Within an Inch of His Life

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


At a sign from the president, and in the midst of the most profound
silence, the ushers remove the red cloth from the table.

P.--(Pointing at the clothes of the accused.) Does the costume which you
describe correspond with those cloths?

C.C.--Of course; for they are the same.

P.--Then you must have recognized the murderer.

C.C.--The fire was so large at that time, that it was as bright as
daylight. I recognized M. Jacques de Boiscoran.

There was, probably, in the whole vast audience assembled under that
roof, not a heart that was not seized with unspeakable anguish when
these crushing words were uttered.

We were so fully prepared for them, that we could watch the accused
closely.

Not a muscle in his face seemed to move. His counsel showed as little
any signs of surprise or emotion.

Like ourselves, the president also, and the prosecuting attorney, had
been watching the accused and his counsel. Did they expect a protest, an
answer, any thing at all? Perhaps they did.

But, as nothing came, the president continued, turning to witness,--

P.--Your declaration is a very serious one, sir.

C.C.--I know its weight.

P.--It is entirely different from your first deposition made before the
investigating magistrate.

C.C.--It is.

P.--When you were examined a few hours after the crime, you declared
that you had not recognized the murderer. More than that, when M. de
Boiscoran's name was mentioned, you seemed to be indignant of such a
suspicion, and almost became surety yourself for his innocence.

C.C.--That was contrary to truth. I felt a very natural sense of
commiseration, and tried to save a man who belonged to a highly esteemed
family from disgraceful punishment.

P.--But now?

C.C.--Now I see that I was wrong, and that the law ought to have its
course. And this is my reason for coming here,--although afflicted by a
disease which never spares, and on the point of appearing before God--in
order to tell you M. de Boiscoran is guilty. I recognized him.

P.--(To the accused.) Do you hear?

The accused rises and says,--

A.--By all that is dear and sacred to me in the world, I swear that I
am innocent. Count Claudieuse says he is about to appear before God: I
appeal to the justice of God.

Sobs well-nigh drown the voice of the accused. The Marchioness de
Boiscoran is overcome by a nervous attack. She is carried out stiff and
inanimate; and Dr. Seignebos and Miss Chandore hasten after her.

A.--(To Count Claudieuse.) You have killed my mother!

Certainly, all who had hoped for scenes of thrilling interest were not
disappointed. Everybody looks overcome with excitement. Tears appear in
the eyes of almost all the ladies.

And yet those who watch the glances which are exchanged between M. de
Boiscoran and Count Claudieuse cannot help asking themselves, if there
is not something else between these two men, besides what the trial has
made known. We cannot explain to ourselves these singular answers given
to the president's questions, nor does any one understand the silence
observed by M. de Boiscoran's counsel. Do they abandon their client? No;
for we see them go up to him, shake hands with him, and lavish upon him
every sign of friendly consolation and encouragement.

We may even be permitted to say, that, to all appearances, the president
himself and the prosecuting attorney were, for a moment, perfectly
overcome with surprise. At all events, we thought so at the moment.

But the president continues,--

P.--I have but just been asking the accused, count, whether there was
any ground of enmity between you.

C.C.--(In a steadily declining voice.) I know no other ground except our
lawsuit about a little stream of water.

P.--Has not the accused once threatened to fire at you?

C.C.--Yes; but I did not think he was in earnest, and I never resented
the matter.

P. Do you persist in your declaration?

C.C.--I do. And once more, upon my oath, I declare solemnly that I
recognized, in such a manner as to prevent any possible mistake, M.
Jacques Boiscoran.

It was evidently time that Count Claudieuse should end his evidence. He
begins to totter; his eyes close; his head rolls from side to side; and
two ushers have to come to his assistance to enable him, with the help
of his own servant, to leave the room.

Is the Countess Claudieuse to be called next?

It was thought so; but it was not so. The countess being kept by the
bedside of one of her daughters, who is most dangerously ill, will not
be called at all; and the clerk of the court is ordered to read her
deposition.

Although her description of the terrible event is very graphic,
it contains no new facts, and will remain without influence on the
proceedings.

The next witness is Ribot.

This is a fine handsome countryman, a regular village cock, with a
pink-and-blue cravat around his neck, and a huge gold chain dangling
from his watch-pocket. He seems to be very proud of his appearance and
looks around with an air of the most perfect self-satisfaction.

