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Updated: May 5, 2025
The old ladies and their brother were just finishing their supper, which consisted of a small piece of port and a light salad, with an abundance of vinegar. At the unexpected entrance of Miss Chandore they all started up. "You, miss," cried the elder of the two, "you!" Dionysia understood perfectly well what that simple "you" meant.
The marchioness was utterly exhausted: she felt as if all the springs in her system were broken. M. de Chandore trembled when he looked at them, and saw how they all were on the point of succumbing. If they despaired, what could he hope for, he, who knew how indissolubly Dionysia's fate in life was connected with Jacques? At length the carriage stopped before his house.
The Baron de Chandore was not a baby, as he liked to call it. Deeply interested as he was, he got up, and said, "I want to take a little fresh air." And he went out, understanding very well that his being Dionysia's grandfather might keep Anthony from telling the truth. "That is a sensible man," thought M. Folgat. Then he added aloud, "Now we are alone, my dear Anthony, you can speak frankly.
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."
The same idea crossed, like a sharp arrow, the minds of M. de Chandore and M. Folgat. Had Jacques confessed? "Look, read yourself!" said Dionysia, handing them the translation. Jacques wrote, "Thanks for your letter, my darling. A presentiment had warned me, and I had asked for a copy of Cooper.
But in spite of all her skill, in spite of all the art with which she managed to present her strange request, M. de Chandore had no sooner understood her project than he exclaimed, "Never, never, never!" Perhaps in his whole life the old gentleman had never expressed himself in so positive a manner. His brow had never looked so dark.
"It is too much already, to have to intrust the marchioness with the secret; for you must not forget, gentlemen, that the slightest indiscretion would certainly ruin all of M. Folgat's delicate plans." Thereupon all went out; and M. de Chandore, left alone, said to himself, "Yes, they are right; but what am I to say?"
M. de Chandore, in spite of his vigor, was near fainting, although his face remained as crimson as ever. Nothing on earth could make him turn pale. "Great God!" he murmured, "what will Dionysia say?" Then, turning to M. Folgat, he said aloud, "And yet Jacques had something in his mind for that evening." "Do you think so?" "I am sure of it.
He had said quite enough, too, and had presented the whole affair under such a new aspect, that his friends became very thoughtful. "You would have converted me, doctor," said M. Folgat, "if I had not been of your opinion before." "I am sure," added M. de Chandore, after hearing the doctor, "the thing no longer looks impossible." "Nothing is impossible," said M. Seneschal, like a philosopher.
But fortunately she had one of those happy dispositions which cannot be spoiled; and besides, she was perhaps saved from the danger by its very excess. As she grew older she would say with a laugh, "Grandpapa Chandore, my aunts Lavarande, and I, we do just what we choose." That was only a joke. Never did a young girl repay such sweet affection with rarer and nobler qualities.
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