Within an Inch of His Life

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


The countess, in a light muslin dress, was standing at the foot of her
husband's bed, pale but admirably composed and resigned. She was holding
a lamp, and moved it to and fro as the doctor directed. In a corner two
servant-women were sitting on a box, and crying, their aprons turned
over their heads.

At last the mayor of Sauveterre overcame his painful impressions, and
entered the room. Count Claudieuse was the first to perceive him, and
said,--

"Ah, here is our good M. Seneschal. Come nearer, my friend; come nearer.
You see the year 1871 is a fatal year. It will soon leave me nothing but
a few handfuls of ashes of all I possessed."

"It is a great misfortune," replied the excellent mayor; "but, after
all, it is less than we apprehended. God be thanked, you are safe!"

"Who knows? I am suffering terribly."

The countess trembled.

"Trivulce!" she whispered in a tone of entreaty. "Trivulce!"

Never did lover glance at his beloved with more tenderness than Count
Claudieuse did at his wife.

"Pardon me, my dear Genevieve, pardon me, if I show any want of
courage."

A sudden nervous spasm seized him; and then he exclaimed in a loud
voice, which sounded like a trumpet,--

"Sir! But sir! Thunder and lightning! You kill me!"

"I have some chloroform here," replied the physician coldly.

"I do not want any."

"Then you must make up your mind to suffer, and keep quiet now; for
every motion adds to your pain."

Then sponging a jet of blood which spurted out from under his knife, he
added,--

"However, you shall have a few minutes rest now. My eyes and my hand are
exhausted. I see I am no longer young."

Dr. Seignebos was sixty years old. He was a small, thin man, with a bald
head and a bilious complexion, carelessly dressed, and spending his life
in taking off, wiping, and putting back again his large gold spectacles.
His reputation was widespread; and they told of wonderful cures which
he had accomplished. Still he had not many friends. The common people
disliked his bitterness; the peasants, his strictness in demanding his
fees; and the townspeople, his political views.

There was a story that one evening, at a public dinner, he had gotten up
and said, "I drink to the memory of the only physician of whose pure and
chaste renown I am envious,--the memory of my countryman, Dr. Guillotin
of Saintes!"

Had he really offered such a toast? The fact is, he pretended to be a
fierce radical, and was certainly the soul and the oracle of the small
socialistic clubs in the neighborhood. People looked aghast when he
began to talk of the reforms which he thought necessary; and they
trembled when he proclaimed his convictions, that "the sword and the
torch ought to search the rotten foundations of society."

These opinions, certain utilitarian views of like eccentricity, and
still stranger experiments which he openly carried on before the whole
world, had led people more than once to doubt the soundness of his mind.
The most charitable said, "He is an oddity." This eccentric man had
naturally no great fondness for M. Seneschal, the mayor, a former
lawyer, and a legitimist. He did not think much of the commonwealth
attorney, a useless bookworm. But he detested M. Galpin. Still he bowed
to the three men; and, without minding his patient, he said to them,--

"You see, gentlemen, Count Claudieuse is in a bad plight. He has been
fired at with a gun loaded with small shot; and wounds made in that way
are very puzzling. I trust no vital part has been injured; but I cannot
answer for any thing. I have often in my practice seen very small
injuries, wounds caused by a small-sized shot, which, nevertheless,
proved fatal, and showed their true character only twelve or fifteen
hours after the accident had happened."

He would have gone on in this way, if the magistrate had not suddenly
interrupted him, saying,--

"Doctor, you know I am here because a crime has been committed. The
criminal has to be found out, and to be punished: hence I request your
assistance, from this moment, in the name of the Law."



III.

By this single phrase M. Galpin made himself master of the situation,
and reduced the doctor to an inferior position, in which, it is true, he
had the mayor and the commonwealth attorney to bear him company. There
was nothing now to be thought of, but the crime that had been committed,
and the judge who was to punish the author. But he tried in vain to
assume all the rigidity of his official air and that contempt for human
feelings which has made justice so hateful to thousands. His whole being
was impregnated with intense satisfaction, up to his beard, cut and
trimmed like the box-hedges of an old-fashioned garden.

"Well, doctor," he asked, "first of all, have you any objection to my
questioning your patient?"

