Within an Inch of His Life

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


"I hoped I should be able to serve you better by remaining in Paris."
But his embarrassment was too evident to escape Jacques.

"You did not doubt your own child, father?" he asked sadly.

"Never!" cried the marquis, "I never doubted a moment. Ask your mother,
and she will tell you that it was this proud assurance I felt which kept
me from coming down with her. When I heard of what they accused you, I
said 'It is absurd!'"

Jacques shook his head, and said,--

"The accusation was absurd; and yet you see what it has brought me to."

Two big tears, which he could no longer retain, burnt in the eyes of the
old gentleman.

"You blame me, Jacques," he said. "You blame your father."

There is not a man alive who could see his father shed tears, and not
feel his heart melt within him. All the resolutions Jacques had formed
vanished in an instant. Pressing his father's hand in his own, he
said,--

"No, I do not blame you, father. And still I have no words to tell
you how much your absence has added to my sufferings. I thought I was
abandoned, disowned."

For the first time since his imprisonment, the unfortunate man found a
heart to whom he could confide all the bitterness that overflowed in his
own heart. With his mother and with Dionysia, honor forbade him to
show despair. The incredulity of M. Magloire had made all confidence
impossible; and M. Folgat, although as sympathetic as man could be was,
after all, a perfect stranger.

But now he had near him a friend, the dearest and most precious friend
that a man can ever have,--his father: now he had nothing to fear.

"Is there a human being in this world," he said, "whose misfortunes
equal mine? To be innocent, and not to be able to prove it! To know the
guilty one, and not to dare mention the name. Ah! at first I did not
take in the whole horror of my situation. I was frightened, to be sure;
but I had recovered, thinking that surely justice would not be slow in
discovering the truth. Justice! It was my friend Galpin who represented
it, and he cared little enough for truth: his only aim was to prove that
the man whom he accused was the guilty man. Read the papers, father,
and you will see how I have been victimized by the most unheard-of
combination of circumstances. Every thing is against me. Never has that
mysterious, blind, and absurd power manifested itself so clearly,--that
awful power which we call fate.

"First I was kept by a sense of honor from mentioning the name of the
Countess Claudieuse, and then by prudence. The first time I mentioned
it to M. Magloire, he told me I lied. Then I thought every thing lost. I
saw no other end but the court, and, after the trial, the galleys or the
scaffold. I wanted to kill myself. My friends made me understand that I
did not belong to myself, and that, as long as I had a spark of energy
and a ray of intelligence left me, I had no right to dispose of my
life."

"Poor, poor child!" said the marquis. "No, you have no such right."

"Yesterday," continued Jacques, "Dionysia came to see me. Do you
know what brought her here? She offered to flee with me. Father, that
temptation was terrible. Once free, and Dionysia by my side, what cared
I for the world? She insisted, like the matchless girl that she is; and
look there, there, on the spot where you now stand, she threw herself at
my feet, imploring me to flee. I doubt whether I can save my life; but I
remain here."

He felt deeply moved, and sank upon the rough bench, hiding his face in
his hands, perhaps to conceal his tears.

Suddenly, however, he was seized with one of those attacks of rage
which had come to him but too often during his imprisonment, and he
exclaimed,--

"But what have I done to deserve such fearful punishment?"

The brow of the marquis suddenly darkened; and he replied solemnly,--

"You have coveted your neighbor's wife, my son."

Jacques shrugged his shoulders. He said,--

"I loved the Countess Claudieuse, and she loved me."

"Adultery is a crime, Jacques."

"A crime? Magloire said the same thing. But, father, do you really think
so? Then it is a crime which has nothing appalling about it, to which
every thing invites and encourages, of which everybody boasts, and at
which the world smiles. The law, it is true, gives the husband the right
of life and death; but, if you appeal to the law, it gives the guilty
man six months' imprisonment, or makes him pay a few thousand francs."

Ah, if he had known, the unfortunate man!

"Jacques," said the marquis, "the Countess Claudieuse hints, as you say,
that one of her daughters, the youngest, is your child?"

"That may be so."

The Marquis de Boiscoran shuddered. Then he exclaimed bitterly,--

"That may be so! You say that carelessly, indifferently, madman! Did you
never think of the grief Count Claudieuse would feel if he should learn
the truth? And even if he merely suspected it! Can you not comprehend
that such a suspicion is quite sufficient to embitter a whole life, to
ruin the life of that girl? Have you never told yourself that such a
doubt inflicts a more atrocious punishment than any thing you have yet
suffered?"

