Within an Inch of His Life

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


It is true that Goudar was one of those men whom nobody remembers. Of
middle height, he was neither stout nor thin, neither dark nor light
haired, neither young nor old. A clerk in a passport office would
certainly have written him down thus: Forehead, ordinary; nose,
ordinary; mouth, ordinary, eyes, neutral color; special marks, none.

It could not be said that he looked stupid; but neither did he
look intelligent. Every thing in him was ordinary, indifferent, and
undecided. Not one marked feature. He would necessarily pass unobserved,
and be forgotten as soon as he had passed.

"You find me busy securing my crops for the winter," he said to M.
Folgat. "A pleasant job. However, I am at your service. Let me put these
three bunches into their three bags, and I'll come down."

This was the work of an instant; and, as soon as he had reached the
ground, he turned round, and asked,--

"Well, and what do you think of my garden?"

And at once he begged M. Folgat to visit his domain, and, with all
the enthusiasm of the land-owner, he praised the flavor of his duchess
pears, the bright colors of his dahlias, the new arrangements in his
poultry-yard, which was full of rabbit-houses, and the beauty of his
pond, with its ducks of all colors and all possible varieties.

In his heart, M. Folgat swore at this enthusiasm. What time he was
losing! But, when you expect a service from a man, you must, at least,
flatter his weak side. He did not spare praise, therefore. He even
pulled out his cigar-case, and, still with a view to win the great man's
good graces, he offered it to him, saying,--

"Can I offer you one?"

"Thanks! I never smoke," replied Goudar.

And, when he saw the astonishment of the advocate, he explained,--

"At least not at home. I am disposed to think the odor is unpleasant to
my wife."

Positively, if M. Folgat had not known the man, he would have taken him
for some good and simple retired grocer, inoffensive, and any thing but
bright, and, bowing to him politely, he would have taken his leave.
But he had seen him at work; and so he followed him obediently to his
greenhouse, his melon-house, and his marvellous asparagus-beds.

At last Goudar took his guest to the end of the garden, to a bower in
which were some chairs and a table, saying,--

"Now let us sit down, and tell me your business; for I know you did not
come solely for the pleasure of seeing my domain."

Goudar was one of those men who have heard in their lives more
confessions than ten priests, ten lawyers, and ten doctors all
together. You could tell him every thing. Without a moment's hesitation,
therefore, and without a break, M. Folgat told him the whole story of
Jacques and the Countess Claudieuse. He listened, without saying a word,
without moving a muscle in his face. When the lawyer had finished, he
simply said,--

"Well?"

"First of all," replied M. Folgat, "I should like to hear your opinion.
Do you believe the statement made by M. de Boiscoran?"

"Why not? I have seen much stranger cases than that."

"Then you think, that, in spite of the charges brought against him, we
must believe in his innocence?"

"Pardon me, I think nothing at all. Why, you must study a matter before
you can have an opinion."

He smiled; and, looking at the young advocate, he said,--

"But why all these preliminaries? What do you want of me?"

"Your assistance to get at the truth."

The detective evidently expected something of the kind. After a minute's
reflection, he looked fixedly at M. Folgat, and said,--

"If I understand you correctly, you would like to begin a
counter-investigation for the benefit of the defence?"

"Exactly."

"And unknown to the prosecution?"

"Precisely."

"Well, I cannot possibly serve you."

The young advocate knew too well how such things work not to be prepared
for a certain amount of resistance; and he had thought of means to
overcome it.

"That is not your final decision, my dear Goudar?" he said.

"Pardon me. I am not my own master. I have my duty to fulfil, and my
daily occupation."

"You can at any time obtain leave of absence for a month."

"So I might; but they would certainly wonder at such a furlough at
headquarters. They would probably have me watched; and, if they found
out that I was doing police work for private individuals, they would
scold me grievously, and deprive themselves henceforth of my services."

"Oh!"

"There is no 'oh!' about it. They would do what I tell you, and they
would be right; for, after all, what would become of us, and what would
become of the safety and liberty of us all, if any one could come and
use the agents of the police for his private purposes? And what would
become of me if I should lose my place?"

"M. de Boiscoran's family is very rich, and they would prove their
gratitude magnificently to the man who would save him."

"And if I did not save him? And if, instead of gathering proof of his
innocence, I should only meet with more evidence of his guilt?"

The objection was so well founded, that M. Folgat preferred not to
discuss it.

