Within an Inch of His Life

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


The marquis felt so secure, that he only listened with partial
attention, looking all the time aside at his precious _faiences_.

"Well," he said at last, "Jacques detests the Claudieuses. What does
that prove? God be thanked, we do not murder all the people we detest!"

His wife did not insist any longer. She only asked,--

"Well, what must we do?"

She was so little in the habit of consulting her husband, that he was
quite surprised.

"The first thing is to get Jacques out of jail. We must see--we ought to
ask for advice."

At this moment a light knock was heard at the door.

"Come in!" he said.

A servant came in, bringing a large envelope, marked "Telegraphic
Despatch. Private."

"Upon my word!" cried the marquis. "I thought so. Now we shall be all
right again."

The servant had left the room. He tore open the envelope; but at the
first glance at the contents the smile vanished, he turned pale, and
just said,--

"Great God!"

Quick as lightning, the marchioness seized the fatal paper. She read at
a glance,--

"Come quick. Jacques in prison; close confinement; accused of horrible
crime. The whole town says he is guilty, and that he has confessed.
Infamous calumny! His judge is his former friend, Galpin, who was
to marry his cousin Lavarande. Know nothing except that Jacques is
innocent. Abominable intrigue! Grandpa Chandore and I will do what can
be done. Your help indispensable. Come, come!

"DIONYSIA CHANDORE."

"Ah, my son is lost!" cried the marchioness with tears in her eyes. The
marquis, however, had recovered already from the shock.

"And I--I say more than ever, with Dionysia, who is a brave girl,
Jacques is innocent. But I see he is in danger. A criminal prosecution
is always an ugly affair. A man in close confinement may be made to say
any thing."

"We must do something," said the mother, nearly mad with grief.

"Yes, and without losing a minute. We have friends: let us see who among
them can help us."

"I might write to M. Margeril."

The marquis, who had turned quite pale, became livid.

"What!" he cried. "You dare utter that name in my presence?"

"He is all powerful; and my son is in danger."

The marquis stopped her with a threatening gesture, and cried with an
accent of bitter hatred,--

"I would a thousand times rather my son should die innocent on the
scaffold than owe his safety to that man!"

His wife seemed to be on the point of fainting.

"Great God! And yet you know very well that I was only a little
indiscreet."

"No more!" said the marquis harshly.

Then, recovering his self-control by a powerful effort, he went on,--

"Before we attempt any thing, we must know how the matter stands. You
will leave for Sauveterre this evening."

"Alone?"

"No. I will find some able lawyer,--a reliable jurist, who is not a
politician,--if such a one can be found nowadays. He will tell you what
to do, and will write to me, so that I can do here whatever may be
best. Dionysia is right. Jacques must be the victim of some abominable
intrigue. Nevertheless, we shall save him; but we must keep cool,
perfectly cool."

And as he said this he rang the bell so violently, that a number of
servants came rushing in at once.

"Quick," he said; "send for my lawyer, Mr. Chapelain. Take a carriage."

The servant who took the order was so expeditious, that, in less than
twenty minutes, M. Chapelain arrived.

"Ah! we want all your experience, my friend," said the marquis to him.
"Look here. Read these telegrams."

Fortunately, the lawyer had such control over himself, that he did not
betray what he felt; for he believed Jacques guilty, knowing as he did
how reluctant courts generally are to order the arrest of a suspected
person.

"I know the man for the marchioness," he said at last.

"Ah!"

"A young man whose modesty alone has kept him from distinguishing
himself so far, although I know he is one of the best jurists at the
bar, and an admirable speaker."

"What is his name?"

"Manuel Folgat. I shall send him to you at once."

Two hours later, M. Chapelain's _protege_ appeared at the house of
the Boiscorans. He was a man of thirty-one or thirty-two, with large,
wide-open eyes, whose whole appearance was breathing intelligence and
energy.

The marquis was pleased with him, and after having told him all he knew
about Jacques's position, endeavored to inform him as to the people
down at Sauveterre,--who would be likely to be friends, and who enemies,
recommending to him, above all, to trust M. Seneschal, an old friend of
the family, and a most influential man in that community.

"Whatever is humanly possible shall be done, sir," said the lawyer.

That same evening, at fifteen minutes past eight, the Marchioness of
Boiscoran and Manuel Folgat took their seats in the train for Orleans.