In the same way he relates his meeting with the accused in a tone of
great importance. He knows every thing and explains every thing. With
a little encouragement he would, no doubt, declare that the accused had
confided to him all his plans of incendiarism and murder. His answers
are almost all received with great hilarity, which bring down upon the
audience another and very severe reprimand from the president.

The witness Gaudry, who succeeds him, is a small, wretched-looking man,
with a false and timid eye, who exhausts himself in bows and scrapes.
Quite different from Ribot, he seems to have forgotten every thing. It
is evident he is afraid of committing himself. He praises the count; but
he does not speak the less well of M. de Boiscoran. He assures the court
of his profound respect for them all,--for the ladies and gentlemen
present, for everybody, in fine.

The woman Courtois, who comes next, evidently wishes she were a thousand
miles away. The president has to make the very greatest efforts to
obtain, word by word, her evidence, which, after all, amounts to next to
nothing.

Then follow two farmers from Brechy, who have been present at the
violent altercation which ended in M. de Boiscoran's aiming with his gun
at Count Claudieuse.

Their account, interrupted by numberless parentheses, is very obscure.
One of the counsel of the defendant requests them to be more explicit;
and thereupon they become utterly unintelligible. Besides, they
contradict each other. One has looked upon the act of the accused as a
mere jest: the other has looked upon it so seriously as to throw himself
between the two men, in order to prevent M. de Boiscoran from killing
his adversary then and there.

Once more the accused protests, energetically, he never hated Count
Claudieuse: there was no reason why he should hate him.

The obstinate peasant insists upon it that a lawsuit is always a
sufficient reason for hating a man. And thereupon he undertakes to
explain the lawsuit, and how Count Claudieuse, by stopping the water of
the Seille, overflowed M. de Boiscoran's meadows.

The president at last stops the discussion, and orders another witness
to be brought in.

This man swears he has head M. de Boiscoran say, that, sooner or later,
he would put a ball into Count Claudieuse. He adds, that the accused
is a terrible man, who threatened to shoot people upon the slightest
provocation. And, to support his evidence, he states that once before,
to the knowledge of the whole country, M. de Boiscoran has fired at a
man.

The accused undertakes to explain this. A scamp, who he thinks was no
one else but the witness on the stand, came every night and stole his
tenants' fruit and vegetables. One night he kept watch, and gave him a
load of salt. He does not know whether he hit him. At all events, the
thief never complained, and thus was never found out.

The next witness is a constable from Brechy. He deposes that once Count
Claudieuse, by stopping up the waters of the little stream, the
Seille, had caused M. de Boiscoran a loss of twenty thousand weight of
first-rate hay. He confesses that such a bad neighbor would certainly
have exasperated him.

The prosecuting attorney does not deny the fact, but adds, that Count
Claudieuse offered to pay damages. M. de Boiscoran had refused with
insulting haughtiness.

The accused replies, that he had refused upon the advice of his lawyer,
but that he had not used insulting words.

Next appeared the witnesses summoned by the defence.

The first is the excellent priest from Brechy. He confirms the statement
of the accused. He was dining, the evening of the crime, at the house
of M. de Besson; his servant had come for him; and the parsonage was
deserted. He states that he had really arranged with M. de Boiscoran
that the latter should come some evening of that week to fulfil the
religious duties which the church requires before it allows a marriage
to be consecrated. He has known Jacques de Boiscoran from a child, and
knows no better and no more honorable man. In his opinion, that hatred,
of which so much has been said, never had any existence. He cannot
believe, and does not believe, that the accused is guilty.

The second witness is the priest of an adjoining parish. He states,
that, between nine and ten o'clock, he was on the road, near the
Marshalls' Cross-roads. The night was quite dark. He is of the same size
as the priest at Brechy; and the little girl might very well have taken
him for the latter, thus misleading M. de Boiscoran.

Three other witnesses are introduced; and then, as neither the accused
nor his counsel have any thing to add, the prosecuting attorney begins
his speech.


[The Charge.]

M. Gransiere's eloquence is so widely known, and so justly appreciated,
that we need not refer to it here. We will only say that he surpassed
himself in this charge, which, for more than an hour, held the large
assembly in anxious and breathless suspense, and caused all hearts to
vibrate with the most intense excitement.