"It would certainly be better for him to be left alone," growled Dr.
Seignebos. "I have made him suffer enough this last hour; and I shall
directly begin again cutting out the small pieces of lead which have
honeycombed his flesh. But if it must be"--

"It must be."

"Well, then, make haste; for the fever will set in presently."

M. Daubigeon could not conceal his annoyance. He called out,--

"Galpin, Galpin!"

The other man paid no attention. Having taken a note-book and a pencil
from his pocket, he drew up close to the sick man's bed, and asked him
in an undertone,--

"Are you strong enough, count, to answer my questions?"

"Oh, perfectly!"

"Then, pray tell me all you know of the sad events of to-night."

With the aid of his wife and Dr. Seignebos, the count raised himself on
his pillows, and began thus,--

"Unfortunately, the little I know will be of no use in aiding justice to
discover the guilty man. It may have been eleven o'clock, for I am not
even quite sure of the hour, when I had gone to bed, and just blown out
my candle: suddenly a bright light fell upon the window. I was amazed,
and utterly confused; for I was in that state of sleepiness which is not
yet sleep, but very much like it. I said to myself, 'What can this be?'
but I did not get up: I only was roused by a great noise, like the crash
of a falling wall; and then I jumped out of bed, and said to myself,
'The house is on fire!' What increased my anxiety was the fact, which
I at once recollected, that there were in the courtyard, and all around
the house, some sixteen thousand bundles of dry wood, which had been
cut last year. Half dressed, I rushed downstairs. I was very much
bewildered, I confess, and could hardly succeed in opening the outer
door: still I did open it at last. But I had barely put my foot on
the threshold, when I felt in my right side, a little above the hip, a
fierce pain, and heard at the same time, quite close to me, a shot."

The magistrate interrupted him by a gesture.

"Your statement, count, is certainly remarkably clear. But there is one
point we must try to establish. Were you really fired at the moment you
showed yourself at the door?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then the murderer must have been quite near on the watch. He must have
known that the fire would bring you out; and he was lying in wait for
you."

"That was and still is my impression," declared the count.

M. Galpin turned to M. Daubigeon.

"Then," he said to him, "the murder is the principal fact with which we
have to do; and the fire is only an aggravating circumstance,--the
means which the criminal employed in order to succeed the better in
perpetrating his crime."

Then, returning to the count, he said,--

"Pray go on."

"When I felt I was wounded," continued Count Claudieuse, "my first
impulse was instinctively to rush forward to the place from which the
gun seemed to have been fired at me. I had not proceeded three yards,
when I felt the same pain once more in the shoulder and in the neck.
This second wound was more serous than the first; for I lost my
consciousness, my head began to swim and I fell."

"You had not seen the murderer?"

"I beg your pardon. At the moment when I fell, I thought I saw a man
rush forth from behind a pile of fagots, cross the courtyard, and
disappear in the fields."

"Would you recognize him?"

"No."

"But you saw how he was dressed: you can give me a description?"

"No, I cannot. I felt as if there was a veil before my eyes; and he
passed me like a shadow."

The magistrate could hardly conceal his disappointment.

"Never mind," he said, "we'll find him out. But go on, sir."

The count shook his head.

"I have nothing more to say," he replied. "I had fainted; and when I
recovered my consciousness, some hours later, I found myself here lying
on this bed."

M. Galpin noted down the count's answers with scrupulous exactness: when
he had done, he asked again,--

"We must return to the details of the attack, and examine them minutely.
Now, however, it is important to know what happened after you fell. Who
could tell us that?"

"My wife, sir."

"I thought so. The countess, no doubt, got up when you rose."

"My wife had not gone to bed."

The magistrate turned suddenly to the countess; and at a glance he
perceived that her costume was not that of a lady who had been suddenly
roused from slumber by the burning of her house.

"I see," he said to himself.

"Bertha," the count went on to state, "our youngest daughter, who is
lying there on that bed, under the blanket, has the measles, and is
suffering terribly. My wife was sitting up with her. Unfortunately the
windows of her room look upon the garden, on the side opposite to that
where the fire broke out."

"How, then, did the countess become award of the accident?" asked the
magistrate.

