to call upon the mayor, to hold him responsible for this insult offered to Justice in his person, and asking for energetic punishment. M. Seneschal promised to take the proper measures, and went to the commonwealth attorney to act in concert with him. There he learned what had happened at Boiscoran, and the terrible result of the examination.

      So he had come home, quite sorrowful, distressed at Jacques’s situation, and very much disturbed by the political aspect which the matter was beginning to wear. He had spent a bad night, and in the morning had displayed such fearful temper, that his wife had hardly dared to say a word to him. But even that was not all. At two o’clock precisely, the funeral of Bolton and Guillebault was to take place; and he had promised Capt. Parenteau that he would be present in his official costume, and accompanied by the whole municipal council. He had already given orders to have his uniform gotten ready, when the servant announced visitors,—M. de Chandore and friend.

      “That was all that was wanting!” he exclaimed

      But, thinking it over, he added,—

      “Well, it had to come sooner or later. Show them in!”

      M. Seneschal was too good to be so troubled in advance, and to prepare himself for a heart-rending scene. He was amazed at the easy, almost cheerful manner with which M. de Chandore presented to him his companion.

      “M. Manuel Folgat, my dear Seneschal, a famous lawyer from Paris, who has been kind enough to come down with the Marchioness de Boiscoran.”

      “I am a stranger here, M. Seneschal,” said Folgat: “I do not know the manner of thinking, the customs, the interests, the prejudices, of this country; in fact, I am totally ignorant, and I know I would commit many a grievous blunder, unless I could secure the assistance of an able and experienced counsellor. M. de Boiscoran and M. de Chandore have both encouraged me to hope that I might find such a man in you.”

      “Certainly, sir, and with all my heart,” replied M. Seneschal, bowing politely, and evidently flattered by this deference on the part of a great Paris lawyer.

      He had offered his guests seats. He had sat down himself, and resting his elbow on the arm of his big office-chair, he rubbed his clean-shaven chin with his hand.

      “This is a very serious matter, gentlemen,” he said at last.

      “A criminal charge is always serious,” replied M. Folgat.

      “Upon my word,” cried M. de Chandore, “you are not in doubt about Jacques’s innocence?”

      M. Seneschal did not say, No. He was silent, thinking of the wise remarks made by his wife the evening before.

      “How can we know,” he began at last, “what may be going on in young brains of twenty-five when they are set on fire by the remembrance of certain insults! Wrath is a dangerous counsellor.”

      Grandpapa Chandore refused to hear any more.

      “What!

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