Within an Inch of His Life

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


There was much truth in this; but there are certain truths which we are
not overfond of hearing.

"My simplicity has nothing to do with the matter," said M. Magloire. "I
affirm and maintain that a man who has been for five years the lover of
a woman must have some proof of it."

"Well, there you are mistaken, master," said the physician, arranging
his spectacles with an air of self-conceit, which, under other
circumstances, would have been irresistibly ludicrous.

"When women determine to be prudent and suspicious," remarked M. de
Chandore, "they never are so by halves."

"It is evident, besides," added M. Folgat, "that the Countess Claudieuse
would never have determined upon so bold a crime, if she had not been
quite sure, that after the burning of her letters, no proof could be
brought against her."

"That is it!" cried the doctor.

M. Magloire did not conceal his impatience. He said dryly,--

"Unfortunately, gentlemen, it does not depend on you to acquit or
condemn M. de Boiscoran. I am not here to convince you, or to be
convinced: I came to discuss with M. de Boiscoran's friends our line of
conduct, and the basis of or defence."

And M. Magloire was evidently right in this estimate of his duty. He
went and leaned against the mantelpiece; and, when the others had taken
their seats around him, he began,--

"In the first place, I will admit the allegations made by M. de
Boiscoran. He is innocent. He has been the lover of Countess Claudieuse;
but he has no proof. This being granted, what is to be done? Shall I
advise him to send for the magistrate, and to confess it all?"

No one replied at first. It was only after a long silence that Dr.
Seignebos said,--

"That would be very serious."

"Very serious, indeed," repeated the famous lawyer. "Our own feelings
give us the measure of what M. Galpin will think. First of all, he,
also, will ask for proof, the evidence of a witness, any thing, in fact.
And, when Jacques tells him that he has nothing to give but his word, M.
Galpin will tell him that he does not speak the truth."

"He might, perhaps, consent to extend the investigation," said M.
Seneschal. "He might possibly summon the countess."

M. Magloire nodded, and said,--

"He would certainly summon her. But, then, would she confess? It
would be madness to expect that. If she is guilty, she is far too
strong-minded to let the truth escape her. She would deny every thing,
haughtily, magnificently, and in such a manner as not to leave a shadow
of doubt."

"That is only too probable," growled the doctor. "That poor Galpin is
not the strongest of men."

"What would be the result of such a step?" asked M. Magloire. "M. de
Boiscoran's case would be a hundred times worse; for to his crime would
now be added the odium of the meanest, vilest calumny."

M. Folgat was following with the utmost attention. He said,--

"I am very glad to hear my honorable colleague give utterance to that
opinion. We must give up all hope of delaying the proceedings, and let
M. de Boiscoran go into court at once."

M. de Chandore raised his hands to heaven, as if in sheer despair.

"But Dionysia will die of grief and shame," he exclaimed.

M. Magloire, absorbed in his own views, went on,--

"Well, here we are now before the court at Sauveterre, before a jury
composed of people from this district, incapable of prevarication, I
am sure, but, unfortunately, under the influence of that public opinion
which has long since condemned M. de Boiscoran. The proceedings begin;
the judge questions the accused. Will he say what he told me,--that,
after having been the lover of the Countess Claudieuse, he had gone to
Valpinson to carry her back her letters, and to get his own, and that
they are all burnt? Suppose he says so. Immediately then there will
arise a storm of indignation; and he will be overwhelmed with curses
and with contempt. Well, thereupon, the president of the court uses his
discretionary powers, suspends the trial, and sends for the Countess
Claudieuse. Since we look upon her as guilty, we must needs endow her
with supernatural energy. She had foreseen what is coming, and has read
over her part. When summoned, she appears, pale, dressed in black; and
a murmur of respectful sympathy greets her at her entrance. You see her
before you, don't you? The president explains to her why she has been
sent for, and she does not comprehend. She cannot possibly comprehend
such an abominable calumny. But when she has comprehended it? Do you see
the lofty look by which she crushes Jacques, and the grandeur with which
she replies, 'When this man had failed in trying to murder my husband,
he tried to disgrace his wife. I intrust to you my honor as a mother
and a wife, gentlemen. I shall not answer the infamous charges of this
abject calumniator.'"

"But that means the galleys for Jacques," exclaimed M. de Chandore, "or
even the scaffold!"