Without waiting for a more direct question, the countess came forward
and said,--

"As my husband has just told you, I was sitting up with my little
Bertha. I was rather tired; for I had sat up the night before also, and
I had begun to nod, when a sudden noise aroused me. I was not quite sure
whether I had really heard such a noise; but just then a second shot
was heard. I left the room more astonished than frightened. Ah, sir! The
fire had already made such headway, that the staircase was as light as
in broad day. I went down in great haste. The outer door was open. I
went out; and there, some five or six yards from me, I saw, by the
light of the flames, the body of my husband lying on the ground. I threw
myself upon him; but he did not even hear me; his heart had ceased to
beat. I thought he was dead; I called for help; I was in despair."

M. Seneschal and M. Daubigeon trembled with excitement.

"Well, very well!" said M. Galpin, with an air of satisfaction,--"very
well done!"

"You know," continued the countess, "how hard it is to rouse
country-people. It seems to me I remained ever so long alone there,
kneeling by the side of my husband. At last the brightness of the fire
awakened some of the farm-hands, the workmen, and our servants. They
rushed out, crying, 'Fire!' When they saw me, they ran up and helped
me carry my husband to a place of safety; for the danger was increasing
every minute. The fire was spreading with terrific violence, thanks to
a furious wind. The barns were one vast mass of fire; the outbuildings
were burning; the distillery was in a blaze; and the roof of the
dwelling-house was flaming up in various places. And there was not one
cool head among them all. I was so utterly bewildered, that I forgot all
about my children; and their room was already in flames, when a brave,
bold fellow rushed in, and snatched them from the very jaws of death. I
did not come to myself till Dr. Seignebos arrived, and spoke to me words
of hope. This fire will probably ruin us; but what matters that, so long
as my husband and my children are safe?"

Dr. Seignebos had more than once given utterance to his contemptuous
impatience: he did not appreciate these preliminary steps. The others,
however, the mayor, the attorney, and even the servants, had hardly
been able to suppress their excitement. He shrugged his shoulders, and
growled between his teeth,--

"Mere formalities! How petty! How childish!"

After having taken off his spectacles, wiped them and replaced them
twenty times, he had sat down at the rickety table in the corner of the
room, and amused himself with arranging the fifteen or twenty shot he
had extracted from the count's wounds, in long lines or small circles.
But, when the countess uttered her last words, he rose, and, turning to
M. Galpin, said in a curt tone,--

"Now, sir, I hope you will let me have my patient again."

The magistrate was not a little incensed: there was reason enough,
surely; and, frowning fiercely, he said,--

"I appreciate, sir, the importance of your duties; but mine are, I
think, by no means less solemn nor less urgent."

"Oh!"

"Consequently you will be pleased, sir, to grant me five minutes more."

"Ten, if it must be, sir. Only I warn you that every minute henceforth
may endanger the life of my patient."

They had drawn near to each other, and were measuring each other with
defiant looks, which betrayed the bitterest animosity. They would surely
not quarrel at the bedside of a dying man? The countess seemed to fear
such a thing; for she said reproachfully,--

"Gentlemen, I pray, gentlemen"--

Perhaps her intervention would have been of no avail, if M. Seneschal
and M. Daubigeon had not stepped in, each addressing one of the two
adversaries. M. Galpin was apparently the most obstinate of the two;
for, in spite of all, he began once more to question the count, and
said,--

"I have only one more question to ask you, sir: Where and how were you
standing, where and how do you think the murderer was standing, at the
moment when the crime was committed?"

"Sir," replied the count, evidently with a great effort, "I was
standing, as I told you, on the threshold of my door, facing the
courtyard. The murderer must have been standing some twenty yards off,
on my right, behind a pile of wood."

When he had written down the answer of the wounded man, the magistrate
turned once more to the physician, and said,--

"You heard what was said, sir. It is for you now to aid justice by
telling us at what distance the murderer must have been when he fired."

"I don't guess riddles," replied the physician coarsely.

"Ah, have a care, sir!" said M. Galpin. "Justice, whom I here represent,
has the right and the means to enforce respect. You are a physician,
sir; and your science is able to answer my question with almost
mathematical accuracy."

The physician laughed, and said,--

"Ah, indeed! Science has reached that point, has it? Which science?
Medical jurisprudence, no doubt,--that part of our profession which is
at the service of the courts, and obeys the judges' behests."

"Sir!"

