Within an Inch of His Life

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


"What do you mean?" he said with trembling voice.

"You must escape."

"Escape?"

"Nothing so easy. I have considered the whole matter thoroughly. The
jailers are in our pay. I have just come to an understanding with
Blangin's wife. One evening, as soon as night falls, they will open the
doors to you. A horse will be ready for you outside of town, and relays
have been prepared. In four hours you can reach Rochelle. There, one
of those pilot-boats which can stand any storm takes you on board, and
carries you to England."

Jacques shook his head.

"That cannot be," he replied. "I am innocent. I cannot abandon all I
hold dear,--you, Dionysia."

A deep flush covered the young girl's cheeks. She stammered,--

"I have expressed myself badly. You shall not go alone."

He raised his hands to heaven, as if in utter despair.

"Great God! Thou grantest me this consolation!"

But Dionysia went on speaking in a firmer voice.

"Did you think I would be mean enough to forsake the friend who
is betrayed by everybody else? No, no! Grandpapa and my aunts will
accompany me, and we will meet you in England. You will change your
name, and go across to America; and we will look out, far in the West,
for some new country where we can establish ourselves. It won't be
France, to be sure. But our country, Jacques, is the country where we
are free, where we are beloved, where we are happy."

Jacques de Boiscoran was moved to the last fibre of his innermost heart,
and in a kind of ecstasy which did not allow him to keep up any longer
his mask of impassive indifference. Was there a man upon earth who could
receive a more glorious proof of love and devotion? And from what a
woman! From a young girl, who united in herself all the qualities of
which a single one makes others proud,--intelligence and grace, high
rank and fortune, beauty and angelic purity.

Ah! she did not hesitate like that other one; she did not think of
asking for securities before she granted the first favor; she did not
make a science of duplicity, nor hypocrisy her only virtue. She gave
herself up entirely, and without the slightest reserve.

And all this at the moment when Jacques saw every thing else around him
crumbled to pieces, when he was on the very brink of utter despair, just
then this happiness came to him, this great and unexpected happiness,
which well-nigh broke his heart.

For a moment he could not move, he could not think.

Then all of a sudden, drawing his betrothed to him, pressing her
convulsively to his bosom, and covering her hair with a thousand kisses,
he cried,--

"I bless you, oh, my darling! I bless you, my well beloved! I shall
mourn no longer. Whatever may happen, I have had my share of heavenly
bliss."

She thought he consented. Palpitating like the bird in the hand of a
child, she drew back, and looking at Jacques with ineffable love and
tenderness, she said,--

"Let us fix the day!"

"What day?"

"The day for your flight."

This word alone recalled Jacques to a sense of his fearful position. He
was soaring in the supreme heights of the ether, and he was plunged down
into the vile mud of reality. His face, radiant with celestial joy, grew
dark in an instant, and he said hoarsely,--

"That dream is too beautiful to be realized."

"What do you say?" she stammered.

"I can not, I must not, escape!"

"You refuse me, Jacques?"

He made no reply.

"You refuse me, when I swear to you that I will join you, and share your
exile? Do you doubt my word? Do you fear that my grandfather or my aunts
might keep me here in spite of myself?"

As this suppliant voice fell upon his ears, Jacques felt as if all his
energy abandoned him, and his will was shaken.

"I beseech you, Dionysia," he said, "do not insist, do not deprive me of
my courage."

She was evidently suffering agonies. Her eyes shone with unbearable
fire. Her dry lips were trembling.

"You will submit to being brought up in court?" she asked.

"Yes!"

"And if you are condemned?"

"I may be, I know."

"This is madness!" cried the young girl.

In her despair she was wringing her hands; and then the words escaped
from her lips, almost unconsciously,--

"Great God," she said, "inspire me! How can I bend him? What must I say?
Jacques, do you love me no longer? For my sake, if not for your own, I
beseech you, let us flee! You escape disgrace; you secure liberty. Can
nothing touch you? What do you want? Must I throw myself at your feet?"

And she really let herself fall at his feet.

"Flee!" she repeated again and again. "Oh, flee!"

Like all truly energetic men, Jacques recovered in the very excess of
his emotion all his self-possession. Gathering his bewildered thoughts
by a great effort of mind, he raised Dionysia, and carried her, almost
fainting, to the rough prison bench; then, kneeling down by her side,
and taking her hands he said,--

"Dionysia, for pity's sake, come to yourself and listen to me. I am
innocent; and to flee would be to confess that I am guilty."