II.

The railway which connects Sauveterre with the Orleans line enjoys a
certain celebrity on account of a series of utterly useless curves,
which defy all common sense, and which would undoubtedly be the source
of countless accidents, if the trains were not prohibited from going
faster than eight or ten miles an hour.

The depot has been built--no doubt for the greater convenience of
travellers--at a distance of two miles from town, on a place where
formerly the first banker of Sauveterre had his beautiful gardens.
The pretty road which leads to it is lined on both sides with inns and
taverns, on market-days full of peasants, who try to rob each other,
glass in hand, and lips overflowing with protestations of honesty.
On ordinary days even, the road is quite lively; for the walk to the
railway has become a favorite promenade. People go out to see the
trains start or come in, to examine the new arrivals, or to exchange
confidences as to the reasons why Mr. or Mrs. So-and-so have made up
their mind to travel.

It was nine o'clock in the morning when the train which brought the
marchioness and Manuel Folgat at last reached Sauveterre. The former
was overcome by fatigue and anxiety, having spent the whole night
in discussing the chances for her son's safety, and was all the more
exhausted as the lawyer had taken care not to encourage her hopes.

For he also shared, in secret at least, M. Chapelain's doubts. He, also,
had said to himself, that a man like M. de Boiscoran is not apt to
be arrested, unless there are strong reasons, and almost overwhelming
proofs of his guilt in the hands of the authorities.

The train was slackening speed.

"If only Dionysia and her father," sighed the marchioness, "have thought
of sending a carriage to meet us."

"Why so?" asked Manuel Folgat.

"Because I do not want all the world to see my grief and my tears."

The young lawyer shook his head, and said,--

"You will certainly not do that, madame, if you are disposed to follow
my advice."

She looked at him quite amazed; but he insisted.

"I mean you must not look as if you wished not to be seen: that would be
a great, almost irreparable mistake. What would they think if they saw
you in tears and great distress? They would say you were sure of your
son's guilt; and the few who may still doubt will doubt no longer. You
must control public opinion from the beginning; for it is absolute
in these small communities, where everybody is under somebody else's
immediate influence. Public opinion is all powerful; and say what you
will, it controls even the jurymen in their deliberations."

"That is true," said the marchioness: "that is but too true."

"Therefore, madame, you must summon all your energy, conceal your
maternal anxiety in your innermost heart, dry your tears, and show
nothing but the most perfect confidence. Let everybody say, as he sees
you, 'No mother could look so who thinks her son guilty.'"

The marchioness straightened herself, and said,--

"You are right, sir; and I thank you. I must try to impress public
opinion as you say; and, so far from wishing to find the station
deserted, I shall be delighted to see it full of people. I will show you
what a woman can do who thinks of her son's life."

The Marchioness of Boiscoran was a woman of rare power.

Drawing her comb from her dressing-case, she repaired the disorder of
her coiffure; with a few skilful strokes she smoothed her dress; her
features, by a supreme effort of will, resumed their usual serenity; she
forced her lips to smile without betraying the effort it cost her; and
then she said in a clear, firm voice,--

"Look at me, sir. Can I show myself now?"

The train stopped at the station. Manuel Folgat jumped out lightly; and,
offering the marchioness his hand to assist her, he said,--

"You will be pleased with yourself, madam. Your courage will not be
useless. All Sauveterre seems to be here."

This was more than half true. Ever since the night before, a report had
been current,--no one knew how it had started,--that the "murderer's
mother," as they charitably called her, would arrive by the nine o'clock
train; and everybody had determined to happen to be at the station at
that hour. In a place where gossip lives for three days upon the last
new dress from Paris, such an opportunity for a little excitement was
not to be neglected. No one thought for a moment of what the poor old
lady would probably feel upon being compelled thus to face a whole
town; for at Sauveterre curiosity has at least the merit, that it is not
hypocritical. Everybody is openly indiscreet, and by no means ashamed
of it. They place themselves right in front of you, and look at you, and
try to find out the secret of your joy or your grief.