He paused. A few words more, and he would have betrayed his secret.
Checking his excitement by an heroic effort, he said,--

"But I did not come here to discuss this question; I came to tell you,
that, whatever may happen, your father will stand by you, and that, if
you must undergo the disgrace of appearing in court, I will take a seat
by your side."

In spite of his own great trouble, Jacques had not been able to avoid
seeing his father's unusual excitement and his sudden vehemence. For
a second, he had a vague perception of the truth; but, before the
suspicion could assume any shape, it had vanished before this promise
which his father made, to face by his side the overwhelming humiliation
of a judgment in court,--a promise full of divine self-abnegation and
paternal love. His gratitude burst forth in the words,--

"Ah, father! I ought to ask your pardon for ever having doubted your
heart for a moment."

M. de Boiscoran tried his best to recover his self-possession. At last
he said in an earnest voice,--

"Yes, I love you, my son; and still you must not make me out more of a
hero than I am. I still hope we may be spared the appearance in court."

"Has any thing new been discovered?"

"M. Folgat has found some traces which justify legitimate hopes,
although, as yet, no real success has been achieved."

Jacques looked rather discouraged.

"Traces?" he asked.

"Be patient. They are feeble traces, I admit, and such as could not be
produced in court; but from day to day they may become decisive. And
already they have had one good effect: they have brought us back M.
Magloire."

"O God! Could I really be saved?"

"I shall leave to M. Folgat," continued the marquis, "the satisfaction
of telling you the result of his efforts. He can explain their bearing
better than I could. And you will not have long to wait; for last night,
or rather this morning, when we separated, he and M. Magloire agreed to
meet here at the prison, before two o'clock."

A few minutes later a rapid step approached in the passage; and Trumence
appeared, the prisoner of whom Blangin had made an assistant, and whom
Mechinet had employed to carry Jacques's letters to Dionysia. He was a
tall well-made man of twenty-five or six years, whose large mouth and
small eyes were perpetually laughing. A vagabond without hearth or home,
Trumence had once been a land-owner. At the death of his parents, when
he was only eighteen years old, Trumence had come into possession of a
house surrounded by a yard, a garden, several acres of land, and a salt
meadow; all worth about fifteen thousand francs. Unfortunately the time
for the conscription was near. Like many young men of that district,
Trumence believed in witchcraft, and had gone to buy a charm, which cost
him fifty francs. It consisted of three tamarind-branches gathered on
Christmas Eve, and tied together by a magic number of hairs drawn from
a dead man's head. Having sewed this charm into his waistcoat, Trumence
had gone to town, and, plunging his hand boldly into the urn, had drawn
number three. This was unexpected. But as he had a great horror of
military service, and, well-made as he was, felt quite sure that he
would not be rejected, he determined to employ a chance much more
certain to succeed; namely, to borrow money in order to buy a
substitute.

As he was a land-owner, he found no difficulty in meeting with an
obliging person, who consented to lend him for two years thirty-five
hundred francs, in return for a first mortgage on his property. When the
papers were signed, and Trumence had the money in his pocket, he set out
for Rochefort, where dealers in substitutes abounded; and for the sum of
two thousand francs, exclusive of some smaller items, they furnished him
a substitute of the best quality.

Delighted with the operation, Trumence was about to return home, when
his evil star led him to sup at his inn with a countryman, a former
schoolmate, who was now a sailor on board a coal-barge. Of course,
countrymen when they meet must drink. They did drink; and, as the sailor
very soon scented the twelve hundred francs which remained in Trumence's
pockets, he swore that he was going to have a jolly time, and would
not return on board his barge as long as there remained a cent in his
friend's pocket. So it happened, that, after a fortnight's carouse,
the sailor was arrested and put in jail; and Trumence was compelled to
borrow five francs from the stage-driver to enable him to get home.

This fortnight was decisive for his life. During these days he had lost
all taste for work, and acquired a real passion for taverns where they
played with greasy cards. After his return he tried to continue this
jolly life; and, to do so, he made more debts. He sold, piece after
piece, all he possessed that was salable, down to his mattress and his
tools. This was not the way to repay the thirty-five hundred francs
which he owed. When pay-day came, the creditor, seeing that his security
was diminishing every day, lost no time. Before Trumence was well aware
of what was going on, an execution was in the house; his lands were
sold; and one fine day he found himself in the street, possessing
literally nothing in the world but the wretched clothes on his back.