"I might," he said, "hand you at once, and as a retainer, a considerable
sum, which you could keep, whatever the result might be."

"What sum? A hundred Napoleons? Certainly a hundred Napoleons are not to
be despised; but what would they do for me if I were turned out? I have
to think of somebody else besides myself. I have a wife and a child;
and my whole fortune consists in this little cottage, which is not even
entirely paid for. My place is not a gold-mine; but, with the special
rewards which I receive, it brings me, good years and bad years, seven
or eight thousand francs, and I can lay by two or three thousand."

The young lawyer stopped him by a friendly gesture, and said,--

"If I were to offer you ten thousand francs?"

"A year's income."

"If I offered you fifteen thousand!"

Goudar made no reply; but his eyes spoke.

"It is a most interesting case, this case of M. de Boiscoran," continued
M. Folgat, "and such as does not occur often. The man who should expose
the emptiness of the accusation would make a great reputation for
himself."

"Would he make friends also at the bar?"

"I admit he would not."

The detective shook his head.

"Well, I confess," he said, "I do not work for glory, nor from love of
my art. I know very well that vanity is the great motive-power with
some of my colleagues; but I am more practical. I have never liked my
profession; and, if I continue to practise it, it is because I have not
the money to go into any other. It drives my wife to despair, besides:
she is only half alive as long as I am away; and she trembles every
morning for fear I may be brought home with a knife between my
shoulders."

M. Folgat had listened attentively; but at the same time he had pulled
out a pocket-book, which looked decidedly plethoric, and placed it on
the table.

"With fifteen thousand francs," he said, "a man may do something."

"That is true. There is a piece of land for sale adjoining my garden,
which would suit me exactly. Flowers bring a good price in Paris, and
that business would please my wife. Fruit, also yields a good profit."

The advocate knew now that he had caught his man.

"Remember, too, my dear Goudar, that, if you succeed, these fifteen
thousand francs would only be a part payment. They might, perhaps,
double the sum. M. de Boiscoran is the most liberal of men, and he would
take pleasure in royally rewarding the man who should have saved him."

As he spoke, he opened the pocket-book, and drew from it fifteen
thousand-franc notes, which he spread out on the table.

"To any one but to you," he went on, "I should hesitate to pay such
a sum in advance. Another man might take the money, and never trouble
himself about the affair. But I know your uprightness; and, if you give
me your word in return for the notes, I shall be satisfied. Come, shall
it be so?"

The detective was evidently not a little excited; for, self-possessed
as he was, he had turned somewhat pale. He hesitated, handled the
bank-notes, and then, all of a sudden, said,--

"Wait two minutes."

He got up instantly, and ran towards the house.

"Is he going to consult his wife?" M. Folgat asked himself.

He did so; for the next moment they appeared at the other end of the
walk, engaged in a lively discussion. However, the discussion did not
last long. Goudar came back to the bower, and said,--

"Agreed! I am your man!"

The advocate was delighted, and shook his hand.

"Thank you!" he cried; "for, with your assistance, I am almost sure
of success. Unfortunately, we have no time to lose. When can you go to
work?"

"This moment. Give me time to change my costume; and I am at your
service. You will have to give me the keys of the house in Passy."

"I have them here in my pocket."

"Well, then let us go there at once; for I must, first of all,
reconnoitre the ground. And you shall see if it takes me long to dress."

In less than fifteen minutes he reappeared in a long overcoat, with
gloves on, looking, for all the world, like one of those retired
grocers who have made a fortune, and settled somewhere outside of the
corporation of Paris, displaying their idleness in broad daylight, and
repenting forever that they have given up their occupation.

"Let us go," he said to the lawyer.

After having bowed to Mrs. Goudar, who accompanied them with a radiant
smile, they got into the carriage, calling out to the driver,--

"Vine Street, Passy, No. 23."

This Vine Street is a curious street, leading nowhere, little known, and
so deserted, that the grass grows everywhere. It stretches out long and
dreary, is hilly, muddy, scarcely paved, and full of holes, and looks
much more like a wretched village lane than like a street belonging
to Paris. No shops, only a few homes, but on the right and the left
interminable walls, overtopped by lofty trees.

"Ah! the place is well chosen for mysterious rendezvouses," growled
Goudar. "Too well chosen, I dare say; for we shall pick up no
information here."

The carriage stopped before a small door, in a thick wall, which bore
the traces of the two sieges in a number of places.

