Within an Inch of His Life

E >> Emile Gaboriau >> Within an Inch of His Life


"No, it is not credible!"

"I do not ask you to believe me," he said gently: "I only ask you to
hear me."

And, overcoming with all his energy the kind of torpor which was
mastering him, he continued,--

"This trip to Fontainebleau decided our fate. Other trips followed. The
countess spent her days with her friend, and I passed the long hours
in roaming through the woods. But in the evening we met again at the
station. We took a _coupe_, which I had engaged beforehand, and I
accompanied her in a carriage to her father's house.

"Finally, one evening, she left her friend's house at the usual hour;
but she did not return to her father's house till the day after."

"Jacques!" broke in M. Magloire, shocked, as if he had heard a
curse,--"Jacques!"

M. de Boiscoran remained unmoved.

"Oh!" he said, "I know you must think it strange. You fancy that there
is no excuse for the man who betrays the confidence of a woman who has
once given herself to him. Wait, before you judge me."

And he went on, in a firmer tone of voice,--

"At that time I thought I was the happiest man on earth; and my heart
was full of the most absurd vanity at the thought that she was mine,
this beautiful woman, whose purity was high above all calumny. I had
tied around my neck one of those fatal ropes which death alone can
sever, and, fool that I was, I considered myself happy.

"Perhaps she really loved me at that time. At least she did not
hesitate, and, overcome by the only real great passion of her life, she
told me all that was in her innermost heart. At that time she did not
think yet of protecting herself against me, and of making me her slave.
She told me the secret of her marriage, which had at one time created
such a sensation in the whole country.

"When her father, the Marquis de Brissac, had given up his place, he had
soon begun to feel his inactivity weigh upon him, and at the same time
he had become impatient at the narrowness of his means. He had ventured
upon hazardous speculations. He had lost every thing he had; and even
his honor was at stake. In his despair he was thinking of suicide, when
chance brought to his house a former comrade, Count Claudieuse. In a
moment of confidence, the marquis confessed every thing; and the other
had promised to rescue him, and save him from disgrace. That was noble
and grand. It must have cost an immense sum. And the friends of our
youth who are capable of rendering us such services are rare in our day.
Unfortunately, Count Claudieuse could not all the time be the hero he
had been at first. He saw Genevieve de Tassar. He was struck with
her beauty; and overcome by a sudden passion--forgetting that she was
twenty, while he was nearly fifty--he made his friend aware that he was
still willing to render him all the services in his power, but that he
desired to obtain Genevieve's hand in return.

"That very evening the ruined nobleman entered his daughter's room, and,
with tears in his eyes, explained to her his terrible situation. She did
not hesitate a moment.

"'Above all,' she said to her father, 'let us save our honor, which
even your death would not restore. Count Claudieuse is cruel to forget
that he is thirty years older than I am. From this moment I hate and
despise him. Tell him I am willing to be his wife.'

"And when her father, overcome with grief, told her that the count would
never accept her hand in this form, she replied,--

"'Oh, do not trouble yourself about that! I shall do the thing
handsomely, and your friend shall have no right to complain. But I know
what I am worth; and you must remember hereafter, that, whatever service
he may render you, you owe him nothing.'

"Less than a fortnight after this scene, Genevieve had allowed the count
to perceive that he was not indifferent to her and a month later she
became his wife.

"The count, on his side, had acted with the utmost delicacy and tact;
so that no one suspected the cruel position of the Marquis de Tassar. He
had placed two hundred thousand francs in his hands to settle his most
pressing debts. In his marriage-contract he had acknowledged having
received with his wife a dower of the same amount; and finally, he had
bound himself to pay to his father-in-law and his wife an annual income
of ten thousand francs. This had absorbed more than half of all he
possessed."

M. Magloire no longer thought of protesting. Sitting stiffly on his
chair, his eyes wide open, like a man who asks himself whether he is
asleep or awake, he murmured,--

"That is incomprehensible! That is unheard of!"

Jacques was becoming gradually excited. He went on,--

"This is, at least, what the countess told me in her first hours of
enthusiasm. But she told it to me calmly, coldly, like a thing that was
perfectly natural. 'Certainly,' she said, 'Count Claudieuse has never
had to regret the bargain he made. If he has been generous, I have been
faithful. My father owes his life to him; but I have given him years of
happiness to which he was not entitled. If he has received no love, he
has had all the appearance of it, and an appearance far more pleasant
than the reality.'