But the doctor was not the man to allow himself to be defeated a second
time. He went on coolly,--

"I know what you are going to say; there is no handbook of medical
jurisprudence which does not peremptorily settle the question you ask
me. I have studied these handbooks, these formidable weapons which you
gentlemen of the bar know so well how to handle. I know the opinions
of a Devergie and an Orfila, I know even what Casper and Tardieu, and
a host of others teach on that subject. I am fully aware that these
gentlemen claim to be able to tell you by the inch at what distance
a shot has been fired. But I am not so skilful. I am only a poor
country-practitioner, a simple healer of diseases. And before I give an
opinion which may cost a poor devil his life, innocent though he be, I
must have time to reflect, to consult data, and to compare other cases
in my practice."

He was so evidently right in reality, if not in form, that even M.
Galpin gave way.

"It is merely as a matter of information that I request your opinion,
sir," he replied. "Your real and carefully-considered professional
opinion will, of course, be given in a special statement."

"Ah, if that is the case!"

"Pray, inform me, then unofficially, what you think of the nature of the
wounds of Count Claudieuse."

Dr. Seignebos settled his spectacles ceremoniously on his nose, and then
replied,--

"My impression, so far as I am now able to judge, is that the count has
stated the facts precisely as they were. I am quite ready to believe
that the murderer was lying in ambush behind one of the piles of wood,
and at the distance which he has mentioned. I am also able to affirm
that the two shots were fired at different distances,--one much nearer
than the other. The proof of it lies in the nature of the wounds, one of
which, near the hip may be scientifically called"--

"But we know at what distance a ball is spent," broke in M. Seneschal,
whom the doctor's dogmatic tone began to annoy.

"Ah, do we know that, indeed? You know it, M. Seneschal? Well, I declare
I do not know it. To be sure, I bear in mind, what you seem to forget,
that we have no longer, as in former days, only three or four kinds
of guns. Did you think of the immense variety of fire-arms, French and
English, American and German, which are nowadays found in everybody's
hands? Do you not see, you who have been a lawyer and a magistrate, that
the whole legal question will be based upon this grave and all-important
point?"

Thereupon the physician resumed his instruments, resolved to give no
other answer, and was about to go to work once more when fearful
cries were heard without; and the lawyers, the mayor, and the countess
herself, rushed at once to the door.

These cries were, unfortunately, not uttered without cause. The roof of
the main building had just fallen in, burying under its ruins the
poor drummer who had a few hours ago beaten the alarm, and one of the
firemen, the most respected carpenter in Sauveterre, and a father of
five children.

Capt. Parenteau seemed to be maddened by this disaster; and all vied
with each other in efforts to rescue the poor fellows, who were uttering
shrieks of horror that rose high above the crash of falling timbers. But
all their endeavors were unavailing. One of the gendarmes and a farmer,
who had nearly succeeded in reaching the sufferers, barely escaped being
burnt themselves, and were only rescued after having been dangerously
injured. Then only it seemed as if all became fully aware of the
abominable crime committed by the incendiary. Then only the clouds
of smoke and the columns of fire, which rose high into the air, were
accompanied by fierce cries of vengeance rising heavenwards.

"Death to the incendiary! Death!"

At the moment M. Seneschal felt himself inspired with a sudden thought.
He knew how cautious peasants are, and how difficult it is to make them
tell what they know. He climbed, therefore, upon a heap of fallen beams,
and said in a clear, loud voice,--

"Yes, my friends, you are right: death to the incendiary! Yes, the
unfortunate victims of the basest of all crimes must be avenged. We must
find out the incendiary; we must! You want it to be done, don't you?
Well, it depends only on you. There must be some one among you who knows
something about this matter. Let him come forward and tell us what he
has seen or heard. Remember that the smallest trifle may be a clew
to the crime. You would be as bad as the incendiary himself, if you
concealed him. Just think it over, consider."

Loud voices were heard in the crowd; then suddenly a voice said,--

"There is one here who can tell."

"Who?"

"Cocoleu. He was there from the beginning. It was he who went and
brought the children of the countess out of their room. What has become
of him?--Cocoleu, Cocoleu!"

One must have lived in the country, among these simple-minded peasants,
to understand the excitement and the fury of all these men and women as
they crowded around the ruins of Valpinson. People in town do not mind
brigands, in general: they have their gas, their strong doors, and
the police. They are generally little afraid of fire. They have their
fire-alarms; and at the first spark the neighbor cries, "Fire!" The
engines come racing up; and water comes forth as if by magic. But it
is very different in the country: here every man is constantly under
a sense of his isolation. A simple latch protects his door; and no one
watches over his safety at night. If a murderer should attack him, his
cries could bring no help. If fire should break out, his house would be
burnt down before the neighbors could reach it; and he is happy who can
save his own life and that of his family. Hence all these good people,
whom the mayor's words had deeply excited, were eager to find out the
only man who knew anything about this calamity, Cocoleu.