It must be borne in mind, however, that public opinion was running
strongly against M. de Boiscoran. If there had been nothing against him
but the fire at Valpinson, and the attempts upon Count Claudieuse,
that would have been a small matter. But the fire had had terrible
consequences. Two men had perished in it; and two others had been so
severely wounded as to put their lives in jeopardy. Only the evening
before, a sad procession had passed through the streets of Sauveterre.
In a cart covered with a cloth, and followed by two priests, the almost
carbonized remains of Bolton the drummer, and of poor Guillebault, had
been brought home. The whole city had seen the widow go to the mayor's
office, holding in her arms her youngest child, while the four others
clung to her dress.

All these misfortunes were traced back to Jacques, who was loaded
with curses; and the people now thought of receiving his mother, the
marchioness, with fierce hootings.

"There she is, there she is!" they said in the crowd, when she appeared
in the station, leaning upon M. Folgat's arm.

But they did not say another word, so great was their surprise at her
appearance. Immediately two parties were formed. "She puts a bold face
on it," said some; while others declared, "She is quite sure of her
son's innocence."

At all events, she had presence of mind enough to see what an impression
she produced, and how well she had done to follow M. Folgat's advice.
It gave her additional strength. As she distinguished in the crowd some
people whom she knew, she went up to them, and, smiling, said,--

"Well, you know what has happened to us. It is unheard of! Here is the
liberty of a man like my son at the mercy of the first foolish notion
that enters the head of a magistrate. I heard the news yesterday by
telegram, and came down at once with this gentleman, a friend of ours,
and one of the first lawyers of Paris."

M. Folgat looked embarrassed: he would have liked more considerate
words. Still he could not help supporting the marchioness in what she
had said.

"These gentlemen of the court," he said in measured tones, "will perhaps
be sorry for what they have done."

Fortunately a young man, whose whole livery consisted in a gold-laced
cap, came up to them at this moment.

"M. de Chandore's carriage is here," he said.

"Very well," replied the marchioness.

And bowing to the good people of Sauveterre, who were quite dumfounded
by her assurance, she said,--

"Pardon me if I leave you so soon; but M. de Chandore expects us. I
shall, however, be happy to call upon you soon, on my son's arm."

The house of the Chandore family stands on the other side of the
New-Market Place, at the very top of the street, which is hardly more
than a line of steps, which the mayor persistently calls upon the
municipal council to grade, and which the latter as persistently refuse
to improve. The building is quite new, massive but ugly, and has at the
side a pretentious little tower with a peaked roof, which Dr. Seignebos
calls a perpetual menace of the feudal system.

It is true the Chandores once upon a time were great feudal lords, and
for a long time exhibited a profound contempt for all who could not
boast of noble ancestors and a deep hatred of revolutionary ideas. But
if they had ever been formidable, they had long since ceased to be so.
Of the whole great family,--one of the most numerous and most powerful
of the province,--only one member survived, the Baron de Chandore, and a
girl, his granddaughter, betrothed to Jacques de Boiscoran. Dionysia was
an orphan. She was barely three years old, when within five months, she
lost her father, who fell in a duel, and her mother, who had not the
strength to survive the man whom she had loved. This was certainly for
the child a terrible misfortune; but she was not left uncared for nor
unloved. Her grandfather bestowed all his affections upon her; and the
two sisters of her mother, the Misses Lavarande, then already no longer
young, determined never to marry, so as to devote themselves exclusively
to their niece. From that day the two good ladies had wished to live
in the baron's house; but from the beginning he had utterly refused
to listen to their propositions, asserting that he was perfectly able
himself to watch over the child, and wanted to have her all to himself.
All he would grant was, that the ladies might spend the day with
Dionysia whenever they chose.

Hence arose a certain rivalry between the aunts and the grandfather,
which led both parties to most amazing exaggerations. Each one did what
could be done to engage the affections of the little girl; each one was
willing to pay any price for the most trifling caress. At five years
Dionysia had every toy that had ever been invented. At ten she was
dressed like the first lady of the land, and had jewelry in abundance.

The grandfather, in the meantime, had been metamorphosed from head to
foot. Rough, rigid, and severe, he had suddenly become a "love of a
father." The fierce look had vanished from his eyes, the scorn from his
lips; and both had given way to soft glances and smooth words. He was
seen daily trotting through the streets, and going from shop to shop
on errands for his grandchild. He invited her little friends, arranged
picnics for her, helped her drive her hoops, and if needs be, led in a
cotillion.

If Dionysia looked displeased, he trembled. If she coughed, he turned
pale. Once she was sick: she had the measles. He staid up for twelve
nights in succession, and sent to Paris for doctors, who laughed in his
face.