"Ah! what does that matter?"

"Do you think that my escape would stop the trial? No. Although absent,
I should still be tried, and found guilty without any opposition: I
should be condemned, disgraced, irrevocably dishonored."

"What does it matter?"

Then he felt that such arguments would never bring her back to reason.
He rose, therefore, and said in a firm voice,--

"Let me tell you what you do not know. To flee would be easy, I agree.
I think, as you do, we could reach England readily enough, and we might
even take ship there without trouble. But what then? The cable is faster
than the fastest steamer; and, upon landing on American soil, I should,
no doubt, be met by agents with orders to arrest me. But suppose even I
should escape this first danger. Do you think there is in all this world
an asylum for incendiaries and murderers? There is none. At the extreme
confines of civilization I should still meet with police-agents and
soldiers, who, an extradition treaty in hand, would give me up to the
government of my country. If I were alone, I might possibly escape all
these dangers. But I should never succeed if I had you near me, and
Grandpapa Chandore, and your two aunts."

Dionysia was forcibly struck by these objections, of which she had had
no idea. She said nothing.

"Still, suppose we might possibly escape all such dangers. What would
our life be! Do you know what it would mean to have to hide and to
run incessantly, to have to avoid the looks of every stranger, and to
tremble, day by day, at the thought of discovery? With me, Dionysia,
your existence would be that of the wife of one of those banditti whom
the police are hunting down in his dens. And you ought to know that such
a life is so intolerable, that hardened criminals have been unable to
endure it, and have given up their life for the boon of a night's quiet
sleep."

Big tears were silently rolling down the poor girl's cheeks. She
murmured,--

"Perhaps you are right, Jacques. But, O Jacques, if they should condemn
you!"

"Well, I should at least have done my duty. I should have met fate,
and defended my honor. And, whatever the sentence may be, it will not
overthrow me; for, as long as my heart beats within me, I mean to defend
myself. And, if I die before I succeed in proving my innocence, I
shall leave it to you, Dionysia, to your kindred, and to my friends, to
continue the struggle, and to restore my honor."

She was worthy of comprehending and of appreciating such sentiments.

"I was wrong, Jacques," she said, offering him her hand: "you must
forgive me."

She had risen, and, after a few moments' hesitation, was about to leave
the room, when Jacques retained her, saying,--

"I do not mean to escape; but would not the people who have agreed to
favor my evasion be willing to furnish me the means for passing a few
hours outside of my prison?"

"I think they would," replied the young girl; "And, if you wish it, I
will make sure of it."

"Yes. That might be a last resort."

With these words they parted, exhorting each other to keep up their
courage, and promising each other to meet again during the next days.

Dionysia found her poor aunt Lavarande very tired of the long watch; and
they hastened home.

"How pale you are!" exclaimed M. de Chandore, when he saw his
grand-daughter; "and how red your eyes are! What has happened?"

She told him every thing; and the old gentleman felt chilled to the
marrow of his bones, when he found that it had depended on Jacques alone
to carry off his grandchild. But he had not done so.

"Ah, he is an honest man!" he said.

And, pressing his lips on Dionysia's brow, he added,--

"And you love him more than ever?"

"Alas!" she replied, "is he not more unhappy than ever?"



XXI.

"Have you heard the news?"

"No: what is it?"

"Dionysia de Chandore has been to see M. de Boiscoran in prison."

"Is it possible?"

"Yes, indeed! Twenty people have seen her come back from there, leaning
on the arm of the older Miss Lavarande. She went in at ten minutes past
ten, and she did not come out till a quarter-past three."

"Is the young woman mad?"

"And the aunt--what do you think of the aunt?"

"She must be as mad as the niece."

"And M. de Chandore?"

"He must have lost his senses to allow such a scandal. But you know very
well, grandfather and aunts never had any will but Dionysia's."

"A nice training!"

"And nice fruits of such an education! After such a scandal, no man will
be bold enough to marry her."

Such were the comments on Dionysia's visit to Jacques, when the news
became known. It flew at once all over town. The ladies "in society"
could not recover from it; for people are exceedingly virtuous at
Sauveterre, and hence they claim the right of being exceedingly strict
in their judgment. There is no trifling permitted on the score of
propriety.

