Within an Inch of His Life

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


M. Folgat took careful notes of all he could learn. Then he said,--

"This is more than enough to begin the campaign. Now you must give me
the name and address of your tradesmen in Passy."

"You will find a list in a small pocket-book which is in the same drawer
with the keys. In the same drawer are also all the deeds and other
papers concerning the house. Finally, you might take Anthony with you:
he is devoted to me."

"I shall certainly take him, if you permit me," replied the lawyer. Then
putting up his notes, he added,--

"I shall not be absent more than three or four days; and, as soon as I
return, we will draw up our plan of defence. Till then, my dear client,
keep up your courage."

They called Blangin to open the door for them; and, after having shaken
hands with Jacques de Boiscoran, M. Folgat and M. Magloire went away.

"Well, are we going down now?" asked the jailer.

But Jacques made no reply.

He had most ardently hoped for his mother's visit; and now, when he
was about to see her, he felt assailed by all kinds of vague and sombre
apprehensions. The last time he had kissed her was in Paris, in the
beautiful parlor of their family mansion. He had left her, his heart
swelling with hopes and joy, to go to his Dionysia; and his mother, he
remembered distinctly, had said to him, "I shall not see you again till
the day before the wedding."

And now she was to see him again, in the parlor of a jail, accused of an
abominable crime. And perhaps she was doubtful of his innocence.

"Sir, the marchioness is waiting for you," said the jailer once more. At
the man's voice, Jacques trembled.

"I am ready," he replied: "let us go!" And, while descending the stairs,
he tried his best to compose his features, and to arm himself with
courage and calmness.

"For," he said, "She must not become aware of it, how horrible my
position is."

At the foot of the steps, Blangin pointed at a door, and said,--

"That is the parlor. When the marchioness wants to go, please call me."

On the threshold, Jacques paused once more.

The parlor of the jail at Sauveterre is an immense vaulted hall, lighted
up by two narrow windows with close, heavy iron gratings. There is no
furniture save a coarse bench fastened to the damp, untidy wall; and on
this bench, in the full light of the sun, sat, or rather lay, apparently
bereft of all strength, the Marchioness of Boiscoran.

When Jacques saw her, he could hardly suppress a cry of horror and
grief. Was that really his mother,--that thin old lady with the sallow
complexion, the red eyes, and trembling hands?

"O God, O God!" he murmured.

She heard him, for she raised her head; and, when she recognized him,
she wanted to rise; but her strength forsook her, and she sank back upon
the bench, crying,--

"O Jacques, my child!"

She, also, was terrified when she saw what two months of anguish and
sleeplessness had done for Jacques. But he was kneeling at her feet upon
the muddy pavement, and said in a barely intelligible voice,--

"Can you pardon me the great grief I cause you?"

She looked at him for a moment with a bewildered air; and then, all of
a sudden, she took his head in her two hands, kissed him with passionate
vehemence, and said,--

"Will I pardon you? Alas, what have I to pardon? If you were guilty, I
should love you still; and you are innocent."

Jacques breathed more freely. In his mother's voice he felt that she, at
least, was sure of him.

"And father?" he asked.

There was a faint blush on the pale cheeks of the marchioness.

"I shall see him to-morrow," she replied; "for I leave to-night with M.
Folgat."

"What! In this state of weakness?"

"I must."

"Could not father leave his collections for a few days? Why did he not
come down? Does he think I am guilty?"

"No; it is just because he is so sure of your innocence, that he remains
in Paris. He does not believe you in danger. He insists upon it that
justice cannot err."

"I hope so," said Jacques with a forced smile.

Then changing his tone,--

"And Dionysia? Why did she not come with you?"

"Because I would not have it. She knows nothing. It has been agreed upon
that the name of the Countess Claudieuse is not to be mentioned in her
presence; and I wanted to speak to you about that abominable woman.
Jacques, my poor child, where has that unlucky passion brought you!"

He made no reply.

"Did you love her?" asked the marchioness.

"I thought I did."

"And she?"

"Oh, she! God alone knows the secret of that strange heart."

"There is nothing to hope from her, then, no pity, no remorse?"

"Nothing. I have given her up. She has had her revenge. She had
forewarned me."

The marchioness sighed.