He commences with a description of Valpinson, "this poetic and charming
residence, where the noble old trees of Rochepommier are mirrored in the
crystal waves of the Seille.

"There," he went on to say,--"there lived the Count and the Countess
Claudieuse,--he one of those noblemen of a past age who worshipped
honor, and were devoted to duty; she one of those women who are the
glory of their sex, and the perfect model of all domestic virtues.

"Heaven had blessed their union, and given them two children, to whom
they were tenderly attached. Fortune smiled upon their wise efforts.
Esteemed by all, cherished, and revered, they lived happy, and might
have counted upon long years of prosperity.

"But no. Hate was hovering over them.

"One evening, a fatal glare arouses the count. He rushes out; he hears
the report of a gun. He hears it a second time, and he sinks down,
bathed in his blood. The countess also is alarmed by the explosion, and
hastens to the spot: she stumbles; she sees the lifeless body of her
husband, and sinks unconscious to the ground.

"Are the children also to perish? No. Providence watches. A flash of
intelligence pierces the night of an insane man, who rushes through
the flames, and snatches the children from the fire that was already
threatening their couch.

"Their lives are saved; but the fire continues its destructive march.

"At the sound of the terrible fire-bell, all the inhabitants of the
neighboring villages hurry to the spot. But there is no one to direct
their efforts; there are no engines; and they can do nothing.

"But all of a sudden a distant rumbling sound revives hope in their
hearts. They know the fire-engines are coming. They come; they reach the
spot; and whatever men can do is done at once.

"But great God! What mean those cries of horror which suddenly rise on
all sides? The roof of the house is falling, and buries under its ruins
two men, the most zealous and most courageous of all the zealous and
courageous men,--Bolton the drummer, who had just now summoned his
neighbors to come to the rescue, and Guillebault, a father with five
children.

"High above the crash and the hissing of flames rise their heart-rending
cries. They call for help. Will they be allowed to perish? A gendarme
rushes forward, and with him a farmer from Brechy. But their heroism
is useless: the monster keeps its prey. The two men also are apparently
doomed; and only by unheard-of efforts, and at great peril of life, can
they be rescued from the furnace. But they are so grievously wounded,
that they will remain infirm for the rest of their lives, compelled to
appeal to public charity for their subsistence."

Then the prosecuting attorney proceeds to paint the whole of the
disaster at Valpinson in the sombrest colors, and with all the resources
of his well-known eloquence. He describes the Countess Claudieuse as
she kneels by the side of her dying husband, while the crowd is eagerly
pressing around the wounded man and struggling with the flames for the
charred remains of the unfortunate firemen. With increasing vehemence,
he says next,--

"And during all this time what becomes of the author of these fearful
misdeeds? When his hatred is gratified, he flees through the wood, and
returns to his home. Remorse, there is none. As soon as he reaches the
house, he eats, drinks, smokes his cigar. His position in the country is
such, and the precautionary measures he had taken appear to him so well
chosen, that he thinks he is above suspicion. He is calm. He feels so
perfectly safe, that he neglects the commonest precautions, and does not
even take the trouble of pouring out the water in which he has washed
his hands, blackened as they are by the fire he has just kindled.

"He forgets that Providence whose torch on great occasions illumines and
guides human justice.

"And how, indeed, could the law ever have expected to find the guilty
man in one of the most magnificent chateaux of the country but for a
direct intervention of Providence?

"For the incendiary, the assassin, was actually there, at the Chateau
Boiscoran.

"And let no one come and tell us that the past life of Jacques de
Boiscoran is such as to protect him against the formidable charges that
are brought against him. We know his past life.

"A perfect model of those idle young men who spend in riotous living a
fortune painfully amassed by their fathers, Jacques de Boiscoran had not
even a profession. Useless to society, a burden to himself, he passed
through life like a ship without rudder and without compass, indulging
in all kinds of unhealthy fashions in order to spend the hours that were
weighing heavily upon him.

"And yet he was ambitious; but his ambition lay in the direction of
those dangerous and wicked intrigues which inevitably lead men to crime.

"Hence we see him mixed up with all those sterile and wanton party
movements which discredit our days, uttering over and over again hollow
phrases in condemnation of all that is noble and sacred, appealing to
the most execrable passions of the multitude"--

M. MAGLOIRE.--If this is a political affair, we ought to be informed
beforehand.

ATTORNEY-GENERAL.--There is no question of politics here. We speak of
the life of a man who has been an apostle of strife.