The person who defies public opinion is lost. Now, public opinion was
decidedly against Jacques de Boiscoran. He was down, and everybody was
ready to kick him.

"Will he get out of it?"

This problem, which was day by day discussed at the "Literary Club," had
called forth torrents of eloquence, terrible discussions, and even one
or two serious quarrels, one of which had ended in a duel. But nobody
asked any longer,--

"Is he innocent?"

Dr. Seignebos's eloquence, the influence of M. Seneschal, and the
cunning plots of Mechinet, had all failed.

"Ah, what an interesting trial it will be!" said many people, who were
all eagerness to know who would be the presiding judge, in order to
ask him for tickets of admission. Day by day the interest in the trial
became deeper; and all who were in any way connected with it were
watched with great curiosity. Everybody wanted to know what they were
doing, what they thought, and what they had said.

They saw in the absence of the Marquis de Boiscoran an additional proof
of Jacques's guilt. The continued presence of M. Folgat also created no
small wonder. His extreme reserve, which they ascribed to his excessive
and ill-placed pride, had made him generally disliked. And now they
said,--

"He must have hardly any thing to do in Paris, that he can spend so many
months in Sauveterre."

The editor of "The Sauveterre Independent" naturally found the affair
a veritable gold-mine for his paper. He forgot his old quarrel with the
editor of "The Impartial Journal," whom he accused of Bonapartism, and
who retaliated by calling him a Communist. Each day brought, in addition
to the usual mention under the "local" head, some article on the
"Boiscoran Case." He wrote,--

"The health of Count C., instead of improving, is declining visibly. He
used to get up occasionally when he first came to Sauveterre; and now he
rarely leaves his bed. The wound in the shoulder, which at first seemed
to be the least dangerous, has suddenly become much inflamed, owing
to the tropical heat of the last days. At one time gangrene was
apprehended, and it was feared that amputation would become necessary.
Yesterday Dr. S. seemed to be much disturbed.

"And, as misfortunes never come singly, the youngest daughter of Count
C. is very ill. She had the measles at the time of the fire; and the
fright, the cold, and the removal, have brought on a relapse, which may
be dangerous.

"Amid all these cruel trials, the Countess C. is admirable in her
devotion, her courage, and her resignation. Whenever she leaves the
bedside of her dear patients to pray at church for them, she is received
with the most touching sympathy and the most sincere admiration by the
whole population."

"Ah, that wretch Boiscoran!" cried the good people of Sauveterre when
they read such an article.

The next day, they found this,--

"We have sent to the hospital to inquire from the lady superior how the
poor idiot is, who has taken such a prominent part in the bloody drama
at Valpinson. His mental condition remains unchanged since he has been
examined by experts. The spark of intelligence which the crime had
elicited seems to be extinguished entirely and forever. It is impossible
to obtain a word from him. He is, however, not locked up. Inoffensive
and gentle, like a poor animal that has lost its master, he wanders
mournfully through the courts and gardens of the hospital. Dr. S., who
used to take a lively interest in him, hardly ever sees him now.

"It was thought at one time, that C. would be summoned to give evidence
in the approaching trial. We are informed by high authority, that such
a dramatic scene must not be expected to take place. C. will not appear
before the jury."

"Certainly, Cocoleu's deposition must have been an interposition of
Providence," said people who were not far from believing that it was a
genuine miracle.

The next day the editor took M. Galpin in hand.

"M. G., the eminent magistrate, is very unwell just now, and very
naturally so after an investigation of such length and importance as
that which preceded the Boiscoran trial. We are told that he only awaits
the decree of the court, to ask for a furlough and to go to one of the
rural stations of the Pyrenees."

Then came Jacques's turn,--

"M. J. de B. stands his imprisonment better than could be expected.
According to direct information, his health is excellent, and his
spirits do not seem to have suffered. He reads much, and spends part of
the night in preparing his defence, and making notes for his counsel."

Then came, from day to day, smaller items,--

"M. J. de B. is no longer in close confinement."

Or,--

"M. de B. had this morning an interview with his counsel, M. M., the
most eminent member of our bar, and M. F., a young but distinguished
advocate from Paris. The conference lasted several hours. We abstain
from giving details; but our readers will understand the reserve
required in the case of an accused who insists upon protesting
energetically that he is innocent."

And, again,--

"M. de B. was yesterday visited by his mother."

