Within an Inch of His Life

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


M. Folgat did hasten; so that, twenty minutes later, he was at the young
lady's house. She was in her chamber. He sent word to her that he wished
to see her; and, as soon as she heard that Jacques wanted her, she said
simply,--

"I am ready to go."

And, calling one of the Misses Lavarande, she told her,--

"Come, Aunt Elizabeth, be quick. Take your hat and your shawl. I am
going out, and you are going with me."

The prisoner counted so fully upon the promptness of his betrothed, that
he had already gone down into the parlor when she arrived at the prison,
quite out of breath from having walked so fast. He took her hands, and,
pressing them to his lips, he said,--

"Oh, my darling! how shall I ever thank you for your sublime fidelity in
my misfortune? If I escape, my whole life will not suffice to prove my
gratitude."

But he tried to master his emotion, and turning to Aunt Elizabeth, he
said,--

"Will you pardon me if I beg you to render me once more the service you
have done me before? It is all important that no one should hear what I
am going to say to Dionysia. I know I am watched."

Accustomed to passive obedience, the good lady left the room without
daring to make the slightest remark, and went to keep watch in the
passage. Dionysia was very much surprised; but Jacques did not give her
time to utter a word. He said at once,--

"You told me in this very place, that, if I wished to escape, Blangin
would furnish me the means, did you not?"

The young girl drew back, and stammered with an air of utter
bewilderment,--

"You do not want to flee?"

"Never! Under no circumstances! But you ought to remember, that, while
resisting all your arguments, I told you, that perhaps, some day or
other, I might require a few hours of liberty."

"I remember."

"I begged you to sound the jailer on that point."

"I did so. For money he will always be ready to do your bidding."

Jacques seemed to breathe more freely.

"Well, then," he said again, "the time has come. To-morrow I shall have
to be away all the evening. I shall like to leave about nine; and I
shall be back at midnight."

Dionysia stopped him.

"Wait," she said; "I want to call Blangin's wife."

The household of the jailer of Sauveterre was like many others. The
husband was brutal, imperious, and tyrannical: he talked loud and
positively, and thus made it appear that he was the master. The wife was
humble, submissive, apparently resigned, and always ready to obey; but
in reality she ruled by intelligence, as he ruled by main force. When
the husband had promised any thing, the consent of the wife had still to
be obtained; but, when the wife undertook to do any thing, the husband
was bound through her. Dionysia, therefore, knew very well that she
would have first to win over the wife. Mrs. Blangin came up in haste,
her mouth full of hypocritical assurances of good will, vowing that
she was heart and soul at her dear mistress's command, recalling with
delight the happy days when she was in M. de Chandore's service, and
regretting forevermore.

"I know," the young girl cut her short, "you are attached to me. But
listen!"

And then she promptly explained to her what she wanted; while Jacques,
standing a little aside in the shade, watched the impression on the
woman's face. Gradually she raised her head; and, when Dionysia had
finished, she said in a very different tone,--

"I understand perfectly, and, if I were the master, I should say, 'All
right!' But Blangin is master of the jail. Well, he is not bad; but
he insists upon doing his duty. We have nothing but our place to live
upon."

"Have I not paid you as much as your place is worth?"

"Oh, I know you do not mind paying."

"You had promised me to speak to your husband about this matter."

"I have done so; but"--

"I would give as much as I did before."

"In gold?"

"Well, be it so, in gold."

A flash of covetousness broke forth from under the thick brows of the
jailer's wife; but, quite self-possessed, she went on,--

"In that case, my man will probably consent. I will go and put him
right, and then you can talk to him."

She went out hastily, and, as soon as she had disappeared, Jacques asked
Dionysia,--

"How much have you paid Blangin so far?"

"Seventeen thousand francs."

"These people are robbing you outrageously."

"Ah, what does the money matter? I wish we were both of us ruined, if
you were but free."

But it had not taken the wife long to persuade the husband. Blangin's
heavy steps were heard in the passage; and almost immediately, he
entered, cap in hand, looking obsequious and restless.

"My wife has told me every thing," he said, "and I consent. Only we must
understand each other. This is no trifle you are asking for."

Jacques interrupted him, and said,--

"Let us not exaggerate the matter. I do not meant to escape: I only want
to leave for a time. I shall come back, I give you my word of honor."