M. MAGLOIRE.--Does the attorney-general fancy he is preaching peace?

PRESIDENT.--I request counsel for the defence not to interrupt.

ATTORNEY-GENERAL.--And it is in this ambition of the accused that we
must look for a key to that terrible hatred which has led him to
commit such crimes. That lawsuit about a stream of water is a matter of
comparatively little importance. But Jacques de Boiscoran was preparing
to become a candidate for election.

A.--I never dreamed of it.

ATTORNEY-GENERAL.--(Not noticing the interruption.) He did not say so;
but his friends said it for him, and went about everywhere, repeating
that by his position, his wealth, and his opinions, he was the man best
worthy of the votes of Republicans. And he would have had an excellent
chance, if there had not stood between him and the object of his desires
Count Claudieuse, who had already more than once succeeded in defeating
similar plots.

M. MAGLOIRE.--(Warmly.) Do you refer to me?

ATTORNEY-GENERAL.--I allude to no one.

M. MAGLOIRE.--You might just as well say at once, that my friends as
well as myself are all M. de Boiscoran's accomplices; and that we have
employed him to rid us of a formidable adversary.

ATTORNEY-GENERAL.--(Continues.) Gentlemen, this is the real motive of
the crime. Hence that hatred which the accused soon is unable to conceal
any longer, which overflows in invectives, which breaks forth in threats
of death, and which actually carries him so far that he points his gun
at Count Claudieuse.

The attorney-general next passes on to examine the charges, which, he
declares, are overwhelming and irrefutable. Then he goes on,--

"But what need is there of such questions after the crushing evidence of
Count Claudieuse? You have heard it,--on the point of appearing before
God!

"His first impulse was to follow the generous nature of his heart, and
to pardon the man who had attempted his life. He desired to save him;
but, as he felt death come nearer, he saw that he had no right to shield
a criminal from the sword of justice: he remembered that there were
other victims beside himself.

"And then, rising from his bed of agony, he dragged himself here into
court, in order to tell you. 'That is the man! By the light of the fire
which he had kindled, I saw him and recognized him. He is the man!'

"And could you hesitate after such evidence? No! I can not and will not
believe it. After such crimes, society expects that justice should be
done,--justice in the name of Count Claudieuse on his deathbed,--justice
in the name of the dead,--justice in the name of Bolton's mother, and of
Guillebault's widow and her five children."

A murmur of approbation accompanied the last words of M. Gransiere, and
continued for some time after he had concluded. There is not a woman in
the whole assembly who does not shed tears.

P.--The counsel for the defence.


[Pleading.]

As M. Magloire had so far alone taken an active part in the defence, it
was generally believed that he would speak. But it was not so. M. Folgat
rises.

Our court-house here in Sauveterre has at various times reechoed the
words of almost all our great masters of forensic eloquence. We have
heard Berryer, Dufaure, Jules Favre, and others; but, even after these
illustrious orators, M. Folgat still succeeds in astonishing and moving
us deeply.

We can, of course, report here only a few of his phrases; and we must
utterly abandon all hope of giving an idea of his proud and disdainful
attitude, his admirable manner, full of authority, and especially of his
full, rich voice, which found its way into every heart.

"To defend certain men against certain charges," he began, "would be
to insult them. They cannot be touched. To the portrait drawn by the
prosecuting attorney, I shall simply oppose the answer given by the
venerable priest of Brechy. What did he tell you? M. de Boiscoran is the
best and most honorable of men. There is the truth; they wish to make
him out a political intriguant. He had, it is true, a desire to
be useful to his country. But, while others debated, he acted. The
Sauveterre Volunteers will tell you to what passions he appealed before
the enemy, and by what intrigues he won the cross which Chausy himself
fastened to his breast. He wanted power, you say. No: he wished for
happiness. You speak of a letter written by him, the evening of the
crime, to his betrothed. I challenge you to read it. It covers four
pages: before you have read two, you will be forced to abandon the
case."

Then the young advocate repeats the evidence given by the accused; and
really, under the influence of his eloquence, the charges seem to fall
to the ground, and to be utterly annihilated.