"That would be the maximum, at all events," replied the advocate of
Sauveterre. "But the trial goes on; the prosecuting attorney demands an
overwhelming punishment; and at last the prisoner's council is called
upon to speak. Gentlemen, you were impatient at my persistence. I do not
credit, I confess, the statement made by M. de Boiscoran. But my young
colleague here does credit it. Well, let him tell us candidly. Would he
dare to plead this statement, and assert that the Countess Claudieuse
had been Jacques's mistress?"

M. Folgat looked annoyed.

"I don't know," he said in an undertone.

"Well, I know you would not," exclaimed M. Magloire; "and you would be
right, for you would risk your reputation without the slightest chance
of saving Jacques. Yes, no chance whatever! For after all, let us
suppose, what can hardly be even supposed, you should prove that Jacques
has told the truth, that he has been the lover of the countess. What
would happen then? They arrest the countess. Do they release M. de
Boiscoran on that account? Certainly not! They keep him in prison, and
say to him. 'This woman has attempted her husband's life; but she had
been your mistress, and you are her accomplice.'

"That is the situation, gentlemen!"

M. Magloire had stripped it of all unnecessary comments, of idle
conjecture, and all sentimental phraseology, and placed it before them
as it had to be looked at, in all its fearful simplicity.

Grandpapa Chandore was terrified. He rose, and said in an almost
inaudible voice,--

"Ah, all is over indeed! Innocent, or guilty, Jacques de Boiscoran will
be condemned."

M. Magloire made no reply.

"And that is," continued the old gentleman, "what you call justice!"

"Alas!" sighed M. Seneschal, "it is useless to deny it: trials by jury
are a lottery."

M. de Chandore, driven nearly to madness by his despair, interrupted
him,--

"In other words, Jacques's honor and life depend at this hour on a
chance,--on the weather on the day of the trial, or the health of a
juror. And if Jacques was the only one! But there is Dionysia's life,
gentlemen, my child's life, also at stake. If you strike Jacques, you
strike Dionysia!"

M. Folgat could hardly restrain a tear. M. Seneschal, and even the
doctor, shuddered at such grief in an old man, who was threatened in all
that was dearest to him,--in his one great love upon earth. He had
taken the hand of the great advocate of Sauveterre, and, pressing it
convulsively, he went on,--

"You will save him, Magloire, won't you? What does it matter whether he
be innocent or guilty, since Dionysia loves him? You have saved so many
in your life! It is well known the judges cannot resist the weight of
your words. You will find means to save a poor, unhappy man who once was
your friend."

The eminent lawyer looked cast-down, as if he had been guilty himself.
When Dr. Seignebos saw this, he exclaimed,--

"What do you mean, friend Magloire? Are you no longer the man whose
marvellous eloquence is the pride of our country? Hold your head up: for
shame! Never was a nobler cause intrusted to you."

But he shook his head, and murmured,--

"I have no faith in it; and I cannot plead when my conscience does not
furnish the arguments."

And becoming more and more embarrassed, he added,--

"Seignebos was right in saying just now, I am not the man for such a
cause. Here all my experience would be of no use. It will be better to
intrust it to my young brother here."

For the first time in his life, M. Folgat came here upon a case such
as enables a man to rise to eminence, and to open a great future before
him. For the first time, he came upon a case in which were united all
the elements of supreme interest,--greatness of crime, eminence
of victim, character of the accused, mystery, variety of opinions,
difficulty of defence, and uncertainty of issue,--one of those causes
for which an advocate is filled with enthusiasm, which he seizes upon
with all his energies, and in which he shares all the anxiety and all
the hopes with his client.

He would readily have given five years' income to be offered the
management of this case; but he was, above all, an honest man. He said,
therefore,--

"You would not think of abandoning M. de Boiscoran, M. Magloire?"

"You will be more useful to him than I can be," was the reply.

Perhaps M. Folgat was inwardly of the same opinion. Still he said,--

"You have not considered what an effect this would have."

"Oh!"

"What would the public think if they heard all of a sudden that you
had withdrawn? 'This affair of M. de Boiscoran must be a very bad one
indeed,' they would say, 'that M. Magloire should refuse to plead in
it.' And that would be an additional burden laid upon the unfortunate
man."

The doctor gave his friend no time to reply.

"Magloire is not at liberty to withdraw," he said, "but he has the right
to associate a brother-lawyer with himself. He must remain the
advocate and counsel of M. de Boiscoran; but M. Folgat can lend him the
assistance of his advice, the support of his youth and his activity, and
even of his eloquence."