"Here is No. 23," said the driver; "but I see no house."

It could not be seen from the street; but, when they got in, Mr. Folgat
and Goudar saw it, rising in the centre of an immense garden, simple and
pretty, with a double porch, a slate roof, and newly-painted blinds.

"Great God!" exclaimed the detective, "what a place for a gardener!"

And M. Folgat felt so keenly the man's ill-concealed desire, that he at
once said,--

"If we save M. de Boiscoran, I am sure he will not keep this house."

"Let us go in," cried the detective, in a voice which revealed all his
intense desire to succeed.

Unfortunately, Jacques de Boiscoran had spoken but too truly, when he
said that no trace was left of former days. Furniture, carpets, all
was new; and Goudar and M. Folgat in vain explored the four rooms down
stairs, and the four rooms up stairs, the basement, where the kitchen
was, and finally the garret.

"We shall find nothing here," declared the detective. "To satisfy my
conscience, I shall come and spend an afternoon here; but now we have
more important business. Let us go and see the neighbors!"

There are not many neighbors in Vine Street.

A teacher and a nurseryman, a locksmith and a liveryman, five or
six owners of houses, and the inevitable keeper of a wine-shop and
restaurant, these were the whole population.

"We shall soon make the rounds," said Goudar, after having ordered the
coachman to wait for them at the end of the street.

Neither the head master nor his assistants knew any thing. The
nurseryman had heard it said that No. 23 belonged to an Englishman; but
he had never seen him, and did not even know his name.

The locksmith knew that he was called Francis Burnett. He had done
some work for him, for which he had been well paid, and thus he had
frequently seen him; but it was so long since, that he did not think he
would recognize him.

"We are unlucky," said M. Folgat, after this visit.

The memory of the liveryman was more trustworthy. He said he knew the
Englishman of No. 23 very well, having driven him three or four
times; and the description he gave of him answered fully to Jacques de
Boiscoran. He also remembered that one evening, when the weather was
wretched, Sir Burnett had come himself to order a carriage. It was for
a lady, who had got in alone, and who had been driven to the Place de la
Madeleine. But it was a dark night; the lady wore a thick veil; he had
not been able to distinguish her features, and all he could say was that
she looked above medium height.

"It is always the same story," said Goudar. "But the wine-merchant ought
to be best informed. If I were alone I would breakfast there."

"I shall breakfast with you," said M. Folgat.

They did so, and they did wisely.

The wine-merchant did not know much; but his waiter, who had been
with him five or six years, knew Sir Burnett, as everybody called
the Englishman, by sight, and was quite well acquainted with the
servant-girl, Suky Wood. While he was bringing in breakfast, he told
them all he knew.

Suky, he said, was a tall, strapping girl, with hair red enough to set
her bonnets on fire, and graceful enough to be mistaken for a heavy
dragoon in female disguise. He had often had long talks with her when
she came to fetch some ready-made dish, or to buy some beer, of which
she was very fond. She told him she was very pleased with her place, as
she got plenty of money, and had, so to say, nothing to do, being left
alone in the house for nine months in the year. From her the waiter had
also learned that Sir Burnett must have another house, and that he came
to Vine Street only to receive visits from a lady.

This lady troubled Suky very much. She declared she had never been able
to see the end of her nose even, so very cautious was she in all her
movements; but she intended to see her in spite of all.

"And you may be sure she managed to do it some time or other," Goudar
whispered into M. Folgat's ear.

Finally they learned from this waiter, that Suky had been very intimate
with the servant of an old gentleman who lived quite alone in No. 27.

"We must see her," said Goudar.

Luckily the girl's master had just gone out, and she was alone in the
house. At first she was a little frightened at being called upon and
questioned by two unknown men; but the detective knew how to reassure
her very quickly, and, as she was a great talker, she confirmed all the
waiter at the restaurant had told them, and added some details.

Suky had been very intimate with her; she had never hesitated to tell
her that Burnett was not an Englishman; that his name was not Burnett,
and that he was concealing himself in Vine Street under a false name,
for the purpose of meeting there his lady-love, who was a grand, fine
lady, and marvellously beautiful. Finally, at the outbreak of the war,
Suky had told her that she was going back to England to her relations.
When they left the old bachelor's house, Goudar said to the young
advocate,--

"We have obtained but little information, and the jurymen would pay
little attention to it; but there is enough of it to confirm, at least
in part, M. de Boiscoran's statement. We can prove that he met a lady
here who had the greatest interest in remaining unknown. Was this, as he
says, the Countess Claudieuse? We might find this out from Suky; for she
has seen her, beyond all doubt. Hence we must hunt up Suky. And now, let
us take our carriage, and go to headquarters. You can wait for me at the
cafe near the Palais de Justice. I shall not be away more than a quarter
of an hour."

