Within an Inch of His Life

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


All of a sudden he rose, and forgetting, for a moment, his customary
rigidity, he let his mask of icy impassiveness drop off his face, and
said,--

"Well?" as if, in his despair, he had hoped for some help or advice in
his troubles,--"well?"

No answer came.

All the others were as much troubled as he was. They all tried to shake
off the overwhelming impression made by this accumulation of evidence;
but in vain. At last, after a moment's silence, the magistrate said with
strange bitterness,--

"You see, gentlemen, I was right in examining Cocoleu. Oh! don't attempt
to deny it: you share my doubts and my suspicions, I see it. Is there
one among you who would dare assert that the terrible excitement of this
poor man has not restored to him for a time the use of his reason? When
he told you that he had witnessed the crime, and when he gave the name
of the criminal, you looked incredulous. But then other witnesses
came; and their united evidence, corresponding without a missing link,
constitutes a terrible presumption."

He became animated again. Professional habits, stronger than every thing
else, obtained once more the mastery.

"M. de Boiscoran was at Valpinson to-night: that is clearly established.
Well, how did he get here? By concealing himself. Between his own house
and Valpinson there are two public roads,--one by Brechy, and another
around the swamps. Does M. de Boiscoran take either of the two? No.
He cuts straight across the marshes, at the risk of sinking in, or of
getting wet from head to foot. On his return he chooses, in spite of the
darkness, the forest of Rochepommier, unmindful of the danger he runs to
lose his way, and to wander about in it till daybreak. What was he doing
this for? Evidently, in order not to be seen. And, in fact, whom does
he meet?--a loose fellow, Ribot, who is himself in hiding on account
of some love-intrigue; a wood-stealer, Gaudry, whose only anxiety is to
avoid the gendarmes; an old woman, finally, Mrs. Courtois, who has
been belated by an accident. All his precautions were well chosen; but
Providence was watching."

"O Providence!" growled Dr. Seignebos,--"Providence!"

But M. Galpin did not even hear the interruption. Speaking faster and
faster, he went on,--

"Would it at least be possible to plead in behalf of M. de Boiscoran a
difference in time? No. At what time was he seen to come to this
place? At nightfall. 'It was half-past eight,' says Ribot, 'when M. de
Boiscoran crossed the canal at the Seille swamps.' He might, therefore,
have easily reached Valpinson at half-past nine. At that hour the crime
had not yet been committed. When was he seen returning home? Gaudry and
the woman Courtois have told you the hour,--after eleven o'clock. At
that time Count Claudieuse had been shot, and Valpinson was on fire. Do
we know any thing of M. de Boiscoran's temper at that time? Yes, we do.
When he came this way he was quite cool. He is very much surprised at
meeting Ribot; but he explains to him very fully how he happens to be at
that place, and also why he has a gun.

"He says he is on his way to meet somebody at Brechy, and he thought he
would shoot some birds. Is that admissible? Is it even likely? However,
let us look at him on his way back. Gaudry says he was walking very
fast: he seemed to be furious, and was pulling handfuls of leaves from
the branches. What does Mrs. Courtois say? Nothing. When she calls him,
he does not venture to run; that would have been a confession, but he is
in a great hurry to help her. And then? His way for a quarter of an hour
is the same as the woman's: does he keep her company? No. He leaves her
hastily. He goes ahead, and hurries home; for he thinks Count Claudieuse
is dead; he knows Valpinson is in flames; and he fears he will hear the
bells ring, and see the fire raging."

It is not often that magistrates allow themselves such familiarity; for
judges, and even lawyers, generally fancy they are too high above common
mortals, on such occasions, to explain their views, to state their
impressions, and to ask, as it were, for advice. Still, when the inquiry
is only begun, there are, properly speaking, no fixed rules prescribed.
As soon as a crime has been reported to a French magistrate, he is at
liberty to do any thing he chooses in order to discover the guilty one.
Absolutely master of the case, responsible only to his conscience, and
endowed with extraordinary powers, he proceeds as he thinks best. But,
in this affair at Valpinson, M. Galpin had been carried away by the
rapidity of the events themselves. Since the first question addressed to
Cocoleu, up to the present moment, he had not had time to consider.
And his proceedings had been public; thus he felt naturally tempted to
explain them.

"And you call this a legal inquiry?" asked Dr. Seignebos.

He had taken off his spectacles, and was wiping them furiously.