"And now," he went on, "what other evidence remains there? The evidence
given by Count Claudieuse. It is crushing, you say. I say it is
singular. What! here is a witness who sees his last hour drawing nigh,
and who yet waits for the last minute of his life before he speaks. And
you think that is natural! You pretend that it was generosity which made
him keep silent. I, I ask you how the most cruel enemy could have acted
more atrociously?

"'Never was a case clearer,' says the prosecution. On the contrary,
I maintain that never was a case more obscure; and that, so far from
fathoming the secret of the whole affair, the prosecution has not found
out the first word of it."

M. Folgat takes his seat, and the sheriff's officers have to interfere
to prevent applause from breaking out. If the vote had been taken at
that moment, M. de Boiscoran would have been acquitted.

But the proceedings are suspended for fifteen minutes; and in the
meantime the lamps are lit, for night begins to fall.

When the president resumes his chair, the attorney-general claims his
right to speak.

"I shall not reply as I had at first proposed. Count Claudieuse is
about to pay with his life for the effort which he has made to place his
evidence before you. He could not even be carried home. He is perhaps
at this very moment drawing his last breath upon earth in the adjoining
room."

The counsel for the defence do not desire to address the jury; and, as
the accused also declares that he has nothing more to say, the president
sums up, and the jurymen withdrew to their room to deliberate.

The heat is overwhelming, the restraint almost unbearable; and all faces
bear the marks of oppressive fatigue; but nobody thinks of leaving the
house. A thousand contradictory reports circulate through the excited
crowd. Some say that Count Claudieuse has died; others, on the contrary,
report him better, and add that he has sent for the priest from Brechy.

At last, a few minutes after nine o'clock, the jury reappears.

Jacques de Boiscoran is declared guilty, and, on the score of
extenuating circumstances, sentenced to twenty years' penal labor.




THIRD PART--COCOLEU



I.

Thus M. Galpin triumphed, and M. Gransiere had reason to be proud of his
eloquence. Jacques de Boiscoran had been found guilty.

But he looked calm, and even haughty, as the president, M. Domini,
pronounced the terrible sentence, a thousand times braver at that
moment than the man who, facing the squad of soldiers from whom he is to
receive death, refuses to have his eyes bandaged, and himself gives the
word of command with a firm voice.

That very morning, a few moments before the beginning of the trial, he
had said to Dionysia,--

"I know what is in store for me; but I am innocent. They shall not see
me turn pale, nor hear me ask for mercy."

And, gathering up all the energy of which the human heart is capable, he
had made a supreme effort at the decisive moment, and kept his word.

Turning quietly to his counsel at the moment when the last words of the
president were lost among the din of the crowd, he said,--

"Did I not tell you that the day would come when you yourself would be
the first to put a weapon into my hands?"

M. Folgat rose promptly.

He showed neither the anger nor the disappointment of an advocate who
has just had a cause which he knew to be just.

"That day has not come yet," he replied. "Remember your promise. As long
as there remains a ray of hope, we shall fight. Now we have much more
than mere hope at this moment. In less than a month, in a week, perhaps
to-morrow, we shall have our revenge."

The unfortunate man shook his head.

"I shall nevertheless have undergone the disgrace of a condemnation," he
murmured.

The taking the ribbon of the Legion of Honor from his buttonhole, he
handed it to M. Folgat, saying--

"Keep this in memory of me, and if I never regain the right to wear
it"--

In the meantime, however, the gendarmes, whose duty it was to guard the
prisoner, had risen; and the sergeant said to Jacques,--

"We must go, sir. Come, come! You need not despair. You need not lose
courage. All is not over yet. There is still the appeal for you, and
then the petition for pardon, not to speak of what may happen, and
cannot be foreseen."

M. Folgat was allowed to accompany the prisoner, and was getting ready
to do so; but the latter said, with a pained voice,--

"No, my friend, please leave me alone. Others have more need of your
presence than I have. Dionysia, my poor father, my mother. Go to them.
Tell them that the horror of my condemnation lies in the thought of
them. May they forgive me for the affliction which I cause them, and for
the disgrace of having me for their son, for her betrothed!"

Then, pressing the hands of his counsel, he added,--

"And you, my friends, how shall I ever express to you my gratitude? Ah!
if incomparable talents, and matchless zeal and ability, had sufficed,
I know I should be free. But instead of that"--he pointed at the little
door through which he was to pass, and said in a heartrending tone,--