"I thought so," she said. "Last Sunday, when I knew as yet of nothing,
I happened to be close to her at church, and unconsciously admired
her profound devotion, the purity of her eye, and the nobility of her
manner. Yesterday, when I heard the truth, I shuddered. I felt how
formidable a woman must be who can affect such calmness at a time when
her lover lies in prison accused of the crime which she has committed."

"Nothing in the world would trouble her, mother."

"Still she ought to tremble; for she must know that you have told us
every thing. How can we unmask her?"

But time was passing; and Blangin came to tell the marchioness that she
had to withdraw. She went, after having kissed her son once more.

That same evening, according to their arrangement, she left for Paris,
accompanied by M. Folgat and old Anthony.



XVIII.

At Sauveterre, everybody, M. de Chandore as much as Jacques himself,
blamed the Marquis de Boiscoran. He persisted in remaining in Paris, it
is true: but it was certainly not from indifference; for he was dying
with anxiety. He had shut himself up, and refused to see even his oldest
friends, even his beloved dealers in curiosities. He never went out; the
dust accumulated on his collections; and nothing could arouse him from
this state of prostration, except a letter from Sauveterre.

Every morning he received three or four,--from the marchioness or M.
Folgat, from M. Seneschal or M. Magloire, from M. de Chandore, Dionysia,
or even from Dr. Seignebos. Thus he could follow at a distance all the
phases, and even the smallest changes, in the proceedings. Only one
thing he would not do: he would not come down, however important his
coming might be for his son. He did not move.

Once only he had received, through Dionysia's agency, a letter from
Jacques himself; and then he ordered his servant to get ready his
trunks for the same evening. But at the last moment he had given
counter-orders, saying that he had reconsidered, and would not go.

"There is something extraordinary going on in the mind of the marquis,"
said the servants to each other.

The fact is, he spent his days, and a part of his nights, in his
cabinet, half-buried in an arm-chair, resting little, and sleeping still
less, insensible to all that went on around him. On his table he had
arranged all his letters from Sauveterre in order; and he read and
re-read them incessantly, examining the phrases, and trying, ever in
vain, to disengage the truth from this mass of details and statements.
He was no longer as sure of his son as at first: far from it! Every day
had brought him a new doubt; every letter, additional uncertainty. Hence
he was all the time a prey to most harassing apprehensions. He put them
aside; but they returned, stronger and more irresistible than before
like the waves of the rising tide.

He was thus one morning in his cabinet. It was very early yet; but he
was more than ever suffering from anxiety, for M. Folgat had written,
"To-morrow all uncertainty will end. To-morrow the close confinement
will be raised, and M. Jacques will see M. Magloire, the counsel whom he
has chosen. We will write immediately."

It was for this news the marquis was waiting now. Twice already he had
rung to inquire if the mail had not come yet, when all of a sudden his
valet appeared and with a frightened air said,--

"The marchioness. She has just come with Anthony, M. Jacques's own man."

He hardly said so, when the marchioness herself entered, looking even
worse than she had done in the prison parlor; for she was overcome by
the fatigue of a night spent on the road.

The marquis had started up suddenly. As soon as the servant had left
the room, and shut the door again, he said with trembling voice, as if
wishing for an answer, and still fearing to hear it,--

"Has any thing unusual happened?"

"Yes."

"Good or bad?"

"Sad."

"Great God! Jacques has not confessed?"

"How could he confess when he is innocent?"

"Then he has explained?"

"As far as I am concerned, and M. Folgat, Dr. Seignebos, and all who
know him and love him, yes, but not for the public, for his enemies, or
the law. He has explained every thing; but he has no proof."

The mournful features of the marquis settled into still deeper gloom.

"In other words, he has to be believed on his own word?" he asked.

"Don't you believe him?"

"I am not the judge of that, but the jury."

"Well, for the jury he will find proof. M. Folgat, who has come in the
same train with me, and whom you will see to-day, hopes to discover
proof."

"Proof of what?"

Perhaps the marchioness was not unprepared for such a reception. She
expected it, and still she was disconcerted.

"Jacques," she began, "has been the lover of the Countess Claudieuse."

"Ah, ah!" broke in the marquis.

And, in a tone of offensive irony, he added,--

"No doubt another story of adultery; eh?"

The marchioness did not answer. She quietly went on,--

"When the countess heard of Jacques's marriage, and that he abandoned
her, she became exasperated, and determined to be avenged."

"And, in order to be avenged, she attempted to murder her husband; eh?"

"She wished to be free."