"An inquiry founded upon what?" he went on with such vehemence that no
one dared interrupt him,--"founded upon the evidence of an unfortunate
creature, whom I, a physician, testify to be not responsible for what he
says. Reason does not go out and become lighted again, like the gas in
a street-lamp. A man is an idiot, or he is not an idiot. He has always
been one; and he always will be one. But you say the other statements
are conclusive. Say, rather, that you think they are. Why? Because you
are prejudiced by Cocoleu's accusation. But for it, you would never
have troubled yourselves about what M. De Boiscoran did, or did not. He
walked about the whole evening. He has a right to do so. He crossed the
marsh. What hindered him? He went through the woods. Why should he not?
He is met with by people. Is not that quite natural? But no: an idiot
accuses him, and forthwith all he does looks suspicious. He talks. It is
the insolence of a hardened criminal. He is silent. It is the remorse
of a guilty man trembling with fear. Instead of naming M. de Boiscoran,
Cocoleu might just as well have named me, Dr. Seignebos. At once, all
my doings would have appeared suspicious; and I am quite sure a thousand
evidences of my guilt would have been discovered. It would have been an
easy matter. Are not my opinions more radical even than those of M. de
Boiscoran? For there is the key to the whole matter. M. de Boiscoran is
a Republican; M. de Boiscoran acknowledges no sovereignty but that of
the people"--

"Doctor," broke in the commonwealth attorney,--"doctor, you are not
thinking of what you say."

"I do think of it, I assure you"--

But he was once more interrupted, and this time by Count Claudieuse, who
said,--

"For my part, I admit all the arguments brought up by the magistrate.
But, above all probabilities, I put a fact,--the character of the
accused. M. de Boiscoran is a man of honor and an excellent man. He is
incapable of committing a mean and odious crime."

The others assented. M. Seneschal added,--

"And I, I will tell you another thing. What would have been the purpose
of such a crime? Ah, if M. de Boiscoran had nothing to lose! But do you
know among all your friends a happier man than he is?--young, handsome,
in excellent health, immensely wealthy, esteemed and popular with
everybody. Finally, there is another fact, which is a family secret, but
which I may tell you, and which will remove at once all suspicions,--M.
de Boiscoran is desperately in love with Miss Dionysia de Chandore. She
returns his love; and the day before yesterday the wedding-day was fixed
on the 20th of the next month."

In the meantime the hours had sped on. It was half-past three by the
clock of the church in Brechy. Day was breaking; and the light of the
lamps was turning pale. The morning mists began to disappear; and the
sunlight fell upon the window-panes. But no one noticed this: all these
men gathered around the bed of the wounded man were too deeply excited.
M. Galpin had listened to the objection made by the others, without a
word or a gesture. He had so far recovered his self-control, that it
would have been difficult to see what impressions they made upon his
mind. At last, shaking his head gravely, he said,--

"More than you, gentlemen, I feel a desire to believe M. de Boiscoran
innocent. M. Daubigeon, who knows what I mean, will tell you so. In my
heart I pleaded his cause long before you. But I am the representative
of the law; and my duty is above my affections. Does it depend on me to
set aside Cocoleu's accusation, however stupid, however absurd, it
may be? Can I undo the three statements made by the witnesses, and
confirming so strongly the suspicions aroused by the first charge?"

Count Claudieuse was distressed beyond expression. At last he said,--

"The worst thing about it is, that M. de Boiscoran thinks I am his
enemy. I should not wonder if he went and imagined that these charges
and vile suspicions have been suggested by my wife or by myself. If I
could only get up! At least, let M. de Boiscoran know distinctly that I
am ready to answer for him, as I would answer for myself. Cocoleu, the
wretched idiot! Ah, Genevieve, my darling wife! Why did you induce him
to talk? If you had not insisted, he would have kept silent forever."

The countess succumbed at last to the anxieties of this terrible night.
At first she had been supported by that exaltation which is apt to
accompany a great crisis; but latterly she had felt exhausted. She had
sunk upon a stool, near the bed on which her two daughters were lying;
and, her head hid in the pillow, she seemed to sleep. But she was not
asleep. When her husband reproached her thus, she rose, pale, with
swollen eyes and distorted features, and said in a piercing voice,--

"What? They have tried to kill my Trivulce; our children have been near
unto death in the flames; and I should have allowed any means to be
unused by which the guilty one may be found out? No! I have only done
what it was my duty to do. Whatever may come of it, I regret nothing."