It took him, however, a good hour and a half; M. Folgat was beginning to
be troubled, when he at last reappeared, looking very well pleased.

"Waiter, a glass of beer!" he said.

And, sitting down so as to face the advocate, he said,--

"I stayed away rather long; but I did not lose any time. In the first
place, I procured a month's leave of absence; then I put my hand upon
the very man whom I wanted to send after Sir Burnett and Miss Suky.
He is a good fellow, called Barousse, fine like a needle, and speaks
English like a native. He demands twenty-five francs a day, his
travelling-expenses, and a gratuity of fifteen hundred francs if he
succeeds. I have agreed to meet him at six to give him a definite
answer. If you accept the conditions, he will leave for England
to-night, well drilled by me."

Instead of any answer, M. Folgat drew from his pocket-book a
thousand-franc note, and said,--

"Here is something to begin with."

Goudar had finished his beer, and said,--

"Well, then, I must leave you. I am going to hang abut M. de Tassar's
house, and make my inquiries. Perhaps I may pick up something there.
To-morrow I shall spend my day in searching the house in Vine Street and
in questioning all the tradesmen on your list. The day after to-morrow
I shall probably have finished here. So that in four or five days there
will arrive in Sauveterre a somebody, who will be myself." And as he got
up, he added,--

"For I must save M. de Boiscoran. I will and I must do it. He has too
nice a house. Well, we shall see each other at Sauveterre."

It struck four o'clock. M. Folgat left the cafe immediately after
Goudar, and went down the river to University Street. He was anxious to
see the marquis and the marchioness.

"The marchioness is resting," said the valet; "but the marquis is in his
cabinet."

M. Folgat was shown in, and found him still under the effects of the
terrible scene he had undergone in the morning. He had said nothing to
his wife that he did not really think; but he was distressed at having
said it under such circumstances. And yet he felt a kind of relief; for,
to tell the truth, he felt as if the horrible doubts which he had kept
secret so many years had vanished as soon as they were spoken out. When
he saw M. Folgat, he asked in a sadly-changed voice,--

"Well?"

The young advocate repeated in detail the account given by the
marchioness; but he added what the latter had not been able to mention,
because she did not know it, the desperate resolution which Jacques had
formed. At this revelation the marquis looked utterly overcome.

"The unhappy man!" he cried. "And I accused him of--He thought of
killing himself!"

"And we had a great trouble, M. Magloire, and myself," added M. Folgat,
"to overcome his resolution, great trouble to make him understand,
that never, under any circumstances, ought an innocent man to think of
committing suicide."

A big tear rolled down the furrowed cheek of the old gentleman; and he
murmured,--

"Ah! I have been cruelly unjust. Poor, unhappy child!"

Then he added aloud,--

"But I shall see him. I have determined to accompany the marchioness to
Sauveterre. When will you leave?"

"Nothing keeps me here in Paris. I have done all that could be done, and
I might return this evening. But I am really too tired. I think I shall
to-morrow take the train at 10.45."

"If you do so, we shall travel in company; you understand? To-morrow
at ten o'clock at the Orleans station. We shall reach Sauveterre by
midnight."



XX.

When the Marchioness de Boiscoran, on the day of her departure for
Paris, had gone to see her son, Dionysia had asked her to let her go
with her. She resisted, and the young girl did not insist.

"I see they are trying to conceal something from me," she said simply;
"but it does not matter."

And she had taken refuge in the sitting-room; and there, taking her
usual seat, as in the happy days when Jacques spent all his evenings by
her side, she had remained long hours immovable, looking as if, with her
mind's eye, she was following invisible scenes far away.

Grandpapa Chandore and the two aunts were indescribably anxious. They
knew their Dionysia, their darling child, better than she knew herself,
having nursed and watched her for twenty years. They knew every
expression of her face, every gesture, every intonation of voice, and
could almost read her thoughts in her features.

"Most assuredly Dionysia is meditating upon something very serious,"
they said. "She is evidently calculating and preparing for a great
resolution."