"Upon my life, that is not what troubles me. If the question was only
to let you run off altogether, I should open the doors wide, and say,
'Good-by!' A prisoner who runs away--that happens every day; but a
prisoner who leaves for a few hours, and comes back again--Suppose
anybody were to see you in town? Or if any one came and wanted to see
you while you are gone? Or if they saw you come back again? What should
I say? I am quite ready to be turned off for negligence. I have been
paid for that. But to be tried as an accomplice, and to be put into jail
myself. Stop! That is not what I mean to do."

This was evidently but a preface.

"Oh! why lose so many words?" asked Dionysia. "Explain yourself clearly."

"Well, M. de Boiscoran cannot leave by the gate. At tattoo, at eight
o'clock, the soldiers on guard at this season of the year go inside the
prison, and until _reveille_ in the morning, or, in others words, till
five o'clock, I can neither open nor shut the gates without calling the
sergeant in command of the post."

"Did he want to extort more money? Did he make the difficulties out
greater than they really were?"

"After all," said Jacques, "if you consent, there must be a way."

The jailer could dissemble no longer: he came out with it bluntly.

"If the thing is to be done, you must get out as if you were escaping
in good earnest. The wall between the two towers is, to my knowledge,
at one place not over two feet thick; and on the other side, where there
are nothing but bare grounds and the old ramparts, they never put a
sentinel. I will get you a crowbar and a pickaxe, and you make a hole in
the wall."

Jacques shrugged his shoulders.

"And the next day," he said, "when I am back, how will you explain that
hole?"

Blangin smiled.

"Be sure," he replied, "I won't say the rats did it. I have thought of
that too. At the same time with you, another prisoner will run off, who
will not come back."

"What prisoner?"

"Trumence, to be sure. He will be delighted to get away, and he will
help you in making the hole in the wall. You must make your bargain with
him, but, of course, without letting him know that I know any thing. In
this way, happen what may, I shall not be in danger."

The plan was really a good one; only Blangin ought not to have claimed
the honor of inventing it: the idea came from his wife.

"Well," replied Jacques, "that is settled. Get me the pickaxe and the
crowbar, show me the place where we must make the hole, and I will take
charge of Trumence. To-morrow you shall have the money."

He was on the point of following the jailer, when Dionysia held him
back; and, lifting up her beautiful eyes to him, she said in a tremor,--

"You see, Jacques, I have not hesitated to dare every thing in order to
procure you a few house of liberty. May I not know what you are going to
do in that time?"

And, as he made no reply, she repeated,--

"Where are you going?"

A rush of blood colored the face of the unfortunate man; and he said in
an embarrassed voice,--

"I beseech you, Dionysia, do not insist upon my telling you. Permit me
to keep this secret, the only one I have ever kept from you."

Two tears trembled for a moment in the long lashes of the young girl,
and then silently rolled down her cheeks.

"I understand you," she stammered. "I understand but too well. Although
I know so little of life, I had a presentiment, as soon as I saw that
they were hiding something from me. Now I cannot doubt any longer. You
will go to see a woman to-morrow"--

"Dionysia," Jacques said with folded hands,--"Dionysia, I beseech you!"

She did not hear him. Gently shaking her heard, she went on,--

"A woman whom you have loved, or whom you love still, at whose feet you
have probably murmured the same words which you whispered at my feet.
How could you think of her in the midst of all your anxieties? She
cannot love you, I am sure. Why did she not come to you when she found
that you were in prison, and falsely accused of an abominable crime?"

Jacques cold bear it no longer.

"Great God!" he cried, "I would a thousand times rather tell you every
thing than allow such a suspicion to remain in your heart! Listen, and
forgive me."

But she stopped him, putting her hand on his lips, and saying, all in a
tremor,--

"No, I do not wish to know any thing,--nothing at all. I believe in
you. Only you must remember that you are every thing to me,--hope, life,
happiness. If you should have deceived me, I know but too well--poor
me!--that I would not cease loving you; but I should not have long to
suffer."

Overcome with grief and affection, Jacques repeated,--

"Dionysia, Dionysia, my darling, let me confess to you who this woman
is, and why I must see her."

"No," she interrupted him, "no! Do what your conscience bids you do. I
believe in you."

And instead of offering to let him kiss her forehead, as usual, she
hurried off with her Aunt Elizabeth, and that so quickly, that, when he
rushed after her, he only saw, as it were, a shadow at the end of the
long passage.