"But, Genevieve, M. de Boiscoran is not guilty: he cannot possibly be
guilty. How could a man who has the happiness of being loved by Dionysia
de Chandore, and who counts the days to his wedding,--how could he
devise such a hideous crime?"

"Let him prove his innocence," replied the countess mercilessly.

The doctor smacked his lips in the most impertinent manner.

"There is a woman's logic for you," he murmured.

"Certainly," said M. Seneschal, "M. de Boiscoran's innocence will be
promptly established. Nevertheless, the suspicion will remain. And our
people are so constituted, that this suspicion will overshadow his whole
life. Twenty years hence, they will meet him, and they will say, 'Oh,
yes! the man who set Valpinson on fire!'"

It was not M. Galpin this time who replied, but the commonwealth
attorney. He said sadly,--

"I cannot share your views; but that does not matter. After what has
passed, our friend, M. Galpin cannot retrace his steps: his duty makes
that impossible, and, even more so, what is due to the accused. What
would all these people say, who have heard Cocoleu's deposition, and the
evidence given by the witnesses, if the inquiry were stopped? They
would certainly say M. de Boiscoran was guilty, but that he was not help
responsible because he was rich and noble. Upon my honor I believe him
to be innocent. But precisely because this is my conviction, I maintain
that his innocence must be clearly established. No doubt he has the
means of doing so. When he met Ribot, he told him he was on his way to
see somebody at Brechy."

"But suppose he never went there?" objected M. Seneschal. "Suppose he
did not see anybody there? Suppose it was only a pretext to satisfy
Ribot's impertinent curiosity?"

"Well, then, he would only have to tell the truth in court. And
look! Here's an important proof which almost by itself relieves M. de
Boiscoran. Would he not have loaded his gun with a ball, if he should
ever have really thought of murdering the count? But it was loaded with
nothing but small-shot."

"And he would never have missed me at ten yards' distance," said the
count.

Suddenly somebody was heard knocking furiously at the door.

"Come in!" cried M. Seneschal.

The door opened and three peasants appeared, looking bewildered, but
evidently well pleased.

"We have just," said one of them, "found something curious."

"What?" asked M. Galpin.

"It looks very much like a case; but Pitard says it is the paper of a
cartridge."

Count Claudieuse raised himself on his pillows, and said eagerly,--

"Let me see! I have during these last days fired several times quite
near to the house to frighten the birds away that eat my fruit. I want
to see if the paper is mine."

The peasant gave it to him.

It was a very thin lead form, such as contain the cartridges used
in American breech-loading guns. What was singular was that it was
blackened by burnt powder; but it had not been torn, nor had it blazed
up in the discharge. It was so perfectly uninjured, that one could read
the embossed letters of the name of the manufacturer, Clebb.

"That cartridge never belonged to me," said the count.

But as he uttered these words he turned deadly pale, so pale, that his
wife came close to him, and looked at him with a glance full of terrible
anguish.

"Well?"

He made no reply.

But at that moment such silence was so eloquent, that the countess felt
sickened, and whispered to him,--

"Then Cocoleu was right, after all!"

Not one feature of this dramatic scene had escaped M. Galpin's eye.
He had seen on every face signs of a kind of terror; still he made no
remark. He took the metal case from the count's hands, knowing that it
might become an important piece of evidence; and for nearly a minute he
turned it round and round, looking at it from all sides, and examining
it in the light with the utmost attention.

Then turning to the peasants, who were standing respectfully and
uncovered close by the door, he asked them,--

"Where did you find this cartridge, my friends?"

"Close by the old tower, where they keep the tools, and where the ivy is
growing all over the old castle."

M. Seneschal had in the meantime succeeded in recovering his
self-control, and said now,--

"Surely the murderer cannot have fired from there. You cannot even see
the door of the house from the old tower."

"That may be," replied the magistrate; "but the cartridge-case does not
necessarily fall to the ground at the place where the gun is discharged.
It falls as soon as the gun is cocked to reload."

This was so true, that even Dr. Seignebos had nothing to say.

"Now, my friends," said M. Galpin, "which of you has found the
cartridge-case?"

"We were all together when we saw it, and picked it up."

"Well, then, all three of you must give me your names and your domicile,
so that I can send for you when you are wanted."

This was done; and, when all formalities were attended to, they went
off with numberless bows and doffings of hats. Just at that moment the
furious gallop of a horse was heard approaching the house; the next
moment the man who had been sent to Sauveterre for medicines came in. He
was furious.

"That rascal of a druggist!" he said. "I thought he would never open his
shop!"