"When I could not conceal my astonishment, she added, laughing
heartily,--

"'Only I brought to the bargain a mental reservation. I reserved to
myself the right to claim my share of earthly happiness whenever it
should come within my reach. That share is yours, Jacques; and do not
fancy that I am troubled by remorse. As long as my husband thinks he is
happy, I am within the terms of the contract.'

"That was the way she spoke at that time, Magloire; and a man of more
experience would have been frightened. But I was a child; I loved her
with all my heart. I admired her genius; I was overcome by her sophisms.

"A letter from Count Claudieuse aroused us from our dreams.

"The countess had committed the only and the last imprudence of her
whole life: she had remained three weeks longer in Paris than was agreed
upon; and her impatient husband threatened to come for her.

"'I must go back to Valpinson,' she said; 'for there is nothing I would
not do to keep up the reputation I have managed to make for myself.
My life, your life, my daughter's life--I would give them all, without
hesitation, to protect my reputation."

"This happened--ah! the dates have remained fixed in my mind as if
engraven on bronze--on the 12th October.

"'I cannot remain longer than a month,' she said to me, 'without seeing
you. A month from to-day, that is to say, on 12th November, at three
o'clock precisely, you must be in the forest of Rochepommier, at the Red
Men's Cross-roads. I will be there.'

"And she left Paris. I was in such a state of depression, that I
scarcely felt the pain of parting. The thought of being loved by such a
woman filled me with extreme pride, and, no doubt, saved me from many
an excess. Ambition was rising within me whenever I thought of her. I
wanted to work, to distinguish myself, to become eminent in some way.

"'I want her to be proud of me,' I said to myself, ashamed at being
nothing at my age but the son of a rich father."

Ten times, at least, M. Magloire had risen from his chair, and moved his
lips, as if about to make some objection. But he had pledged himself, in
his own mind, not to interrupt Jacques, and he did his best to keep his
pledge.

"In the meantime," Jacques went on, "the day fixed by the countess was
drawing near. I went down to Boiscoran; and on the appointed day, at the
precise hour, I was in the forest at the Red Men's Cross-roads. I was
somewhat behind time, and I was extremely sorry for it: but I did not
know the forest very well, and the place chosen by the countess for the
rendezvous is in the very thickest part of the old wood. The weather
was unusually severe for the season. The night before, a heavy snow had
fallen: the paths were all white; and a sharp wind blew the flakes
from the heavily-loaded branches. From afar off, I distinguished
the countess, as she was walking, up and down in a kind of feverish
excitement, confining herself to a narrow space, where the ground was
dry, and where she was sheltered from the wind by enormous masses of
stone. She wore a dress of dark-red silk, very long, a cloak trimmed
with fur, and a velvet hat to match her dress. In three minutes I was by
her side. But she did not draw her hand from her muff to offer it to me;
and, without giving me time to apologize for the delay, she said in a
dry tone,--

"'When did you reach Boiscoran?'

"'Last night.'

"'How childish you are!' she exclaimed, stamping her foot. 'Last night!
And on what pretext?'

"'I need no pretext to visit my uncle.'

"'And was he not surprised to see you drop from the clouds at this time
of the year?'

"'Why, yes, a little,' I answered foolishly, incapable as I was of
concealing the truth.

"Her dissatisfaction increased visibly.

"'And how did you get here?' she commenced again. 'Did you know this
cross-road?'

"'No, I inquired about it.'

"'From whom?'

"'From one of my uncle's servants; but his information was so
imperfect, that I lost my way.'

"She looked at me with such a bitter, ironical smile, that I stopped.

"'And all that, you think, is very simple,' she broke in. 'Do you
really imagine people will think it very natural that you should thus
fall like a bombshell upon Boiscoran, and immediately set out for
the Red Men's Cross-roads in the forest? Who knows but you have been
followed? Who knows but behind one of these trees there may be eyes even
now watching us?'

"And as she looked around with all the signs of genuine fear, I
answered,--

"'And what do you fear? Am I not here?'