Never until this moment had Jacques found it in his heart really to hate
the Countess Claudieuse with that blind and furious hatred which dreams
of nothing but vengeance. Many a time, no doubt, he had cursed her in
the solitude of his prison; but even when he was most furious against
her, a feeling of pity had risen in his heart for her whom he had once
loved so dearly; for he did not disguise it to himself, he had once
loved her to distraction. Even in his prison he trembled, as he thought
of some of his first meetings with her, as he saw before his mind's eye
her features swimming in voluptuous languor, as he heard the silvery
ring of her voice, or inhaled the perfume she loved ever to have about
her. She had exposed him to the danger of losing his position, his
future, his honor even; and he still felt inclined to forgive her. But
now she threatened him with the loss of his betrothed, the loss of that
pure and chaste love which burnt in Dionysia's heart, and he could not
endure that.

"I will spare her no longer," he cried, mad with wrath. "I will hesitate
no longer. I have not the right to do so; for I am bound to defend
Dionysia!"

He was more than ever determined to risk that adventure on the next day,
feeling quite sure now that his courage would not fail him.

It was Trumence to-night--perhaps by the jailer's skilful
management--who was ordered to take the prisoner back to his cell, and,
according to the jail-dictionary, to "curl him up" there. He called
him in, and at once plainly told him what he expected him to do. Upon
Blangin's assurance, he expected the vagabond would jump at the mere
idea of escaping from jail. But by no means. Trumence's smiling
features grew dark; and, scratching himself behind the ear furiously, he
replied,--

"You see--excuse me, I don't want to run away at all."

Jacques was amazed. If Trumence refused his cooperation he could not go
out, or, at least, he would have to wait.

"Are you in earnest, Trumence?" he asked.

"Certainly I am, my dear sir. Here, you see, I am not so badly off: I
have a good bed, I have two meals a day, I have nothing to do, and I
pick up now and then, from one man or another, a few cents to buy me a
pinch of tobacco or a glass of wine."

"But your liberty?"

"Well, I shall get that too. I have committed no crime. I may have
gotten over a wall into an orchard; but people are not hanged for that.
I have consulted M. Magloire, and he told me precisely how I stand.
They will try me in a police-court, and they will give me three or four
months. Well, that is not so very bad. But, if I run away, they put the
gendarmes on my track; they bring me back here; and then I know how they
will treat me. Besides, to break jail is a grave offence."

How could he overcome such wise conclusions and such excellent reasons?
Jacques was very much troubled.

"Why should the gendarmes take you again?" he asked.

"Because they are gendarmes, my dear sir. And then, that is not all.
If it were spring, I should say at once, 'I am your man.' But we have
autumn now; we are going to have bad weather; work will be scarce."

Although an incurable idler, Trumence had always a good deal to say
about work.

"You won't help them in the vintage?" asked Jacques.

The vagabond looked almost repenting.

"To be sure, the vintage must have commenced," he said.

"Well?"

"But that only lasts a fortnight, and then comes winter. And winter is
no man's friend: it's my enemy. I know I have been without a place to
lie down when it has been freezing to split stones, and the snow was
a foot deep. Oh! here they have stoves, and the Board gives very warm
clothes."

"Yes; but there are no merry evenings here, Trumence, eh? None of those
merry evenings, when the hot wine goes round, and you tell the girls all
sorts of stories, while you are shelling peas, or shucking corn?"

"Oh! I know. I do enjoy those evenings. But the cold! Where should I go
when I have not a cent?"

That was exactly where Jacques wanted to lead him.

"I have money," he said.

"I know you have."

"You do not think I would let you go off with empty pockets? I would
give you any thing you may ask."

"Really?" cried the vagrant.

And looking at Jacques with a mingled expression of hope, surprise, and
delight, he added,--

"You see I should want a good deal. Winter is long. I should want--let
me see, I should want fifty Napoleons!"

"You shall have a hundred," said Jacques.

Trumence's eyes began to dance. He probably had a vision of those
irresistible taverns at Rochefort, where he had led such a merry life.
But he could not believe such happiness to be real.

"You are not making fun of me?" he asked timidly.

"Do you want the whole sum at once?" replied Jacques. "Wait."

He drew from the drawer in his table a thousand-franc note. But, at the
sight of the note, the vagrant drew back the hand which he had promptly
stretched out to take the money.