Dr. Seignebos had eagerly seized the things that were sent him, then,
bowing with mock respect to the magistrate, he said,--

"I know very well, sir, how pressing the necessity is to have the head
of the culprit cut off; but I think it is almost as pressing to save the
life of the murdered man. I have probably delayed the binding up of the
count's wounds longer than I ought to have done; and I beg you will now
leave me alone, so as to enable me to do my duty to him."



VI.

There was nothing more to be done for the magistrate, the commonwealth
attorney, or the mayor. The doctor might assuredly have used more polite
language; but people were accustomed to his brutal ways; for it is
surprising with what readiness men are tolerated in France, under the
pretext that they are as they are, and that they must be taken as they
are. The three gentlemen, therefore, left the room, after having bid
farewell to the countess, and after having promised to send the count
news of all that might be discovered.

The fire was going out for want of fuel. A few hours had sufficed to
destroy all that the hard work and incessant cares of many years had
accomplished. This charming and much envied estate presented now nothing
but a few half calcined walls, heaps of black and gray ashes, and still
glowing timbers, from which columns of smoke were slowly rising upward.
Thanks to Capt. Parenteau, all that they had been able to save had been
carried to a distance, and safely stored away under the shelter of the
ruins of the old castle. There, furniture and other articles were piled
up pell-mell. There, carts and agricultural machines were standing
about, empty casks, and sacks of oats and rye. There, also, the cattle
were gathered, that had been drawn from their stalls with infinite
labor, and at great risk of life,--horses, oxen, some sheep, and a
dozen cows, who lowed piteously. Few of the people had left as yet. With
greater zeal than ever the firemen, aided by the peasants, deluged the
remains of the dwelling-house with water. They had nothing to fear
from the fire; but they desired to keep the bodies of their unfortunate
companions from being entirely consumed.

"What a terrible scourge fire is!" said M. Seneschal.

Neither M. Galpin nor the mayor made any answer. They also felt their
hearts oppressed by the sad sight before them, in spite of all the
intense excitement before; for a fire is nothing as long as the feverish
excitement, and the hope of saving something, continue to keep us up,
and as long as the red flames illumine the horizon; but the next day,
when all is over, then we realize the extent of the misfortune.

The firemen recognized the mayor, and greeted him with cheers. He went
rapidly towards them; and, for the first time since the alarm had been
raised, the magistrate and the attorney were alone. They were standing
close by each other, and for a moment kept silent, while each one tried
to read in the other's eyes the secret of his thoughts. At last M.
Daubigeon asked,--

"Well?"

M. Galpin trembled.

"This is a fearful calamity," he said.

"What is your opinion?"

"Ah! do I know it myself? I have lost my head: the whole thing looks to
me like a nightmare."

"You cannot really believe that M. de Boiscoran is guilty?"

"I believe nothing. My reason tells me he is innocent. I feel he must be
innocent; and yet I see terrible evidence rising against him."

The attorney was overwhelmed.

"Alas!" he said, "why did you, contrary to everybody's opinion, insist
upon examining Cocoleu, a poor idiotic wretch?"

But the magistrate remonstrated--

"You do not mean to reproach me, sir, for having followed the impulses
of my conscience?"

"I reproach you for nothing."

"A horrible crime has been committed; and my duty compelled me to do all
that lies in the power of man to discover the culprit."

"Yes; and the man who is accused of the crime is your friend, and only
yesterday you spoke of his friendship as your best chance of success in
life."

"Sir?"

"Are you surprised to find me so well informed? Ah, you do not know
that nothing escapes the idle curiosity of a village. I know that your
dearest hope was to become a member of M. de Boiscoran's family, and
that you counted upon him to back you in your efforts to obtain the hand
of one of his cousins."

"I do not deny that."

"Unfortunately, you have been tempted by the prestige you might gain
in a great and famous trial. You have laid aside all prudence; and your
projects are forgotten. Whether M. de Boiscoran is innocent or guilty,
his family will never forgive you your interference. If he is guilty,
they will blame you for having handed him over to justice: if he is
innocent, they will blame you even more for having suspected him."

M. Galpin hung his head as if to conceal his trouble. Then he asked,--

"And what would you do in my place?"

"I would withdraw from the case, although it is rather late."

"If I did so, I should risk my career."

"Even that would be better for you than to engage in an affair in which
you cannot feel the calmness nor the impartiality which are the first
and indispensable virtues of an upright magistrate."

