Within an Inch of His Life

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


But there were many more questions to be asked; and Anthony was in such
a state of feverish excitement, that it was difficult to induce him to
answer. For it is not so easy to examine a man, however inclined he may
be to answer. It requires no small self-possession, much care, and an
imperturbable method, without which the most important facts are apt to
be overlooked. M. Folgat began, therefore, after a moment's pause, once
more, saying,--

"My good Anthony, I cannot praise your conduct in this matter too
highly. However, we have not done with it yet. But as I have eaten
nothing since I left Paris last night, and as I hear the bell strike
twelve o'clock"--

M. de Chandore seemed to be heartily ashamed, and broke in,--

"Ah, forgetful old man that I am! Why did I not think of it? But you
will pardon me, I am sure. I am so completely upset. Anthony, what can
you let us have?"

"The housekeeper has eggs, potted fowl, ham"--

"Whatever can be made ready first will be the best," said the young
lawyer.

"In a quarter of an hour the table shall be set," replied the servant.

He hurried away, while M. de Chandore invited M. Folgat into the
sitting-room. The poor grandfather summoned all his energy to keep up
appearances.

"This fact about the gun will save him, won't it?" he asked.

"Perhaps so," replied the famous advocate.

And they were silent,--the grandfather thinking of the grief of his
grandchild, and cursing the day on which he had opened his house
to Jacques, and with him to such heart-rending anguish; the lawyer
arranging in his mind the facts he had learned, and preparing the
questions he was going to ask. They were both so fully absorbed by their
thoughts, that they started when Anthony reappeared, and said,--

"Gentlemen, breakfast is ready!"

The table had been set in the dining-room; and, when the two gentlemen
had taken their seats, old Anthony placed himself, his napkin over his
arm, behind them; but M. de Chandore called him, saying,--

"Put another plate, Anthony, and breakfast with us."

"Oh, sir," protested the old servant,--"sir"--

"Sit down," repeated the baron: "if you eat after us, you will make us
lose time, and an old servant like you is a member of the family."

Anthony obeyed, quite overcome, but blushing with delight at the honor
that was done him; for the Baron de Chandore did not usually distinguish
himself to familiarity. When the ham and eggs of the housekeeper had
been disposed of, M. Folgat said,--

"Now let us go back to business. Keep cool, my dear Anthony, and
remember, that, unless we get the court to say that there is no case,
your answers may become the basis of our defence. What were M. de
Boiscoran's habits when he was here?"

"When he was here, sir, he had, so to say, no habits. We came here very
rarely, and only for a short time."

"Never mind: what was he doing here?"

"He used to rise late; he walked about a good deal; he sometimes went
out hunting; he sketched; he read, for master is a great reader, and is
as fond of his books as the marquis, his father, is of his porcelains."

"Who came here to see him?"

"M. Galpin most frequently, Dr. Seignebos, the priest from Brechy, M.
Seneschal, M. Daubigeon."

"How did he spend his evenings?"

"At M. de Chandore's, who can tell you all about it."

"He had no other relatives in this country?"

"No."

"You do not know that he had any lady friend?"

Anthony looked as if he would have blushed.

"Oh, sir!" he said, "you do not know, I presume, that master is engaged
to Miss Dionysia?"

The Baron de Chandore was not a baby, as he liked to call it. Deeply
interested as he was, he got up, and said,--

"I want to take a little fresh air."

And he went out, understanding very well that his being Dionysia's
grandfather might keep Anthony from telling the truth.

"That is a sensible man," thought M. Folgat.

Then he added aloud,--

"Now we are alone, my dear Anthony, you can speak frankly. Did M. de
Boiscoran keep a mistress?"

"No, sir."

"Did he ever have one?"

"Never. They will tell you, perhaps, that once upon a time he was rather
pleased with a great, big red-haired woman, the daughter of a miller in
the neighborhood, and that the gypsy of a woman came more frequently to
the chateau than was needful,--now on one pretext, and now on another.
But that was mere childishness. Besides, that was five years ago,
and the woman has been married these three years to a basket-maker at
Marennes."

"You are quite sure of what you say?"

"As sure as I am of myself. And you would be as sure of it yourself, if
you knew the country as I know it, and the abominable tongues the people
have. There is no concealing any thing from them. I defy a man to talk
three times to a woman without their finding it out, and making a story
of it. I say nothing of Paris"--

M. Folgat listened attentively. He asked,--

"Ah! was there any thing of the kind in Paris?"

Anthony hesitated; at last he said,--

"You see, master's secrets are not my secrets, and, after the oath I
have sworn,"--

"It may be, however, that his safety depends upon your frankness in
telling me all," said the lawyer. "You may be sure he will not blame you
for having spoken."

For several seconds the old servant remained undecided; then he said,--

"Master, they say, has had a great love-affair."

"When?"

"I do not know when. That was before I entered his service. All I know
is, that, for the purpose of meeting the person, master had bought at
Passy, at the end of Vine Street, a beautiful house, in the centre of a
large garden, which he had furnished magnificently."

"Ah!"