"Oh! that kind? No! I know what that paper is worth: I have had some of
them myself. But what could I do with one of them now? It would not be
worth more to me than a leaf of a tree; for, at the first place I should
want it changed, they would arrest me."

"That is easily remedied. By to-morrow I shall have gold, or small
notes, so you can have your choice."

This time Trumence clapped his hands in great joy.

"Give me some of one kind, and some of the other," he said, "and I
am your man! Hurrah for liberty! Where is that wall that we are to go
through?"

"I will show you to-morrow; and till them, Trumence, silence."

It was only the next day that Blangin showed Jacques the place where the
wall had least thickness. It was in a kind of cellar, where nobody ever
came, and where cast-off tools were stored away.

"In order that you may not be interrupted," said the jailer, "I will ask
two of my comrades to dine with me, and I shall invite the sergeant on
duty. They will enjoy themselves, and never think of the prisoners. My
wife will keep a sharp lookout; and, if any of the rounds should come
this way, she would warn you, and quick, quick, you would be back in
your room."

All was settled; and, as soon as night came, Jacques and Trumence,
taking a candle with them, slipped down into the cellar, and went to
work. It was a hard task to get through this old wall, and Jacques would
never have been able to accomplish it alone. The thickness was even less
than what Blangin had stated it to be; but the hardness was far beyond
expectation. Our fathers built well. In course of time the cement had
become one with the stone, and acquired the same hardness. It was as if
they had attacked a block of granite. The vagrant had, fortunately, a
strong arm; and, in spite of the precautions which they had to take to
prevent being heard, he had, in less than an hour, made a hole through
which a man could pass. He put his head in; and, after a moment's
examination, he said,--

"All right! The night is dark, and the place is deserted. Upon my word,
I will risk it!"

He went through; Jacques followed; and instinctively they hastened
towards a place where several trees made a dark shadow. Once there,
Jacques handed Trumence a package of five-franc notes, and said,--

"Add this to the hundred Napoleons I have given you before. Thank you:
you are a good fellow, and, if I get out of my trouble, I will not
forget you. And now let us part. Make haste, be careful, and good luck!"

After these words he went off rapidly. But Trumence did not march off in
the opposite direction, as had been agreed upon.

"Anyhow," said the poor vagrant to himself, "this is a curious story
about the poor gentleman. Where on earth can he be going?"

And, curiosity getting the better of prudence, he followed him.



XXVIII.

Jacques de Boiscoran went straight to Mautrec Street. But he knew with
what horror he was looked upon by the population; and in order to avoid
being recognized, and perhaps arrested, he did not take the most direct
route, nor did he choose the more frequented streets. He went a long way
around, and well-nigh lost himself in the winding, dark lanes of the
old town. He walked along in Feverish haste, turning aside from the
rare passers-by, pulling his felt hat down over his eyes, and, for still
greater safety, holding his handkerchief over his face. It was nearly
half-past nine when he at last reached the house inhabited by Count and
Countess Claudieuse. The little gate had been taken out, and the great
doors were closed.

Never mind! Jacques had his plan. He rang the bell.

A maid, who did not know him, came to the door.

"Is the Countess Claudieuse in?" he asked.

"The countess does not see anybody," replied the girl. "She is sitting
up with the count, who is very ill to-night."

"But I must see her."

"Impossible."

"Tell her that a gentleman who has been sent by M. Galpin desires to see
her for a moment. It is the Boiscoran affair."

"Why did you not say so at once?" said the servant. "Come in." And
forgetting, in her hurry, to close the gates again, she went before
Jacques through the garden, showed him into the vestibule, and then
opened the parlor-door, saying,--

"Will you please go in here and sit down, while I go to tell the
countess?"

After lighting one of the candles on the mantelpiece, she went out.
So far, every thing had gone well for Jacques, and even better than he
could have expected. Nothing remained now to be done, except to prevent
the countess from going back and escaping, as soon as she should have
recognized Jacques. Fortunately the parlor-door opened into the room. He
went and put himself behind the open half, and waited there.

For twenty-four hours he had prepared himself for this interview, and
arranged in his head the very words he would use. But now, at the last
moment, all his ideas flew away, like dry leaves under the breath of a
tempest. His heart was beating with such violence, that he thought it
filled the whole room with the noise. He imagined he was cool, and, in
fact, he possessed that lucidity which gives to certain acts of madmen
an appearance of sense.