The old gentleman thought so too, and asked her repeatedly,--

"What are you thinking of, dear child?"

"Of nothing, dear papa," she replied.

"You are sadder than usual: why are you so?"

"Alas! How do I know? Does anybody know why one day we have sunshine in
our hearts, and another day dismal clouds?"

But the next day she insisted upon being taken to her seamstresses, and
finding Mechinet, the clerk, there, she remained a full half-hour in
conference with him. Then, in the evening, when Dr. Seignebos, after a
short visit, was leaving the room, she lay in wait for him, and kept him
talking a long time at the door. Finally, the day after, she asked once
more to be allowed to go and see Jacques. They could no longer refuse
her this sad satisfaction; and it was agreed that the older of the two
Misses Lavarande, Miss Adelaide, should accompany her.

About two o'clock on that day they knocked at the prison-door, and asked
the jailer, who had come to open the door, to let them see Jacques.

"I'll go for him at once, madam," replied Blangin. "In the meantime pray
step in here: the parlor is rather damp, and the less you stay in it,
the better it will be."

Dionysia did so, or rather, she did a great deal more; for, leaving
her aunt down stairs, she drew Mrs. Blangin to the upper room, having
something to say to her, as she pretended.

When they came down again, Blangin told them that M. de Boiscoran was
waiting for them.

"Come!" said the young girl to her aunt.

But she had not taken ten steps in the long narrow passage which led
to the parlor, when she stopped. The damp which fell from the vaulted
ceiling like a pall upon her, and the emotions which were agitating her
heart, combined to overwhelm her. She tottered, and had to lean against
the wall, reeking as it was with wet and with saltpetre.

"O Lord, you are ill!" cried Miss Adelaide.

Dionysia beckoned to her to be silent.

"Oh, it is nothing!" she said. "Be quiet!"

And gathering up all her strength, and putting her little hand upon the
old lady's shoulder, she said,--

"My darling aunty, you must render us an immense service. It is all
important that I should speak to Jacques alone. It would be very
dangerous for us to be overheard. I know they often set spies to listen
to prisoners' talk. Do please, dear aunt, remain here in the passage,
and give us warning, if anybody should come."

"You do not think of it, dear child. Would it be proper?"

The young girl stopped her again.

"Was it proper when I came and spent a night here? Alas! in our
position, every thing is proper that may be useful."

And, as Aunt Lavarande made no reply, she felt sure of her perfect
submission, and went on towards the parlor.

"Dionysia!" cried Jacques as soon as she entered,--"Dionysia!"

He was standing in the centre of this mournful hall, looking whiter than
the whitewash on the wall, but apparently calm, and almost smiling. The
violence with which he controlled himself was horrible. But how could he
allow his betrothed to see his despair? Ought he not, on the contrary,
do every thing to reassure her?

He came up to her, took her hands in his, and said,--

"Ah, it is so kind in you to come! and yet I have looked for you ever
since the morning. I have been watching and waiting, and trembling at
every noise. But will you ever forgive me for having made you come to
a place like this, untidy and ugly, without the fatal poetry of horror
even?"

She looked at him with such obstinate fixedness, that the words expired
on his lips.

"Why will you tell me a falsehood?" she said sadly.

"I tell you a falsehood!"

"Yes. Why do you affect this gayety and tranquillity, which are so far
from your heart? Have you no longer confidence in me? Do you think I am
a child, from whom the truth must be concealed, or so feeble and good
for nothing, that I cannot bear my share of your troubles? Do not smile,
Jacques; for I know you have no hope."

"You are mistaken, Dionysia, I assure you."

"No, Jacques. They are concealing something from me, I know, and I do
not ask you to tell me what it is. I know quite enough. You will have to
appear in court."

"I beg your pardon. That question has not yet been decided."

"But it will be decided, and against you."

Jacques knew very well it would be so, and dreaded it; but he still
insisted upon playing his part.

"Well," he said, "if I appear in court, I shall be acquitted."

"Are you quite sure of that?"

"I have ninety-nine chances out of a hundred for me."

"There is one, however, against you," cried the young girl. And seizing
Jacques's hands, and pressing them with a force of which he would never
have suspected her, she added,--

"You have no right to run that one chance."

Jacques trembled in all his limbs. Was it possible? Did he understand
her? Did Dionysia herself come and suggest to him that act of supreme
despair, from which his counsel had so strongly dissuaded him?