The Marquis de Boiscoran interrupted his wife with a formidable oath.
Then he cried,--

"And that is all Jacques could invent! And to come to such an abortive
story--was that the reason of his obstinate silence?"

"You do not let me finish. Our son is the victim of unparalleled
coincidences."

"Of course! Unparalleled coincidences! That is what every one of the
thousand or two thousand rascals say who are sentenced every year. Do
you think they confess? Not they! Ask them, and they will prove to you
that they are the victims of fate, of some dark plot, and, finally, of
an error of judgment. As if justice could err in these days of ours,
after all these preliminary examinations, long inquiries, and careful
investigations."

"You will see M. Folgat. He will tell you what hope there is."

"And if all hope fails?"

The marchioness hung her head.

"All would not be lost yet. But then we should have to endure the pain
of seeing our son brought up in court."

The tall figure of the old gentleman had once more risen to its full
height; his face grew red; and the most appalling wrath flashed from his
eyes.

"Jacques brought up in court?" he cried, with a formidable voice. "And
you come and tell me that coolly, as if it were a very simple and quite
natural matter! And what will happen then, if he is in court? He will be
condemned; and a Boiscoran will go to the galleys. But no, that cannot
be! I do not say that a Boiscoran may not commit a crime, passion makes
us do strange things; but a Boiscoran, when he regains his senses, knows
what becomes him to do. Blood washes out all stains. Jacques prefers the
executioner; he waits; he is cunning; he means to plead. If he but save
his head, he is quite content. A few years at hard labor, I suppose,
will be a trifle to him. And that coward should be a Boiscoran: my blood
should flow in his veins! Come, come, madam, Jacques is no son of mine."

Crushed as the marchioness had seemed to be till now, she rose under
this atrocious insult.

"Sir!" she cried.

But M. de Boiscoran was not in a state to listen to her.

"I know what I am saying," he went on. "I remember every thing, if you
have forgotten every thing. Come, let us go back to your past. Remember
the time when Jacques was born, and tell me what year it was when M. de
Margeril refused to meet me."

Indignation restored to the marchioness her strength. She cried,--

"And you come and tell me this to-day, after thirty years, and God knows
under what circumstances!"

"Yes, after thirty years. Eternity might pass over these recollections,
and it would not efface them. And, but for these circumstances to which
you refer, I should never have said any thing. At the time to which I
allude, I had to choose between two evils,--either to be ridiculous, or
to be hated. I preferred to keep silence, and not to inquire too far.
My happiness was gone; but I wished to save my peace. We have lived
together on excellent terms; but there has always been between us this
high wall, this suspicion. As long as I was doubtful, I kept silent. But
now, when the facts confirm my doubts, I say again, 'Jacques is no son
of mine!'"

Overcome with grief, shame, and indignation, the Marchioness de
Boiscoran was wringing her hands; then she cried,--

"What a humiliation! What you are saying is too horrible. It is unworthy
of you to add this terrible suffering to the martyrdom which I am
enduring."

M. de Boiscoran laughed convulsively.

"Have I brought about this catastrophe?"

"Well then yes! One day I was imprudent and indiscreet. I was young; I
knew nothing of life; the world worshipped me; and you, my husband, my
guide, gave yourself up to your ambition, and left me to myself. I could
not foresee the consequences of a very inoffensive piece of coquetry."

"You see, then, now these consequences. After thirty years, I disown the
child that bears my name; and I say, that, if he is innocent, he suffers
for his mother's sins. Fate would have it that your son should covet his
neighbor's wife, and, having taken her, it is but justice that he should
die the death of the adulterer."

"But you know very well that I have never forgotten my duty."

"I know nothing."

"You have acknowledged it, because you refused to hear the explanation
which would have justified me."

"True, I did shrink from an explanation, which, with your unbearable
pride, would necessarily have led to a rupture, and thus to a fearful
scandal."

The marchioness might have told her husband, that, by refusing to hear
her explanation, he had forfeited all right to utter a reproach; but she
felt it would be useless, and thus he went on,--

"All I do know is, that there is somewhere in this world a man whom I
wanted to kill. Gossiping people betrayed his name to me. I went to him,
and told him that I demanded satisfaction, and that I hoped he would
conceal the real reason for our encounter even from our seconds. He
refused to give me satisfaction, on the ground that he did not owe me
any, that you had been calumniated, and that he would meet me only if I
should insult him publicly."