"That is a secret, which, of course, neither master's father nor his
mother knows to this day; and I only know it, because one day master
fell down the steps, and dislocated his foot, so that he had to send for
me to nurse him. He may have bought the house under his own name; but he
was not known by it there. He passed for an Englishmen, a Mr. Burnett;
and he had an English maid-servant."

"And the person?"

"Ah, sir! I not only do not know who she is, but I cannot even guess
it, she took such extraordinary precautions! Now that I mean to tell you
every thing, I will confess to you that I had the curiosity to question
the English maid. She told me that she was no farther than I was, that
she knew, to be sure, a lady was coming there from time to time; but
that she had never seen even the end of her nose. Master always arranged
it so well, that the girl was invariably out on some errand or other
when the lady came and when she went away. While she was in the house,
master waited upon her himself. And when they wanted to walk in the
garden, they sent the servant away, on some fool's errand, to Versailles
or to Fontainebleau; and she was mad, I tell you."

M. Folgat began to twist his mustache, as he was in the habit of doing
when he was specially interested. For a moment, he thought he saw the
woman--that inevitable woman who is always at the bottom of every great
event in man's life; and just then she vanished from his sight; for
he tortured his mind in vain to discover a possible if not probable
connection between the mysterious visitor in Vine Street and the
events that had happened at Valpinson. He could not see a trace. Rather
discouraged, he asked once more,--

"After all, my dear Anthony, this great love-affair of your master's has
come to an end?"

"It seems so, sir, since Master Jacques was going to marry Miss
Dionysia."

That reason was perhaps not quite as conclusive as the good old servant
imagined; but the young advocate made no remark.

"And when do you think it came to an end?"

"During the war, master and the lady must have been parted; for master
did not stay in Paris. He commanded a volunteer company; and he was even
wounded in the head, which procured him the cross."

"Does he still own the house in Vine Street?"

"I believe so."

"Why?"

"Because, some time ago, when master and I went to Paris for a week,
he said to me one day, 'The War and the commune have cost me dear.
My cottage has had more than twenty shells, and it has been in turn
occupied by _Francs-tireurs_, Communists and Regulars. The walls are
broken; and there is not a piece of furniture uninjured. My architect
tells me, that all in all, the repairs will cost me some ten thousand
dollars.'"

"What? Repairs? Then he thought of going back there?"

"At that time, sir, master's marriage had not been settled. Yet"--

"Still that would go to prove that he had at that time met the
mysterious lady once more, and that the war had not broken off their
relations."

"That may be."

"And has he never mentioned the lady again?"

"Never."

At this moment M. de Chandore's cough was heard in the hall,--that cough
which men affect when they wish to announce their coming. Immediately
afterwards he reappeared; and M. Folgat said to him, to show that his
presence was no longer inconvenient,--

"Upon my word, sir, I was just on the point of going in search of you,
for fear that you felt really unwell."

"Thank you," replied the old gentleman, "the fresh air has done me
good."

He sat down; and the young advocate turned again to Anthony, saying,--

"Well, let us go on. How was he the day before the fire?"

"Just as usual."

"What did he do before he went out?"

"He dined as usual with a good appetite; then he went up stairs and
remained there for an hour. When he came down, he had a letter in his
hand, which he gave to Michael, our tenant's son, and told him to carry
it to Sauveterre, to Miss Chandore."

"Yes. In that letter, M. de Boiscoran told Miss Dionysia that he was
retained here by a matter of great importance."

"Ah!"

"Have you any idea what that could have been?"

"Not at all, sir, I assure you."

"Still let us see. M. de Boiscoran must have had powerful reasons
to deprive himself of the pleasure of spending the evening with Miss
Dionysia?"

"Yes, indeed."

"He must also have had his reasons for taking to the marshes, on his way
out, instead of going by the turnpike, and for coming back through the
woods."

Old Anthony was literally tearing his hair, as he exclaimed,--

"Ah, sir! These are the very words M. Galpin said."

"Unfortunately every man in his senses will say so."

"I know, sir: I know it but too well. And Master Jacques himself knew
it so well that at first he tried to find some pretext; but he has
never told a falsehood. And he who is such a clever man could not find
a pretext that had any sense in it. He said he had gone to Brechy to see
his wood-merchant"--

"And why should he not?"

Anthony shook his head, and said,--

"Because the wood-merchant at Brechy is a thief, and everybody knows
that master has kicked him out of the house some three years ago. We
sell all our wood at Sauveterre."

M. Folgat had taken out a note-book, and wrote down some of Anthony's
statements, preparing thus the outline of his defence. This being done,
he commenced again,--

"Now we come to Cocoleu."

"Ah the wretch!" cried Anthony.

"You know him?"

"How could I help knowing him, when I lived all my life here at
Boiscoran in the service of master's uncle?"

"Then what kind of a man is he?"

"An idiot, sir or, as they here call it, an innocent, who has Saint
Vitus dance into the bargain, and epilepsy moreover."

"Then it is perfectly notorious that he is imbecile?"