"I think I can even now see the look in her eyes as she said,--

"'I fear nothing in the world--do you hear me? nothing in the world,
except being suspected; for I cannot be compromised. I like to do as I
do; I like to have a lover. But I do not want it to be known; because,
if it became known, there would be mischief. Between my reputation and
my life I have no choice. If I were to be surprised here by any one, I
would rather it should be my husband than a stranger. I have no love for
the count, and I shall never forgive him for having married me; but
he has saved my father's honor, and I owe it to him to keep his honor
unimpaired. He is my husband, besides, and the father of my child: I
bear his name, and I want it to be respected. I should die with grief
and shame and rage, if I had to give my arm to a man at whom people
might look and smile. Wives are absurdly stupid when they do not feel
that all the scorn with which their unfortunate husbands are received
in the great world falls back upon them. No. I do not love the count,
Jacques, and I love you. But remember, that, between him and you, I
should not hesitate a moment, and that I should sacrifice your life and
your honor, with a smile on my lips, even though my heart should break,
if I could, by doing so, spare him the shadow of a suspicion.'

"I was about to reply; but she said,--

"'No more! Every minute we stay here increases the danger. What pretext
will you plead for your sudden appearance at Boiscoran?'

"'I do no know,' I replied.

"'You must borrow some money from your uncle, a considerable sum, to
pay your debts. He will be angry, perhaps; but that will explain your
sudden fancy for travelling in the month of November. Good-by, good-by!'

"All amazed, I cried,--

"'What! You will not let me see you again, at least from afar?'

"'During this visit that would be the height of imprudence. But, stop!
Stay at Boiscoran till Sunday. Your uncle never stays away from high
mass: go with him to church. But be careful, control yourself. A single
imprudence, one blunder, and I should despise you. Now we must part. You
will find in Paris a letter from me.'"

Jacques paused here, looking to read in M. Magloire's face what
impression his recital had produced so far. But the famous lawyer
remained impassive. He sighed, and continued,--

"I have entered into all these details, Magloire, because I want you to
know what kind of a woman the countess is, so that you may understand
her conduct. You see that she did not treat me like a traitor: she had
given me fair warning, and shown me the abyss into which I was going
to fall. Alas! so far from being terrified, these dark sides of her
character only attracted me the more. I admired her imperious air,
her courage, and her prudence, even her total lack of principle, which
contrasted so strangely with her fear of public opinion. I said to
myself with foolish pride,--

"'She certainly is a superior woman!'

"She must have been pleased with my obedience at church; for I managed
to check even a slight trembling which seized me when I saw her and
bowed to her as she passed so close to me that my hand touched her
dress. I obeyed her in other ways also. I asked my uncle for six
thousand francs, and he gave them to me, laughing; for he was the most
generous man on earth: but he said at the same time,--

"'I thought you had not come to Boiscoran merely for the purpose of
exploring the forest of Rochepommier.'

"This trifling circumstance increased my admiration for the Countess
Claudieuse. How well she had foreseen my uncle's astonishment, when I
had not even dreamed of it!

"'She has a genius for prudence,' I thought.

"Yes, indeed she had a genius for it, and a genius for calculation also,
as I soon found out. When I reached Paris, I found a letter from her
waiting for me; but it was nothing more than a repetition of all she
had told me at our meeting. This letter was followed by several others,
which she begged me to keep for her sake, and which all had a number in
the upper corner.

"The first time I saw her again, I asked her,--

"'What are these numbers?'

"'My dear Jacques,' she replied, 'a woman ought always to know how
many letters she has written to her lover. Up to now, you must have had
nine.'

"This occurred in May, 1867, at Rochefort, where she had gone to be
present at the launching of a frigate, and where I had followed her,
at her suggestion, with a view to spending a few hours in each
other's company. Like a fool, I laughed at the idea of this epistolary
responsibility, and then I thought no more of it. I was at that time too
busy otherwise. She had recalled to me the fact that time was passing,
in spite of the sadness of our separation, and that the month of
September, the month of her freedom, was drawing near. Should we be
compelled again, like the year before, to resort to these perilous trips
to Fontainebleau? Why not get a house in a remote quarter of town?

"Every wish of hers was an order for me. My uncle's liberality knew no
end. I bought a house."

At last in the midst of all of Jacques's perplexities, there appeared a
circumstance which might furnish tangible evidence.

M. Magloire started, and asked eagerly,--

"Ah, you bought a house?"

"Yes, a nice house with a large garden, in Vine Street, Passy."

"And you own it still?"

"Yes."

"Of course you have the title-papers?"

Jacques looked in despair.