A passing blush colored the cheeks of the young lawyer.

"I am entirely at M. Magloire's service," he said.

The famous advocate of Sauveterre considered a while. After a few
moments he turned to his young colleague, and asked him,--

"Have you any plan? Any idea? What would you do?"

To the astonishment of all, M. Folgat now revealed his true character
to some extent. He looked taller, his face brightened up, his eyes shone
brightly, and he said in a full, sonorous voice,--a voice which by its
metallic ring made all hearts vibrate,--

"First of all, I should go and see M. de Boiscoran. He alone should
determine my final decision. But my plan is formed now. I, gentlemen,
I have faith, as I told you before. The man whom Miss Dionysia loves
cannot be a criminal. What would I do? I would prove the truth of M.
de Boiscoran's statement. Can that be done? I hope so. He tells us
that there are no proofs or witnesses of his intimacy with the
Countess Claudieuse. I am sure he is mistaken. She has shown, he says,
extraordinary care and prudence. That may be. But mistrust challenges
suspicion; and, when you take the greatest precautions, you are most
likely to be watched. You want to hide, and you are discovered. You see
nobody; but they see you.

"If I were charged with the defence, I should commence to-morrow a
counter-investigation. We have money, the Marquis de Boiscoran has
influential connections; and we should have help everywhere. Before
forty-eight hours are gone, I should have experienced agents at work.
I know Vine Street in Passy: it is a lonely street; but it has eyes,
as all streets have. Why should not some of these eyes have noticed the
mysterious visits of the countess? My agents would inquire from house
to house. Nor would it be necessary to mention names. They would not
be charged with a search after the Countess Claudieuse, but after an
unknown lady, dressed so and so; and, if they should discover any one
who had seen her, and who could identify her, that man would be our
first witness.

"In the meantime, I should go in search of this friend of M. de
Boiscoran's, this Englishman, whose name he assumed; and the London
police would aid me in my efforts. If that Englishman is dead, we would
hear of it, and it would be a misfortune. If he is only at the other end
of the world, the transatlantic cable enables us to question him, and to
be answered in a week.

"I should, at the same time, have sent detectives after that English
maid-servant who attended to the house in Vine Street. M. de Boiscoran
declares that she has never even caught a glimpse of the countess. I do
not believe it. It is out of question that a servant should not wish for
the means, and find them, of seeing the face of the woman who comes to
see her master.

"And that is not all. There were other people who came to the house in
Vine Street. I should examine them one by one,--the gardener and his
help, the water-carrier, the upholsterer, the errand-boys of all the
merchants. Who can say whether one of them is not in possession of this
truth which we are seeking?

"Finally, when a woman has spent so many days in a house, it is almost
impossible that she should not have left some traces of her passage
behind her. Since then, you will say, there has been the war, and then
the commune. Nevertheless, I should examine the ruins, every tree in the
garden, every pane in the windows: I should compel the very mirrors that
have escaped destruction to give me back the image which they have so
often reflected."

"Ah, I call that speaking!" cried the doctor, full of enthusiasm.

The others trembled with excitement. They felt that the struggle was
commencing. But, unmindful of the impression he had produced, M. Folgat
went on,--

"Here in Sauveterre, the task would be more difficult; but, in case of
success, the result, also, would be more decided. I should bring down
from Paris one of those keen, subtle detectives who have made an art of
their profession, and I should know how to stimulate his vanity. He, of
course, would have to know every thing, even the names; but there would
be no danger in that. His desire to succeed, the splendor of the reward,
even his professional habits, would be our security. He would come down
secretly, concealed under whatever disguise would appear to him most
useful for his purpose; and he would begin once more, for the benefit of
the defence, the investigation carried on by M. Galpin for the benefit
of the prosecution. Would he find out any thing? We can but hope so. I
know detectives, who, by the aid of smaller material, have unravelled
far deeper mysteries."

Grandpapa Chandore, excellent M. Seneschal, Dr. Seignebos, and even M.
Magloire, were literally drinking in the words of the Paris lawyer.

"Is that all, gentlemen?" he continued. "By no means! Thanks to
his great experience, Dr. Seignebos had, on the very first day,
instinctively guessed who was the most important personage of this
mysterious drama."

"Cocoleu!"