And yet the two old ladies found means to exceed his folly.

If Dionysia learned any thing at all, it was only because she herself
insisted upon it: otherwise the writing-master and the music-master
would have been sent away at the slightest sign of weariness.

Sauveterre saw it, and shrugged its shoulders.

"What a wretched education!" the ladies said. "Such weakness is
absolutely unheard of. They tender the child a sorry service."

There was no doubt that such almost incredible spoiling, such blind
devotion, and perpetual worship, came very near making of Dionysia the
most disagreeable little person that ever lived. But fortunately she had
one of those happy dispositions which cannot be spoiled; and besides,
she was perhaps saved from the danger by its very excess. As she grew
older she would say with a laugh,--

"Grandpapa Chandore, my aunts Lavarande, and I, we do just what we
choose."

That was only a joke. Never did a young girl repay such sweet affection
with rarer and nobler qualities.

She was thus leading a happy life, free from all care, and was just
seventeen years old, when the great event of her life took place. M. de
Chandore one morning met Jacques de Boiscoran, whose uncle had been
a friend of his, and invited him to dinner. Jacques accepted the
invitation, and came. Dionysia saw him, and loved him.

Now, for the first time in her life, she had a secret unknown to
Grandpapa Chandore and to her aunts; and for two years the birds and the
flowers were the only confidants of this love of hers, which grew up in
her heart, sweet like a dream, idealized by absence, and fed by memory.

For Jacques's eyes remained blind for two years.

But the day on which they were opened he felt that his fate was sealed.
Nor did he hesitate a moment; and in less than a month after that, the
Marquis de Boiscoran came down to Sauveterre, and in all form asked
Dionysia's hand for his son.

Ah! that was a heavy blow for Grandpapa Chandore.

He had, of course, often thought of the future marriage of his
grandchild; he had even at times spoken of it, and told her that he
was getting old, and should feel very much relieved when he should have
found her a good husband. But he talked of it as a distant thing, very
much as we speak of dying. M. de Boiscoran brought his true feelings
out. He shuddered at the idea of giving up Dionysia, of seeing her
prefer another man to himself, and of loving her children best of all.
He was quite inclined to throw the ambassador out of the window.

Still he checked his feelings, and replied that he could give no reply
till he had consulted his granddaughter.

Poor grandpapa! At the very first words he uttered, she exclaimed,--

"Oh, I am so happy! But I expected it."

M. de Chandore bent his head to conceal a tear which burned in his eyes.
Then he said very low,--

"Then the thing is settled."

At once, rather comforted by the joy that was sparkling in his
grandchild's eyes, he began reproaching himself for his selfishness, and
for being unhappy, when his Dionysia seemed to be so happy. Jacques had,
of course, been allowed to visit the house as a lover; and the very day
before the fire at Valpinson, after having long and carefully counted
the days absolutely required for all the purchases of the trousseau,
and all the formalities of the event, the wedding-day had been finally
fixed.

Thus Dionysia was struck down in the very height of her happiness, when
she heard, at the same time, of the terrible charges brought against M.
de Boiscoran, and of his arrest.

At first, thunderstruck, she had lain nearly ten minutes unconscious
in the arms of her aunts, who, like the grandfather, were themselves
utterly overcome with terror. But, as soon as she came to, she
exclaimed,--

"Am I mad to give way thus? Is it not evident that he is innocent?"

Then she had sent her telegram to the marquis, knowing well, that,
before taking any measures, it was all important to come to an
understanding with Jacques's family. Then she had begged to be left
alone; and she had spent the night in counting the minutes that must
pass till the hour came when the train from Paris would bring her help.

At eight o'clock she had come down to give orders herself that a
carriage should be sent to the station for the marchioness, adding that
they must drive back as fast as they could. Then she had gone into the
sitting-room to join her grandfather and her aunts. They talked to her;
but her thoughts were elsewhere.

At last a carriage was heard coming up rapidly, and stopping before the
house. She got up, rushed into the hall, and cried,--

"Here is Jacques's mother!"



III.

We cannot do violence to our natural feelings without paying for it. The
marchioness had nearly fainted when she could at last take refuge in the
carriage: she was utterly overcome by the great effort she had made
to present to the curious people of Sauveterre a smiling face and calm
features.