"Well?"

"What could I do after that? Investigate the matter? You had no doubt
taken your precautions, and it would have amounted to nothing. Watch
you? I should only have demeaned myself uselessly; for you were no doubt
on your guard. Should I ask for a divorce? The law afforded me that
remedy. I might have dragged you into court, held you up to the sarcasms
of my counsel, and exposed you to the jests of your own. I had a right
to humble you, to dishonor my name, to proclaim your disgrace, to
publish it in the newspapers. Ah, I would have died rather!"

The marchioness seemed to be puzzled.

"That was the explanation of your conduct?"

"Yes, that was my reason for giving up public life, ambitious as I
was. That was the reason why I withdrew from the world; for I thought
everybody smiled as I passed. That is why I gave up to you the
management of our house and the education of your son, why I became a
passionate collector, a half-mad original. And you find out only to-day
that you have ruined my life?"

There was more compassion than resentment in the manner in which the
marchioness looked at her husband.

"You had mentioned to me your unjust suspicions," she replied; "but I
felt strong in my innocence, and I was in hope that time and my conduct
would efface them."

"Faith once lost never comes back again."

"The fearful idea that you could doubt of your paternity had never even
occurred to me."

The marquis shook his head.

"Still it was so," he replied. "I have suffered terribly. I loved
Jacques. Yes, in spite of all, in spite of myself, I loved him. Had he
not all the qualities which are the pride and the joy of a family?
Was he not generous and noble-hearted, open to all lofty sentiments,
affectionate, and always anxious to please me? I never had to complain
of him. And even lately, during this abominable war, has he not again
shown his courage, and valiantly earned the cross which they gave him?
At all times, and from all sides, I have been congratulated on his
account. They praised his talents and his assiduity. Alas! at the very
moment when they told me what a happy father I was, I was the most
wretched of men. How many times would I have drawn him to my heart! But
immediately that terrible doubt rose within me, if he should not be my
son; and I pushed him back, and looked in his features for a trace of
another man's features."

His wrath had cooled down, perhaps by its very excess.

He felt a certain tenderness in his heart, and sinking into his chair,
and hiding his face in his hands, he murmured,--

"If he should be my son, however; if he should be innocent! Ah, this
doubt is intolerable! And I who would not moved from here,--I who have
done nothing for him,--I might have done every thing at first. It would
have been easy for me to obtain a change of venue to free him from this
Galpin, formerly his friend, and now his enemy."

M. de Boiscoran was right when he said that his wife's pride was
unmanageable. And still, as cruelly wounded as woman well could be, she
now suppressed her pride, and, thinking only of her son, remained quite
humble. Drawing from her bosom the letter which Jacques had sent to
her the day before she left Sauveterre, she handed it to her husband,
saying,--

"Will you read what our son says?"

The marquis's hand trembled as he took the letter; and, when he had torn
it open, he read,--

"Do you forsake me too, father, when everybody forsakes me? And yet I
have never needed your love as much as now. The peril is imminent. Every
thing is against me. Never has such a combination of fatal circumstances
been seen before. I may not be able to prove my innocence; but you,--you
surely cannot think your son guilty of such an absurd and heinous crime!
Oh, no! surely not. My mind is made up. I shall fight to the bitter end.
To my last breath I shall defend, not my life, but my honor. Ah, if you
but knew! But there are things which cannot be written, and which only
a father can be told. I beseech you come to me, let me see you, let me
hold your hand in mine. Do not refuse this last and greatest comfort to
your unhappy son."

The marquis had started up.

"Oh, yes, very unhappy indeed!" he cried.

And, bowing to his wife, he said,--

"I interrupted you. Now, pray tell me all."

Maternal love conquered womanly resentment. Without a shadow of
hesitation, and as if nothing had taken place, the marchioness gave
her husband the whole of Jacques's statement as he had made it to M.
Magloire.

The marquis seemed to be amazed.

"That is unheard of!" he said.

And, when his wife had finished, he added,--

"That was the reason why Jacques was so very angry when you spoke of
inviting the Countess Claudieuse, and why he told you, that, if he
saw her enter at one door, he would walk out of the other. We did not
understand his aversion."

"Alas! it was not aversion. Jacques only obeyed at that time the cunning
lessons given him by the countess."