"Here, again, fate is against me. There is quite a tale connected with
that house."

The features of the Sauveterre lawyer grew dark again, much quicker than
they had brightened up just now.

"Ah!" he said,--"a tale, ah!"

"I was scarcely of age," resumed Jacques, "when I wanted to purchase
this house. I dreaded difficulties. I was afraid my father might hear
of it; in fine, I wanted to be as prudent as the countess was. I asked,
therefore, one of my English friends, Sir Francis Burnett, to purchase
it in his name. He agreed; and he handed me, with the necessary bills of
sale, also a paper in which he acknowledged my right as proprietor."

"But then"--

"Oh! wait a moment. I did not take these papers to my rooms in my
father's house. I put them into a drawer of a bureau in my house at
Passy. When the war broke out, I forgot them. I had left Paris before
the siege began, you know, being in command of a company of volunteers
from this department. During the two sieges, my house was successively
occupied by the National Guards, the soldiers of the Commune, and the
regular troops. When I got back there, I found the four walls pierced
with holes by the shells; but all the furniture had disappeared, and
with it the papers."

"And Sir Francis Burnett?"

"He left France at the beginning of the invasion; and I do not know
what has become of him. Two friends of his in England, to whom I wrote,
replied,--the one that he was probably in Australia; the other that he
was dead."

"And you have taken no other steps to secure your rights to a piece of
property which legally belongs to you?"

"No, not till now."

"You mean to say virtually that there is in Paris a house which has no
owner, is forgotten by everybody, and unknown even to the tax-gatherer?"

"I beg your pardon! The taxes have always been regularly paid; and the
whole neighborhood knows that I am the owner. But the individuality is
not the same. I have unceremoniously assumed the identity of my friend.
In the eyes of the neighbors, the small dealers near by, the workmen and
contractors whom I have employed, for the servants and the gardener, I
am Sir Francis Burnett. Ask them about Jacques de Boiscoran, and they
will tell you, 'Don't know.' Ask them about Sir Francis Burnett, and
they will answer, 'Oh, very well!' and they will give you my portrait."

M. Magloire shook his head as if he were not fully convinced.

"Then," he asked again, "you declare that the Countess Claudieuse has
been at this house?"

"More than fifty times in three years."

"If that is so, she must be known there."

"No."

"But"--

"Paris is not like Sauveterre, my dear friend; and people are not solely
occupied with their neighbors' doings. Vine Street is quite a deserted
street; and the countess took the greatest precautions in coming and
going."

"Well, granted, as far as the outside world is concerned. But within?
You must have had somebody to stay in the house and keep it in order
when you were away, and to wait upon you when you were there?"

"I had an English maid-servant."

"Well, this girl must know the countess?"

"She has never caught a glimpse of her even."

"Oh!"

"When the countess was coming down, or when she was going away, or when
we wanted to walk in the garden, I sent the girl on some errand. I have
sent her as far as Orleans to get rid of her for twenty-four hours. The
rest of the time we staid up stairs, and waited upon ourselves."

Evidently M. Magloire was suffering. He said,--

"You must be under a mistake. Servants are curious, and to hide from
them is only to make them mad with curiosity. That girl has watched you.
That girl has found means to see the countess when she came there. She
must be examined. Is she still in your service?"

"No, she left me when the war broke out."

"Why?"

"She wanted to return to England."

"Then we cannot hope to find her again?"

"I believe not."

"We must give it up, then. But your man-servant? Old Anthony was in your
confidence. Did you never tell him any thing about it?"

"Never. Only once I sent for him to come to Vine Street when I had
sprained my foot in coming down stairs."

"So that it is impossible for you to prove that the Countess Claudieuse
ever came to your house in Passy? You have no evidence of it, and no
eye-witness?"

"I used to have evidence. She had brought a number of small articles for
her private use; but they have disappeared during the war."

"Ah, yes!" said M. Magloire, "always the war! It has to answer for every
thing."

Never had any of M. Galpin's examinations been half as painful to
Jacques de Boiscoran as this series of quick questions, which betrayed
such distressing incredulity.

"Did I not tell you, Magloire," he resumed, "that the countess had a
genius for prudence? You can easily conceal yourself when you can spend
money without counting it. Would you blame me for not having any proofs
to furnish? Is it not the duty of every man of honor to do all he can to
keep even a shadow of suspicion from her who has confided herself to
his hands? I have done my duty, and whatever may come of it, I shall not
regret it. Could I foresee such unheard-of emergencies? Could I foresee
that a day might come when I, Jacques de Boiscoran, should have to
denounce the Countess Claudieuse, and should be compelled to look for
evidence and witnesses against her?"