He might easily have found employment; for he was a good workman, and
people were fond of him in spite of all. But he was even more afraid
of work than he was fond of drink. Whenever want pressed too hard, he
worked a few days; but, as soon as he had earned ten francs, good-by!
Off he went, lounging by the road-side, talking with the wagoners, or
loafing about the villages, and watching for one of those kind topers,
who, rather than drink alone, invite the first-comer. Trumence
boasted of being well known all along the coast, and even far into the
department. And what was most surprising was that people did not blame
him much for his idleness. Good housewives in the country would, it is
true, greet him with a "Well, what do you want here, good-for-nothing?"
But they would rarely refuse him a bowl of soup or a glass of white
wine. His unchanging good-humor, and his obliging disposition, explained
this forbearance. This man, who would refuse a well-paid job, was ever
ready to lend a hand for nothing. And he was handy at every thing, by
land and by water, he called it, so that the farmer whose business was
pressing, and the fisherman in his boat who wanted help, appealed alike
to Trumence.

The mischief, however, is, that this life of rural beggary, if it has
its good days, also has its evil times. On certain days, Trumence could
not find either kind-hearted topers or hospitable housewives. Hunger,
however, was ever on hand; then he had to become a marauder; dig some
potatoes, and cook them in a corner of a wood, or pilfer the orchards.
And if he found neither potatoes in the fields, nor apples in the
orchards, what could he do but climb a fence, or scale a wall?

Relatively speaking, Trumence was an honest man, and incapable of
stealing a piece of money; but vegetables, fruits, chickens--

Thus it had come about that he had been arrested twice, and condemned to
several days' imprisonment; and each time he had vowed solemnly that he
would never be caught at it again, and that he was going to work hard.
And yet he had been caught again.

The poor fellow had told his misfortunes to Jacques; and Jacques,
who owed it to him that he could, when still in close confinement,
correspond with Dionysia, felt very kindly towards him. Hence, when he
saw him come up very respectful, and cap in hand, he asked,--

"What is it, Trumence?"

"Sir," replied the vagrant, "M. Blangin sends you word that the two
advocates are coming up to your room."

Once more the marquis embraced his son, saying,--

"Do not keep them waiting, and keep up your courage."



XXIII.

The Marquis de Boiscoran had not been mistaken about M. Magloire. Much
shaken by Dionysia's statement, he had been completely overcome by M.
Folgat's explanations; and, when he now came to the jail, it was with a
determination to prove Jacques's innocence.

"But I doubt very much whether he will ever forgive me for my
incredulity," he said to M. Folgat while they were waiting for the
prisoner in his cell.

Jacques came in, still deeply moved by the scene with his father. M.
Magloire went up to him, and said,--

"I have never been able to conceal my thoughts, Jacques. When I thought
you guilty, and felt sure that you accused the Countess Claudieuse
falsely, I told you so with almost brutal candor. I have since found out
my error, and am now convinced of the truth of your statement: so I come
and tell you as frankly, Jacques, I was wrong to have had more faith in
the reputation of a woman than in the words of a friend. Will you give
me your hand?"

The prisoner grasped his hand with a profusion of joy, and cried,--

"Since you believe in my innocence, others may believe in me too, and my
salvation is drawing near."

The melancholy faces of the two advocates told him that he was rejoicing
too soon. His features expressed his grief; but he said with a firm
voice,--

"Well, I see that the struggle will be a hard one, and that the result
is still uncertain. Never mind. You may be sure I will not give way."

In the meantime M. Folgat had spread out on the table all the papers
he had brought with him,--copies furnished by Mechinet, and notes taken
during his rapid journey.

"First of all, my dear client," he said, "I must inform you of what has
been done."

And when he had stated every thing, down to the minutest details of what
Goudar and he had done, he said,--

"Let us sum up. We are able to prove three things: 1. That the house in
Vine Street belongs to you, and that Sir Francis Burnett, who is known
there, and you are one; 2. That you were visited in this house by a
lady, who, from all the precautions she took, had powerful reasons to
remain unknown; 3. That the visits of this lady took place at certain
epochs every year, which coincided precisely with the journeys which the
Countess Claudieuse yearly made to Paris."