In less than one minute the most contradictory resolutions seemed to
flit across the marquis's face. He hesitated, and at last he said,--

"Whatever can be done to make up for my inaction, I will do. I will go
to Sauveterre. Jacques must be saved. M. de Margeril is all-powerful. Go
to him. I permit it. I beg you will do it."

The eyes of the marchioness filled with tears, hot tears, the first she
had shed since the beginning of this scene.

"Do you not see," she asked, "that what you wish me to do is now
impossible? Every thing, yes, every thing in the world but that. But
Jacques and I--we are innocent. God will have pity on us. M. Folgat will
save us."



XIX.

M. Folgat was already at work. He had confidence in his cause, a
firm conviction of the innocence of his client, a desire to solve the
mystery, a love of battle, and an intense thirst for success: all these
motives combined to stimulate the talents of the young advocate, and to
increase his activity.

And, above all this, there was a mysterious and indefinable sentiment
with which Dionysia had inspired him; for he had succumbed to her
charms, like everybody else. It was not love, for he who says love says
hope; and he knew perfectly well that altogether and forever Dionysia
belonged to Jacques. It was a sweet and all-powerful sentiment, which
made him wish to devote himself to her, and to count for something in
her life and in her happiness.

It was for her sake that he had sacrificed all his business, and
forgotten his clients, in order to stay at Sauveterre. It was for her
sake, above all, that he wished to save Jacques.

He had no sooner arrived at the station, and left the Marchioness de
Boiscoran in old Anthony's care, than he jumped into a cab, and had
himself driven to his house. He had sent a telegram the day before; and
his servant was waiting for him. In less than no time he had changed his
clothes. Immediately he went back to his carriage, and went in search
of the man, who, he thought, was most likely to be able to fathom this
mystery.

This was a certain Goudar, who was connected with the police department
in some capacity or other, and at all events received an income large
enough to make him very comfortable. He was one of those agents for
every thing whom the police keep employed for specially delicate
operations, which require both tact and keen scent, an intrepidity
beyond all doubt, and imperturbable self-possession. M. Folgat had had
opportunities of knowing and appreciating him in the famous case of the
Mutual Discount Society.

He was instructed to track the cashier who had fled, having a deficit
of several millions. Goudar had caught him in Canada, after pursuing him
for three months all over America; but, on the day of his arrest, this
cashier had in his pocket-book and his trunk only some forty thousand
francs.

What had become of the millions?

When he was questioned, he said he had spent them. He had gambled in
stocks, he had become unfortunate, etc.

Everybody believed him except Goudar.

Stimulated by the promise of a magnificent reward, he began his campaign
once more; and, in less than six weeks, he had gotten hold of sixteen
hundred thousand francs which the cashier had deposited in London with a
woman of bad character.

The story is well known; but what is not known is the genius, the
fertility of resources, and the ingenuity of expedients, which Goudar
displayed in obtaining such a success. M. Folgat, however, was fully
aware of it; for he had been the counsel of the stockholders of the
Mutual Discount Society; and he had vowed, that, if ever the opportunity
should come, he would employ this marvellously able man.

Goudar, who was married, and had a child, lived out of the world on the
road to Versailles, not far from the fortifications. He occupied with
his family a small house which he owned,--a veritable philosopher's
home, with a little garden in front, and a vast garden behind, in which
he raised vegetables and admirable fruit, and where he kept all kinds of
animals.

When M. Folgat stepped out of his carriage before this pleasant home,
a young woman of twenty-five or twenty-six, of surpassing beauty, young
and fresh, was playing in the front garden with a little girl of three
or four years, all milk and roses.

"M. Goudar, madam?" asked M. Folgat, raising his hat.

The young woman blushed slightly, and answered modestly, but without
embarrassment, and in a most pleasing voice,--

"My husband is in the garden; and you will find him, if you will walk
down this path around the house."

The young man followed the direction, and soon saw his man at a
distance. His head covered with an old straw hat, without a coat, and
in slippers, with a huge blue apron such as gardeners wear, Goudar had
climbed up a ladder, and was busy dropping into a horsehair bag the
magnificent Chasselas grapes of his trellises. When he heard the sand
grate under the footsteps of the newcomer, he turned his head, and at
once said,--

"Why, M. Folgat? Good morning, sir!"

The young advocate was not a little surprised to see himself recognized
so instantaneously. He should certainly never have recognized the
detective. It was more than three years since they had seen each other;
and how often had they seen each other then? Twice, and not an hour each
time.