The eminent advocate of Sauveterre looked aside; and, instead of
replying, he said in a somewhat changed voice,--

"Go on, Jacques, go on!"

Jacques de Boiscoran tried to overcome the discouragement which
well-nigh mastered him, and said,--

"It was on the 2d September, 1867, that the Countess Claudieuse for
the first time entered this house in Passy, which I had purchased and
furnished for her; and during the five weeks which she spent in Paris,
she came almost every day, and spent several hours there.

"At her father's house she enjoyed absolute and almost uncontrolled
independence. She left her daughter--for she had at that time but one
child--with her mother, the Marchioness de Tassar; and she was free to
go and to come as she liked.

"When she wanted still greater freedom, she went to see her friend in
Fontainebleau; and every time she did this she secured twenty-four or
forty-eight hours over and above the time for the journey. I, for my
part, was as perfectly free from all control. Ostensibly, I had gone to
Ireland; in reality, I lived in Vine Street.

"These five weeks passed like a dream; and yet I must confess, the
parting was not as painful as might have been supposed. Not that the
bright prism was broken; but I always felt humiliated by the necessity
of being concealed. I began to be tired of these incessant precautions;
and I was quite ready to give up being Sir Francis Burnett, and to
resume my identity.

"We had, besides, promised each other never to remain a month without
seeing each other, at least for a few hours; and she had invented a
number of expedients by which we could meet without danger.

"A family misfortune came just then to our assistance. My father's
eldest brother, that kind uncle who had furnished me the means to
purchase my house in Passy, died, and left me his entire fortune. As
owner of Boiscoran, I could, henceforth, live as much as I chose in
the province; and at all events come there whenever I liked, without
anybody's inquiring for my reasons."



XIV.

Jacques de Boiscoran was evidently anxious to have done with his
recital, to come to that night of the fire at Valpinson, and to learn at
last from the eminent advocate of Sauveterre what he had to fear or to
hope. After a moment's silence, for his breath was giving out, and after
a few steps across his cell, he went on in a bitter tone of voice,--

"But why trouble you with all these details, Magloire? Would you believe
me any more than you do now, if I were to enumerate to you all my
meetings with the Countess Claudieuse, or if I were to repeat all her
most trifling words?

"We had gradually learnt to calculate all our movements, and made
our preparations so accurately, that we met constantly, and feared no
danger. We said to each other at parting, or she wrote to me, 'On such a
day, at such an hour, at such a place;' and however distant the day, or
the hour, or the place, we were sure to meet. I had soon learned to know
the country as well as the cleverest of poachers; and nothing was so
useful to us as this familiarity with all the unknown hiding-places.
The countess, on her side, never let three months pass by without
discovering some urgent motive which carried her to Rochelle, to
Angouleme, or to Paris; and I was there to meet her. Nothing kept her
from these excursions; even when indisposed, she braved the fatigues of
the journey. It is true, my life was well-nigh spent in travelling; and
at any moment, when least expected, I disappeared for whole weeks. This
will explain to you that restlessness at which my father sneered, and
for which you, yourself, Magloire, used to blame me."

"That is true," replied the latter. "I remember."

Jacques de Boiscoran did not seem to notice the encouragement.

"I should not tell the truth if I were to say that this kind of life was
unpleasant to me. Mystery and danger always add to the charms of love.
The difficulties only increased my passion. I saw something sublime
in this success with which two superior beings devoted all their
intelligence and cleverness to the carrying-on of a secret intrigue. The
more fully I became aware of the veneration with which the countess was
looked up to by the whole country, the more I learned to appreciate her
ability in dissembling and her profound perversity; and I was all the
more proud of her. I felt the pride setting my cheeks aglow when I saw
her at Brechy; for I came there every Sunday for her sake alone, to
see her pass calm and serene in the imposing security of her lofty
reputation. I laughed at the simplicity of all these honest, good
people, who bowed so low to her, thinking they saluted a saint; and I
congratulated myself with idiotic delight at being the only one who knew
the true Countess Claudieuse,--she who took her revenge so bravely in
our house in Passy!