"Exactly, Cocoleu. Whether he be actor, confident, or eye-witness,
Cocoleu has evidently the key to this mystery. This key we must make
every effort to obtain from him. Medical experts have just declared him
idiotic; nevertheless, we protest. We claim that the imbecility of this
wretch is partly assumed. We maintain that his obstinate silence is
a vile imposture. What! he should have intelligence enough to testify
against us, and yet not have left enough of it now to explain, or even
to repeat his evidence? That is inadmissible. We maintain that he keeps
silent now just as he spoke that night,--by order. If his silence was
less profitable for the prosecution, they would soon find means to break
it. We demand that such means should be employed. We demand that the
person who has before been able to loosen his tongue should be sent
for, and ordered to try the experiment over again. We call for a
new examination by experts: we cannot judge all of a sudden, and
in forty-eight hours, what is the true mental condition of a man,
especially when that man is suspected of being an impostor. And we
require, above all, that these new experts should be qualified by
knowledge and experience."

Dr. Seignebos was quivering with excitement. He heard all his own ideas
repeated in a concise, energetic manner.

"Yes," he cried, "that is the way to do it! Let me have full power, and
in less than a fortnight Cocoleu is unmasked."

Less expansive, the eminent advocate of Sauveterre simply shook hands
with M. Folgat, and said,--

"You see, M. de Boiscoran's case ought to be put in your hands."

The young lawyer made no effort to protest. When he began to speak, his
determination was already formed.

"Whatever can humanly be done," he replied, "I will do. If I accept the
task, I shall devote myself body and soul to it. But I insist upon it,
it is understood, and must be publicly announced, that M. Magloire does
not withdraw from the case, and that I act only as his junior."

"Agreed," said the old advocate.

"Well. When shall we go and see M. de Boiscoran?"

"To-morrow morning."

"I can, of course, take no steps till I have seen him."

"Yes, but you cannot be admitted, except by a special permission from M.
Galpin; and I doubt if we can procure that to-day."

"That is provoking."

"No, since we have our work all cut out for to-day. We have to go over
all the papers of the proceedings, which the magistrate has placed in my
hands."

Dr. Seignebos was boiling over with impatience. He broke in,--

"Oh, what words! Go to work, Mr. Advocate, to work, I say. Come, shall
we go?"

They were leaving the room when M. de Chandore called them back by a
gesture. He said,--

"So far, gentlemen, we have thought of Jacques alone. And Dionysia?"

The others looked at him, full of surprise.

"What am I to day if she asks me what the result of M. Magloire's
interview with Jacques has been, and why you would say nothing in her
presence?"

Dr. Seignebos had confessed it more than once: he was no friend of
concealment.

"You will tell her the truth," was his advice.

"What? How can I tell her that Jacques has been the lover of the
Countess Claudieuse?"

"She will hear of it sooner or later. Miss Dionysia is a sensible,
energetic girl."

"Yes; but Miss Dionysia is as ignorant as a holy angel," broke in M.
Folgat eagerly, "and she loves M. de Boiscoran. Why should we trouble
the purity of her thoughts and her happiness? Is she not unhappy enough?
M. de Boiscoran is no longer kept in close confinement. He will see his
betrothed, and, if he thinks proper, he can tell her. He alone has the
right to do so. I shall, however, dissuade him. From what I know of Miss
Chandore's character, it would be impossible for her to control herself,
if she should meet the Countess Claudieuse."

"M. de Chandore ought not to say any thing," said M. Magloire
decisively. "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?"

He was thinking it over almost painfully, when a maid came in, and told
him that Miss Dionysia wanted to see him.

"I am coming," he said.

And he followed her with heavy steps, and trying to compose his features
so as to efface all traces of the terrible emotions through which he
had passed. The two aunts had taken Dionysia and the marchioness to
the parlor in the upper story. Here M. de Chandore found them all
assembled,--the marchioness, pale and overcome, extended in an
easy-chair; but Dionysia, walking up and down with burning cheeks and
blazing eyes. As soon as he entered, she asked him in a sharp, sad
voice,--

"Well? There is no hope, I suppose."

"More hope than ever, on the contrary," he replied, trying to smile.

"Then why did M. De Magloire send us all out?"

The old gentleman had had time to prepare a fib.

"Because M. Magloire had to tell us a piece of bad news. There is no
chance of no true bill being found. Jacques will have to appear in
court."