The latter was becoming impatient. He exclaimed,--

"Sir, do you think I am a man to be turned aside from my duty by
considerations of friendship or personal interest?"

"I said nothing of the kind."

"Did you not see just now how I carried on the inquiry? Did you see me
start when Cocoleu first mentioned M. de Boiscoran's name? If he had
denounced any one else, I should probably have let the matter rest
there. But precisely because M. de Boiscoran is a friend of mine,
and because I have great expectations from him, I have insisted and
persisted, and I do so still."

The commonwealth attorney shrugged his shoulders.

"That is it exactly," he said. "Because M. de Boiscoran is a friend of
yours, you are afraid of being accused of weakness; and you are going
to be hard, pitiless, unjust even, against him. Because you had great
expectations from him, you will insist upon finding him guilty. And you
call yourself impartial?"

M. Galpin assumed all his usual rigidity, and said solemnly,--

"I am sure of myself!"

"Have a care!"

"My mind is made up, sir."

It was time for M. Seneschal to join them again: he returned,
accompanied by Capt. Parenteau.

"Well, gentlemen," he asked, "what have you resolved?"

"We are going to Boiscoran," replied the magistrate.

"What! Immediately?"

"Yes: I wish to find M. de Boiscoran in bed. I am so anxious about it,
that I shall do without my clerk."

Capt. Parenteau bowed, and said,--

"Your clerk is here, sir: he was but just inquiring for you." Thereupon
he called out as loud as he could,--

"Mechinet, Mechinet!"

A small gray-haired man, jovial and cheerful, came running up, and at
once proceeded to tell at full length how a neighbor had told him what
had happened, and how the magistrate had left town, whereupon he, also,
had started on foot, and come after him as fast as he could.

"Now will you go to Boiscoran?" asked the mayor.

"I do not know yet. Mechinet will have to look for some conveyance."

Quick like lightning, the clerk was starting off, when M. Seneschal held
him back, saying,--

"Don't go. I place my horse and my carriage at your disposal. Any one of
these peasants can drive you. Capt. Parenteau and I will get into some
farmer's wagon, and thus get back to Sauveterre; for we ought to be back
as soon as possible. I have just heard alarming news. There may be some
disorder. The peasant-women who attend the market have brought in most
exciting reports, and exaggerated the calamities of last night. They
have started reports that ten or twelve men have been killed, and that
the incendiary, M. de Boiscoran, has been arrested. The crowd has gone
to poor Guillebault's widow; and there have been demonstrations before
the houses of several of the principal inhabitants of Sauveterre."

In ordinary times, M. Seneschal would not have intrusted his famous
horse, Caraby, for any thing in the world, to the hands of a stranger.
He considered it the best horse in the province. But he was evidently
terribly upset, and betrayed it in his manner, and by the very efforts
he made to regain his official dignity and self-possession.

He made a sign, and his carriage was brought up, all ready. But, when he
asked for somebody to drive, no one came forward. All these good people
who had spent the night abroad were in great haste to return home, where
their cattle required their presence. When young Ribot saw the others
hesitate, he said,--

"Well, I'll drive the justice."

And, taking hold of the whip and the reins, he took his seat on the
front-bench, while the magistrate, the commonwealth attorney, and the
clerk filled the vehicle.

"Above all, take care of Caraby," begged M. Seneschal, who at the last
moment felt almost overcome with anxiety for his favorite.

"Don't be afraid, sir," replied the young man, as he started the horse.
"If I strike too hard, M. Mechinet will stop me."

This Mechinet, the magistrate's clerk, was almost a power in Sauveterre;
and the greatest personages there paid their court to him. His official
duties were of very humble nature, and ill paid; but he knew how to eke
out his income by other occupations, of which the court took no notice;
and these added largely both to his importance in the community and to
his modest income.

As he was a skilful lithographer, he printed all the visiting-cards
which the people of Sauveterre ordered at the principal printing-office
of Sauveterre, where "The Independent" was published. An able
accountant, he kept books and made up accounts for some of the
principal merchants in town. Some of the country people who were fond of
litigation came to him for legal advice; and he drew up all kinds of law
papers. For many years now, he had been director of the firemen's band,
and manager of the Orpheon. He was a correspondent of certain Paris
societies, and thus obtained free admission to the theatre not only, but
also to the sacred precincts behind the scenes. Finally he was always
ready to give writing-lessons, French lessons to little girls, or
music-lessons on the flute and the horn, to amateurs.