The great advocate of Sauveterre expressed his assent.

"Yes," he said, "all this is fully established."

"For ourselves, we have another certainty,--that Suky Wood, the servant
of the false Sir Francis Burnett, has watched the mysterious lady; that
she has seen her, and consequently would know her again."

"True, that appears from the deposition of the girl's friend."

"Consequently, if we discover Suky Wood, the Countess Claudieuse is
unmasked."

"If we discover her," said M. Magloire. "And here, unfortunately, we
enter into the region of suppositions."

"Suppositions!" said M. Folgat. "Well, call them so; but they are based
upon positive facts, and supported by a hundred precedents. Why should
we not find this Suky Wood, whose birthplace and family we know, and who
has no reason for concealment? Goudar has found very different people;
and Goudar is on our side. And you may be sure he will not be asleep.
I have held out to him a certain hope which will make him do
miracles,--the hope of receiving as a reward, if he succeeds, the
house in Vine Street. The stakes are too magnificent: he must win the
game,--he who has won so many already. Who knows what he may not have
discovered since we left him? Has he not done wonders already?"

"It is marvellous!" cried Jacques, amazed at these results.

Older than M. Folgat and Jacques, the eminent advocate of Sauveterre was
less ready to feel such enthusiasm.

"Yes," he said, "it is marvellous; and, if we had time, I would say
as you do, 'We shall carry the day!' But there is no time for Goudar's
investigations: the sessions are on hand, and it seems to me it would be
very difficult to obtain a postponement."

"Besides, I do not wish it to be postponed," said Jacques.

"But"--

"On no account, Magloire, never! What? I should endure three months more
of this anguish which tortures me? I could not do it: my strength is
exhausted. This uncertainty has been too much for me. I could bear no
more suspense."

M. Folgat interrupted him, saying,--

"Do not trouble yourself about that: a postponement is out of the
question. On what pretext could we ask for it? The only way would be to
introduce an entirely new element in the case. We should have to summon
the Countess Claudieuse."

The greatest surprise appeared on Jacques's face.

"Will we not summon her anyhow?" he asked.

"That depends."

"I do not understand you."

"It is very simple, however. If Goudar should succeed, before the trial,
in collecting sufficient evidence against her, I should summon her
certainly; and then the case would naturally change entirely; the whole
proceeding would begin anew; and you would probably appear only as a
witness. If, on the contrary, we obtain, before the trial begins, no
other proof but what we have now, I shall not mention her name even; for
that would, in my opinion, and in M. Magloire's opinion, ruin your cause
irrevocably."

"Yes," said the great advocate, "that is my opinion."

Jacques's amazement was boundless.

"Still," he said, "in self-defence, I must, if I am brought up in court,
speak of my relations to the Countess Claudieuse."

"No."

"But that is my only explanation."

"If it were credited."

"And you think you can defend me, you think you can save me, without
telling the truth?"

M. Folgat shook his head, and said,--

"In court the truth is the last thing to be thought of."

"Oh!"

"Do you think the jury would credit allegations which M. Magloire did
not credit? No. Well, then, we had better not speak of them any more,
and try to find some explanation which will meet the charges brought
against you. Do you think we should be the first to act thus? By no
means. There are very few cases in which the prosecution says all it
knows, and still fewer in which the defence calls for every thing it
might call for. Out of ten criminal trials, there are at least three in
which side-issues are raised. What will be the charge in court against
you? The substance of the romance which the magistrate has invented in
order to prove your guilt. You must meet him with another romance which
proves your innocence."

"But the truth."

"Is dependent on probability, my dear client. Ask M. Magloire. The
prosecution only asks for probability: hence probability is all the
defence has to care for. Human justice is feeble, and limited in its
means; it cannot go down to the very bottom of things; it cannot judge
of motives, and fathom consciences. It can only judge from appearances,
and decide by plausibility; there is hardly a case which has not some
unexplored mystery, some undiscovered secret. The truth! Ah! do you
think M. Galpin has looked for it? If he did, why did he not summon
Cocoleu? But no, as long as he can produce a criminal, who may be
responsible for the crime, he is quite content. The truth! Which of us
knows the real truth? Your case, M. de Boiscoran, is one of those in
which neither the prosecution, nor the defence, nor the accused himself,
knows the truth of the matter."