Or, finally,--

"We hear at the last moment that the Marchioness de B. and M. Folgat
have left for Paris. Our correspondent in P. writes us that the decree
of the court will not be delayed much longer."

Never had "The Sauveterre Independent" been read with so much interest.
And, as everybody endeavored to be better informed than his neighbor,
quite a number of idle men had assumed the duty of watching Jacques's
friends, and spent their days in trying to find out what was going on
at M. de Chandore's house. Thus it came about, that, on the evening
of Dionysia's visit to Jacques, the street was full of curious people.
Towards half-past ten, they saw M. de Chandore's carriage come out of
the courtyard, and draw up at the door. At eleven o'clock M. de Chandore
and Dr. Seignebos got in, the coachman whipped the horse, and they drove
off.

"Where can they be going?" asked they.

They followed the carriage. The two gentlemen drove to the station.
They had received a telegram, and were expecting the return of the
marchioness and M. Folgat, accompanied, this time, by the old marquis.

They reached there much too soon. The local branch railway which goes to
Sauveterre is not famous for regularity, and still reminds its patrons
occasionally of the old habits of stage-coaches, when the driver or the
conductor had, at the last moment, to stop to pick up something they
had forgotten. At a quarter-past midnight the train, which ought to
have been there twenty minutes before, had not yet been signalled.
Every thing around was silent and deserted. Through the windows the
station-master might be seen fast asleep in his huge leather chair.
Clerks and porters all were asleep, stretched out on the benches of the
waiting-room. But people are accustomed to such delays at Sauveterre;
they are prepared for being kept waiting: and the doctor and M. de
Chandore were walking up and down the platform, being neither astonished
nor impatient at the irregularity. Nor would they have been much
surprised if they had been told that they were closely watched all the
time: they knew their good town. Still it was so. Two curious men,
more obstinate than the others, had jumped into the omnibus which runs
between the station and the town; and now, standing a little aside, they
said to each other,--

"I say, what can they be waiting for?"

At last towards one o'clock, a bell rang, and the station seemed
to start into life. The station-master opened his door, the porters
stretched themselves and rubbed their eyes, oaths were heard, doors
slammed, and the large hand-barrows came in sight.

Then a low thunder-like noise came nearer and nearer; and almost
instantly a fierce red light at the far end of the track shone out
in the dark night like a ball of fire. M. de Chandore and the doctor
hastened to the waiting-room.

The train stopped. A door opened, and the marchioness appeared, leaning
on M. Folgat's arm. The marquis, a travelling-bag in hand, followed
next.

"That was it!" said the volunteer spies, who had flattened their noses
against the window-panes.

And, as the train brought no other passengers, they succeeded in making
the omnibus conductor start at once, eager as they were to proclaim the
arrival of the prisoner's father.

The hour was unfavorable: everybody was asleep; but they did not give up
the hope of finding somebody yet at the club. People stay up very late
at the club, for there is play going on there, and at times pretty heavy
play: you can lose your five hundred francs quite readily there. Thus
the indefatigable news-hunters had a fair chance of finding open ears
for their great piece of news. And yet, if they had been less eager to
spread it, they might have witnessed, perhaps not entirely unmoved, this
first interview between M. de Chandore and the Marquis de Boiscoran.

By a natural impulse they had both hastened forward, and shook hands in
the most energetic manner. Tears stood in their eyes. They opened their
lips to speak; but they said nothing. Besides, there was no need of
words between them. That close embrace had told Jacques's father clearly
enough what Dionysia's grandfather must have suffered. They remained
thus standing motionless, looking at each other, when Dr. Seignebos, who
could not be still for any length of time, came up, and asked,--

"The trunks are on the carriage: shall we go?"

They left the station. The night was clear; and on the horizon, above
the dark mass of the sleeping town, there rose against the pale-blue
sky the two towers of the old castle, which now served as prison to
Sauveterre.

"That is the place where my Jacques is kept," murmured the marquis.
"There my son is imprisoned, accused of horrible crimes."

"We will get him out of it," said the doctor cheerfully, as he helped
the old gentleman into the carriage.

But in vain did he try, during the drive, to rouse, as he called it, the
spirits of his companions. His hopes found no echo in their distressed
hearts.

M. Folgat inquired after Dionysia, whom he had been surprised not to see
at the station. M. de Chandore replied that she had staid at home with
the Misses Lavarande, to keep M. Magloire company; and that was all.