"What a horrible comedy!" she murmured, as she sank back on the
cushions.

"Admit, at least, madam," said the lawyer, "that it was necessary. You
have won over, perhaps, a hundred persons to your son's side."

She made no reply. Her tears stifled her. What would she not have given
for a few moments' solitude, to give way to all the grief of her heart,
to all the anxiety of a mother! The time till she reached the house
seemed to her an eternity; and, although the horse was driven at a
furious rate, she felt as if they were making no progress. At last the
carriage stopped.

The little servant had jumped down, and opened the door, saying,--

"Here we are."

The marchioness got out with M. Folgat's assistance; and her foot was
hardly on the ground, when the house-door opened, and Dionysia threw
herself into her arms, too deeply moved to speak. At last she broke
forth,--

"Oh, my mother, my mother! what a terrible misfortune!"

In the passage M. de Chandore was coming forward. He had not been able
to follow his granddaughter's rapid steps.

"Let us go in," he said to the two ladies: "don't stand there!"

For at all the windows curious eyes were peeping through the blinds.

He drew them into the sitting-room. Poor M. Folgat was sorely
embarrassed what to do with himself. No one seemed to be aware of his
existence. He followed them, however. He entered the room, and standing
by the door, sharing the general excitement, he was watching by turns,
Dionysia, M. de Chandore, and the two spinsters.

Dionysia was then twenty years old. It could not be said that she was
uncommonly beautiful; but no one could ever forget her again who had
once seen her. Small in form, she was grace personified; and all her
movements betrayed a rare and exquisite perfection. Her black hair fell
in marvellous masses over her head, and contrasted strangely with her
blue eyes and her fair complexion. Her skin was of dazzling whiteness.
Every thing in her features spoke of excessive timidity. And yet, from
certain movements of her lips and her eyebrows, one might have suspected
no lack of energy.

Grandpapa Chandore looked unusually tall by her side. His massive frame
was imposing. He did not show his seventy-two years, but was as straight
as ever, and seemed to be able to defy all the storms of life. What
struck strangers most, perhaps, was his dark-red complexion, which gave
him the appearance of an Indian chieftain, while his white beard and
hair brought the crimson color still more prominently out. In spite
of his herculean frame and his strange complexion, his face bore the
expression of almost child-like goodness. But the first glance at his
eyes proved that the gentle smile on his lips was not to be taken alone.
There were flashes in his gray eyes which made people aware that a man
who should dare, for instance, to offend Dionysia, would have to pay for
it pretty dearly.

As to the two aunts, they were as tall and thin as a couple of
willow-rods, pale, discreet, ultra-aristocratic in their reserve and
their coldness; but they bore in their faces an expression of happy
peace and sentimental tenderness, such as is often seen in old maids
whose temper has not been soured by celibacy. They dressed absolutely
alike, as they had done now for forty years, preferring neutral colors
and modest fashions, such as suited their simple taste.

They were crying bitterly at that moment; and M. Folgat felt
instinctively that there was no sacrifice of which they were not capable
for their beloved niece's sake.

"Poor Dionysia!" they whispered.

The girl heard them, however; and, drawing herself up, she said,--

"But we are behaving shamefully. What would Jacques say, if he could see
us from his prison! Why should we be so sad? Is he not innocent?"

Her eyes shone with unusual brilliancy: her voice had a ring which moved
Manuel Folgat deeply.

"I can at least, in justice to myself," she went on saying, "assure you
that I have never doubted him for a moment. And how should I ever have
dared to doubt? The very night on which the fire broke out, Jacques
wrote me a letter of four pages, which he sent me by one of his tenants,
and which reached me at nine o'clock. I showed it to grandpapa. He read
it, and then he said I was a thousand times right, because a man who had
been meditating such a crime could never have written that letter."

"I said so, and I still think so," added M. de Chandore; "and every
sensible man will think so too; but"--

His granddaughter did not let him finish.

"It is evident therefore, that Jacques is the victim of an abominable
intrigue; and we must unravel it. We have cried enough: now let us act!"

Then, turning to the marchioness, she said,--

"And my dear mother, I sent for you, because we want you to help us in
this great work."

"And here I am," replied the old lady, "not less certain of my son's
innocence than you are."

Evidently M. de Chandore had been hoping for something more; for he
interrupted her, asking,--