There followed a long silence, so deep a silence, that the step of
the sentinel could b heard, who was walking up and down under the
prison-windows. M. Folgat had said all he thought proper to say: he
feared, in saying more, to assume too great a responsibility. It was,
after all, Jacques's life and Jacques's honor which were at stake. He
alone, therefore, ought to decide the nature of his defence. If his
judgment was too forcibly controlled by his counsel, he would have had
a right hereafter to say, "Why did you not leave me free to choose? I
should not have been condemned."

To show this very clearly, M. Folgat went on,--

"The advice I give you, my dear client, is, in my eyes, the best; it is
the advice I would give my own brother. But, unfortunately, I cannot say
it is infallible. You must decide yourself. Whatever you may resolve, I
am still at your service."

Jacques made no reply. His elbows resting on the table, his face in his
hands, he remained motionless, like a statue, absorbed in his thoughts.
What should he do? Should he follow his first impulse, tear the veil
aside, and proclaim the truth? That was a doubtful policy, but also,
what a triumph if he succeeded!

Should he adopt the views of his counsel, employ subterfuges and
falsehoods? That was more certain of success; but to be successful in
this way--was that a real victory?

Jacques was in a terrible perplexity. He felt it but too clearly. The
decision he must form now would decide his fate. Suddenly he raised his
head, and said,--

"What is your advice, M. Magloire?"

The great advocate of Sauveterre frowned angrily; and said, in a
somewhat rough tone of voice,--

"I have had the honor to place before your mother all that my young
colleague has just told you. M. Folgat has but one fault,--he is too
cautious. The physician must not ask what his patient thinks of his
remedies: he must prescribe them. It may be that our prescriptions do
not meet with success; but, if you do not follow them, you are most
assuredly lost."

Jacques hesitated for some minutes longer. These prescriptions, as M.
Magloire called them, were painfully repugnant to his chivalrous and
open character.

"Would it be worth while," he murmured, "to be acquitted on such terms?
Would I really be exculpated by such proceedings? Would not my whole
life thereafter be disgraced by suspicions? I should not come out
from the trial with a clear acquittal: I should have escaped by a mere
chance."

"That would still better than to go, by a clear judgment, to the
galleys," said M. Magloire brutally.

This word, "the galleys," made Jacques bound. He rose, walked up and
down a few times in his room, and then, placing himself in front of his
counsel, said,--

"I put myself in your hands, gentlemen. Tell me what I must do."

Jacques had at least this merit, if he once formed a resolution, he was
sure to adhere to it. Calm now, and self-possessed, he sat down, and
said, with a melancholy smile,--

"Let us hear the plan of battle."

This plan had been for a month now the one great thought of M. Folgat.
All his intelligence, all his sagacity and knowledge of the world, had
been brought to bear upon this case, which he had made his own, so
to say, by his almost passionate interest. He knew the tactics of the
prosecution as well as M. Galpin himself, and he knew its weak and its
strong side even better than M. Galpin.

"We shall go on, therefore," he began, "as if there was no such person
as the Countess Claudieuse. We know nothing of her. We shall say nothing
of the meeting at Valpinson, nor of the burned letters."

"That is settled."

"That being so, we must next look, not for the manner in which we spent
our time, but for our purpose in going out the evening of the crime.
Ah! If we could suggest a plausible, a very probable purpose, I should
almost guarantee our success; for we need not hesitate to say there is
the turning-point of the whole case, on which all the discussions will
turn."

Jacques did not seem to be fully convinced of this view. He said,--

"You think that possible?"

"Unfortunately, it is but too certain; and, if I say unfortunately, it
is because here we have to meet a terrible charge, the most decisive, by
all means, that has been raised, one on which M. Galpin has not insisted
(he is much too clever for that), but one which, in the hands of the
prosecution, may become a terrible weapon."

"I must confess," said Jacques, "I do not very well see"--

"Have you forgotten the letter you wrote to Miss Dionysia the evening of
the crime?" broke in M. Magloire.

Jacques looked first at one, and then at the other of his counsel.

"What," he said, "that letter?"

"Overwhelms us, my dear client," said M. Folgat. "Don't you remember it?
You told your betrothed in that note, that you would be prevented
from enjoying the evening with her by some business of the greatest
importance, and which could not be delayed? Thus, you see, you had
determined beforehand, and after mature consideration, to spend that
evening in doing a certain thing. What was it? 'The murder of Count
Claudieuse,' says the prosecution. What can we say?"