He was well known among them, and for many years.

There was not one among them who had not given him a piece of bread, or
a bowl of soup, when he was hungry; not one of them had ever refused
him a night's rest on the straw in his barn, when it was raining or
freezing, and the poor fellow wanted a shelter.

For Cocoleu was one of those unfortunate beings who labor under a
grievous physical or moral deformity.

Some twenty years ago, a wealthy land-owner in Brechy had sent to the
nearest town for half a dozen painters, whom he kept at his house nearly
a whole summer, painting and decorating his newly-built house. One of
these men had seduced a girl in the neighborhood, whom he had bewitched
by his long white blouse, his handsome brown mustache, his good spirits,
gay songs, and flattering speeches. But, when the work was done, the
tempter had flown away with the others, without thinking any more of the
poor girl than of the last cigar which he had smoked.

And yet she was expecting a child. When she could no longer conceal
her condition, she was turned out of the house in which she had been
employed; and her family, unable to support themselves, drove her away
without mercy. Overcome with grief, shame, and remorse, poor Colette
wandered from farm to farm, begging, insulted, laughed at, beaten even
at times. Thus it came about, that in a dark wood, one dismal winter
evening, she gave life to a male child. No one ever understood how
mother and child managed to survive. But both lived; and for many a year
they were seen in and around Sauveterre, covered with rags, and living
upon the dear-bought generosity of the peasants.

Then the mother died, utterly forsaken by human help, as she had lived.
They found her body, one morning, in a ditch by the wayside.

The child survived alone. He was then eight years old, quite strong
and tall for his age. A farmer took pity on him, and took him home.
The little wretch was not fit for anything: he could not even keep
his master's cows. During his mother's lifetime, his silence, his wild
looks, and his savage appearance, had been attributed to his wretched
mode of life. But when people began to be interested in him, they found
out that his intellect had never been aroused. He was an idiot, and,
besides, subject to that terrible nervous affection which at times
shakes the whole body and disfigures the face by the violence of
uncontrollable convulsions. He was not a deaf-mute; but he could
only stammer out with intense difficulty a few disjointed syllables.
Sometimes the country people would say to him,--

"Tell us your name, and you shall have a cent."

Then it took him five minutes' hard work to utter, amid a thousand
painful contortions, the name of his mother.

"Co-co-co-lette."

Hence came his name Cocoleu. It had been ascertained that he was utterly
unable to do anything; and people ceased to interest themselves in his
behalf. The consequence was, that he became a vagabond as of old.

It was about this time that Dr. Seignebos, on one of his visits, met him
one day on the public road.

This excellent man had, among other extraordinary notions, the
conviction that idiocy is nothing more than a defective state of
the brains, which may be remedied by the use of certain well-known
substances, such as phosphorus, for instance. He lost no time in seizing
upon this admirable opportunity to test his theory. Cocoleu was sent
for, and installed in his house. He subjected him to a treatment which
he kept secret; and only a druggist at Sauveterre, who was also
well known as entertaining very extraordinary notions, knew what
had happened. At the end of eighteen months, Cocoleu had fallen off
terribly: he talked perhaps, a little more fluently; but his intellect
had not been perceptibly improved.

Dr. Seignebos was discouraged. He made up a parcel of things which he
had given to his patient, put it into his hands, pushed him out of his
door, and told him never to come back again.

The doctor had rendered Cocoleu a sad service. The poor idiot had lost
the habit of privation: he had forgotten how to go from door to door,
asking for alms; and he would have perished, if his good fortune had not
led him to knock at the door of the house at Valpinson.

Count Claudieuse and his wife were touched by his wretchedness, and
determined to take charge of him. They gave him a room and a bed at one
of the farmhouses; but they could never induce him to stay there. He
was by nature a vagabond; and the instinct was too strong for him. In
winter, frost and snow kept him in for a little while; but as soon as
the first leaves came out, he went wandering again through forest and
field, remaining absent often for weeks altogether.