The marchioness jumped up like a piece of mechanism, and cried,--

"What! Jacques before the assizes? My son? A Boiscoran?" And she fell
back into her chair. Not a muscle in Dionysia's face had moved. She said
in a strange tone of voice,--

"I was prepared for something worse. One may avoid the court."

With these words she left the room, shutting the door so violently, that
both the Misses Lavarande hastened after her. Now M. de Chandore thought
he might speak freely. He stood up before the marchioness, and gave vent
to that fearful wrath which had been rising within him for a long time.

"Your son," he cried, "your Jacques, I wish he were dead a thousand
times! The wretch who is killing my child, for you see he is killing
her."

And, without pity, he told her the whole story of Jacques and the
Countess Claudieuse. The marchioness was overcome. She had even ceased
to sob, and had not strength enough left to ask him to have pity on her.
And, when he had ended, she whispered to herself with an expression of
unspeakable suffering,--

"Adultery! Oh, my God! what punishment!"



XVI.

M. Folgat and M. Magloire went to the courthouse; and, as they descended
the steep street from M. de Chandore's house, the Paris lawyer said,--

"M. Galpin must fancy himself wonderfully safe in his position, that
he should grant the defence permission to see all the papers of the
prosecution."

Ordinarily such leave is given only after the court has begun
proceedings against the accused, and the presiding judge has questioned
him. This looks like crying injustice to the prisoner; and hence
arrangements can be made by which the rigor of the law is somewhat
mitigated. With the consent of the commonwealth attorney, and upon
his responsibility, the magistrate who had carried on the preliminary
investigation may inform the accused, or his counsel, by word of mouth,
or by a copy of all or of part, of what has happened during the first
inquiry. That is what M. Galpin had done.

And on the part of a man who was ever ready to interpret the law in its
strictest meaning, and who no more dared proceed without authority for
every step than a blind man without his staff,--or on the part of such
a man, an enemy, too, of M. de Boiscoran, this permission granted to
the defence was full of meaning. But did it really mean what M. Folgat
thought it did?

"I am almost sure you are mistaken," said M. Magloire. "I know the
good man, having practiced with him for many years. If he were sure
of himself, he would be pitiless. If he is kind, he is afraid. This
concession is a door which he keeps open, in case of defeat."

The eminent counsel was right. However well convinced M. Galpin might be
of Jacques's guilt, he was still very much troubled about his means of
defence. Twenty examinations had elicited nothing from his prisoner but
protestations of innocence. When he was driven to the wall, he would
reply,--

"I shall explain when I have seen my counsel."

This is often the reply of the most stupid scamp, who only wants to gain
time. But M. Galpin knew his former friend, and had too high an opinion
of his mind, not to fear that there was something serious beneath his
obstinate silence.

What was it? A clever falsehood? a cunningly-devised _alibi_? Or
witnesses bribed long beforehand?

M. Galpin would have given much to know. And it was for the purpose
of finding it out sooner, that he had given the permission. Before he
granted it, however, he had conferred with the commonwealth attorney.
Excellent M. Daubigeon, whom he found, as usual, admiring the beautiful
gilt edging of his beloved books, had treated him badly.

"Do you come for any more signatures?" he had exclaimed. "You shall have
them. If you want any thing else, your servant.

"'When the blunder is made,
It is too late, I tell thee, to come for advice.'"

However discouraging such a welcome might be, M. Galpin did not give up
his purpose. He said in his bitterest tone,--

"You still insist that it is a blunder to do one's duty. Has not a crime
been committed? Is it not my duty to find out the author, and to have
him punished? Well? Is it my fault if the author of this crime is an old
friend of mine, and if I was once upon a time on the point of marrying
a relation of his? There is no one in court who doubts M. de Boiscoran's
guilt; there is no one who dares blame me: and yet they are all as cold
as ice towards me."

"Such is the world," said M. Daubigeon with a face full of irony. "They
praise virtue; but they hate it."

"Well, yes! that is so," cried M. Galpin in his turn. "Yes, they blame
people who have done what they had not the courage to do. The attorney
general has congratulated me, because he judges things from on high
and impartially. Here cliques are all-powerful. Even those who ought
to encourage and support me, cry out against me. My natural ally, the
commonwealth attorney, forsakes me and laughs at me. The president
of the court, my immediate superior, said to me this morning with
intolerable irony, 'I hardly know any magistrate who would be able as
you are to sacrifice his relations and his friends to the interests of
truth and justice. You are one of the ancients: you will rise high.'"