There are situations in which it is painful to talk. The marquis had
enough to do to suppress the spasmodic sobs which now and then
would rise in his throat. He was upset by the thought that he was at
Sauveterre. Whatever may be said to the contrary, distance does not
weaken our emotions. Shaking hands with M. de Chandore in person had
moved him more deeply than all the letters he had received for a month.
And when he saw Jacques's prison from afar, he had the first clear
notion of the horrible tortures endured by his son. The marchioness was
utterly exhausted: she felt as if all the springs in her system were
broken.

M. de Chandore trembled when he looked at them, and saw how they all
were on the point of succumbing. If they despaired, what could he
hope for,--he, who knew how indissolubly Dionysia's fate in life was
connected with Jacques?

At length the carriage stopped before his house. The door opened
instantly, and the marchioness found herself in Dionysia's arms, and
soon after comfortably seated in an easy-chair. The others had followed
her. It was past two o'clock; but every minute now was valuable.
Arranging his spectacles, Dr. Seignebos said,--

"I propose that we exchange our information. I, for my part, I am still
at the same point. But you know my views. I do not give them up. Cocoleu
is an impostor, and it shall be proved. I appear to notice him no
longer; but, in reality, I watch him more closely than ever."

Dionysia interrupted him, saying,--

"Before any thing is decided, there is one fact which you all ought to
know. Listen."

Pale like death, for it cost her a great struggle to reveal thus the
secret of her heart, but with a voice full of energy, and an eye full of
fire, she told them what she had already confessed to her grandfather;
viz., the propositions she had made to Jacques, and his obstinate
refusal to accede to them.

"Well done, madame!" said Dr. Seignebos, full of enthusiasm. "Well done!
Jacques is very unfortunate, and still he is to be envied."

Dionysia finished her recital. Then, turning with a triumphant air to M.
Magloire, she added,--

"After that, is there any one yet who could believe that Jacques is a
vile assassin?"

The eminent advocate of Sauveterre was not one of those men who prize
their opinions more highly than truth itself.

"I confess," he said, "that, if I were to go and see Jacques to-morrow
for the first time, I should not speak to him as I did before."

"And I," exclaimed the Marquis de Boiscoran,--"I declare that I answer
for my son as for myself, and I mean to tell him so to-morrow."

Then turning towards his wife, and speaking so low, that she alone could
hear him, he added,--

"And I hope you will forgive me those suspicions which now fill me with
horror."

But the marchioness had no strength left: she fainted, and had to be
removed, accompanied by Dionysia and the Misses Lavarande. As soon as
they were out of the room, Dr. Seignebos locked the door, rested his
elbow on the chimney, and, taking off his spectacles to wipe them, said
to M. Folgat,--

"Now we can speak freely. What news do you bring us?"



XXII.

It had just struck eleven o'clock, when the jailer, Blangin, entered
Jacques's cell in great excitement, and said,--

"Sir, your father is down stairs."

The prisoner jumped up, thunderstruck.

The night before he had received a note from M. de Chandore, informing
him of the marquis's arrival; and his whole time had since been spent in
preparing himself for the interview. How would it be? He had nothing by
which to judge. He had therefore determined to be quite reserved. And,
whilst he was following Blangin along the dismal passage and down the
interminable steps, he was busily composing respectful phrases, and
trying to look self-possessed.

But, before he could utter a single word, he was in his father's arms.
He felt himself pressed against his heart, and heard him stammer,--

"Jacques, my dear son, my unfortunate child!"

In all his life, long and stormy as it had been, the marquis had not
been tried so severely. Drawing Jacques to one of the parlor-windows,
and leaning back a little, so as to see him better, he was amazed how he
could ever have doubted his son. It seemed to him that he was standing
there himself. He recognized his own feature and carriage, his own frank
but rather haughty expression, his own clear, bright eye.

Then, suddenly noticing details, he was shocked to see Jacques so much
reduced. He found him looking painfully pale, and he actually discovered
at the temples more than one silvery hair amid his thick black curls.

"Poor child!" he said. "How you must have suffered!"

"I thought I should lose my senses," replied Jacques simply.

And with a tremor in his voice, he asked,--

"But, dear father, why did you give me no sign of life? Why did you stay
away so long?"

The marquis was not unprepared for such a question. But how could he
answer it? Could he ever tell Jacques the true secret of his hesitation?
Turning his eyes aside, he answered,--