He was surprised at being kept waiting so long, when, at last, light
steps, and the rustling of a dress, warned him that the countess was
coming.

She came in, dressed in a long, dark, undress robe, and took a few steps
into the room, astonished at not seeing the person who was waiting for
her.

It was exactly as Jacques had foreseen.

He pushed to, violently, the open half of the door; and, placing himself
before her, he said,--

"We are alone!"

She turned round at the noise, and cried,--

"Jacques!"

And terrified, as if she had seen a ghost, she looked all around, hoping
to see a way out. One of the tall windows of the room, which went down
to the ground, was half open, and she rushed towards it; but Jacques
anticipated her, and said,--

"Do not attempt to escape; for I swear I should pursue you into your
husband's room, to the foot of his bed."

She looked at him as if she did not comprehend.

"You," she stammered,--"you here!"

"Yes," he replied, "I am here. You are astonished, are you? You said to
yourself, 'He is in prison, well kept under lock and key: I can sleep in
peace. No evidence can be found. He will not speak. I have committed the
crime, and he will be punished for it. I am guilty; but I shall escape.
He is innocent, and he is lost.' You thought it was all settled? Well,
no, it is not. I am here!"

An expression of unspeakable horror contracted the beautiful features of
the countess. She said,--

"This is monstrous!"

"Monstrous indeed!"

"Murderer! Incendiary!"

He burst out laughing, a strident, convulsive, terrible laughter.

"And you," he said, "you call me so?"

By one great effort the Countess Claudieuse recovered her energy.

"Yes," she replied, "yes, I do! You cannot deny your crime to me. I
know, I know the motives which the judges do not even guess. You thought
I would carry out my threats, and you were frightened. When I left you
in such haste, you said to yourself, 'It is all over: she will tell her
husband.' And then you kindled that fire in order to draw my husband
out of the house, you incendiary! And then you fired at my husband, you
murderer!"

He was still laughing.

"And that is your plan?" he broke in. "Who do you think will believe
such an absurd story? Our letters were burnt; and, if you deny having
been my mistress, I can just as well deny having been your lover. And,
besides, would the exposure do me any harm? You know very well it would
not. You are perfectly aware, that, as society is with us, the same
thing which disgraces a woman rather raises a man in the estimate of the
world. And as to my being afraid of Count Claudieuse, it is well known
that I am afraid of nobody. At the time when we were concealing our love
in the house in Vine Street, yes, at that time, I might have been afraid
of your husband; for he might have surprised us there, the code in one
hand, a revolver in the other, and have availed himself of that stupid
and savage law which makes the husband the judge of his own case, and
the executor of the sentence which he himself pronounces. But setting
aside such a case, the case of being taken in the act, which allows
a man to kill like a dog another man, who can not or will not defend
himself, what did I care for Count Claudieuse? What did I care for your
threats or for his hatred?" He said these words with perfect calmness,
but with that cold, cutting tone which is as sharp as a sword, and with
that positiveness which enters irresistibly into the mind. The countess
was tottering, and stammered almost inaudibly,--

"Who would imagine such a thing? Is it possible?"

Then, suddenly raising her head, she said,--

"But I am losing my senses. If you are innocent, who, then, could be the
guilty man?"

Jacques seized her hands almost madly, and pressing them painfully, and
bending over her so closely that she felt his hot breath like a flame
touching her face, he hissed into her ear,--

"You, wretched creature, you!"

And then pushing her from him with such violence that she fell into a
chair, he continued,--

"You, who wanted to be a widow in order to prevent me from breaking the
chains in which you held me. At our last meeting, when I thought you
were crushed by grief, and felt overcome by your hypocritical tears,
I was weak enough, I was stupid enough, to say that I married Dionysia
only because you were not free. Then you cried, 'O God, how happy I
am that that idea did not occur to me before!' What idea was that,
Genevieve? Come, answer me and confess, that it occurred to you too soon
after all, since you have carried it out?"

And repeating with crushing irony the words just uttered by the
countess, he said,--

"If you are innocent, who, then, would be the guilty man?"

Quite beside herself, she sprang up from her chair, and casting at
Jacques one of those glances which seem to enter through our eyes into
the very heart of our hearts, she asked,--

"Is it really possible that you have not committed this abominable
crime?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"But then," she repeated, almost panting, "is it true, can it really be
true, that you think I have committed it?"