"Yes, sir, although I have heard people insist that he is not quite
so stupid as he looks, and that, as they say here, he plays the ass in
order to get his oats"--

M. de Chandore interrupted him, and said,--

"On this subject Dr. Seignebos can give you all the information you may
want: he kept Cocoleu for nearly two years at his own house."

"I mean to see the doctor," replied M. Folgat. "But first of all we must
find this unfortunate idiot."

"You heard what M. Seneschal said: he has put the gendarmes on his
track."

Anthony made a face, and said,--

"If the gendarmes should take Cocoleu, Cocoleu must have given himself
up voluntarily."

"Why so?"

"Because, gentlemen, there is no one who knows all the by-ways and
out-of-the-way corners of the country so well as that idiot; for he
has been hiding all his life like a savage in all the holes and
hiding-places that are about here; and, as he can live perfectly well on
roots and berries, he may stay away three months without being seen by
any one."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed M. Folgat angrily.

"I know only one man," continued Anthony, "who could find out Cocoleu,
and that is our tenant's son Michael,--the young man you saw down
stairs."

"Send for him," said M. de Chandore.

Michael appeared promptly, and, when he had heard what he was expected
to do, he replied,--

"The thing can be done, certainly; but it is not very easy. Cocoleu
has not the sense of a man; but he has all the instincts of a brute.
However, I'll try."

There was nothing to keep either M. de Chandore or M. Folgat any longer
at Boiscoran; hence, after having warned Anthony to watch the seals
well, and get a glimpse, if possible, of Jacques's gun, when the
officers should come for the different articles, they left the chateau.
It was five o'clock when they drove into town again. Dionysia was
waiting for them in the sitting-room. She rose as they entered, looking
quite pale, with dry, brilliant eyes.

"What? You are alone here!" said M. de Chandore. "Why have they left you
alone?"

"Don't be angry, grandpapa. I have just prevailed on the marchioness,
who was exhausted with fatigue to lie down for an hour or so before
dinner."

"And your aunts?"

"They have gone out, grandpapa. They are probably, by this time at M.
Galpin's."

M. Folgat started, and said,--

"Oh!"

"But that is foolish in them!" exclaimed the old gentleman.

The young girl closed his lips by a single word. She said,--

"I asked them to go."



V.

Yes, the step taken by the Misses Lavarande was foolish. At the point
which things had reached now, their going to see M. Galpin was perhaps
equivalent to furnishing him the means to crush Jacques. But whose fault
was it, but M. de Chandore's and M. Folgat's? Had they not committed an
unpardonable blunder in leaving Sauveterre without any other precaution
than to send word through M. Seneschal's servant, that they would be
back for dinner, and that they need not be troubled about them?

Not be troubled? And that to the Marchioness de Boiscoran and Dionysia,
to Jacques's mother and Jacques's betrothed.

Certainly, at first, the two wretched women preserved their self-control
in a manner, trying to set each other an example of courage and
confidence. But, as hour after hour passed by, their anxiety became
intolerable; and gradually, as they confided their apprehensions to
each other, their grief broke out openly. They thought of Jacques being
innocent, and yet treated like one of the worst criminals, alone in
the depth of his prison, given up to the most horrible inspirations of
despair. What could have been his feelings during the twenty-four
hours which had brought him no news from his friends? Must he not fancy
himself despised and abandoned.

"That is an intolerable thought!" exclaimed Dionysia at lat. "We must
get to him at any price."

"How?" asked the marchioness.

"I do not know; but there must be some way. There are things which I
would not have ventured upon as long as I was alone; but, with you by my
side, I can risk any thing. Let us go to the prison."

The old lady promptly put a shawl around her shoulders, and said,--

"I am ready; let us go."

They had both heard repeatedly that Jacques was kept in close
confinement; but neither of them realized fully what that meant. They
had no idea of this atrocious measure, which is, nevertheless, rendered
necessary by the peculiar forms of French law-proceedings,--a measure
which, so to say, immures a man alive, and leaves him in his cell alone
with the crime with which he is charged, and utterly at the mercy of
another man, whose duty it is to extort the truth from him. The two
ladies only saw the want of liberty, a cell with its dismal outfittings,
the bars at the window, the bolts at the door, the jailer shaking his
bunch of keys at his belt, and the tramp of the solitary sentinel in the
long passages.

"They cannot refuse me permission," said the old lady, "to see my son."

"They cannot," repeated Dionysia. "And, besides, I know the jailer,
Blangin: his wife was formerly in our service."

When the young girl, therefore, raised the heavy knocker at the
prison-door, she was full of cheerful confidence. Blangin himself came
to the door; and, at the sight of the two poor ladies, his broad face
displayed the utmost astonishment.

"We come to see M. de Boiscoran," said Dionysia boldly.

"Have you a permit, ladies?" asked the keeper.

"From whom?"

"From M. Galpin."

"We have no permit."

"Then I am very sorry to have to tell you, ladies, that you cannot
possibly see M. de Boiscoran. He is kept in close confinement, and I
have the strictest orders."

Dionysia looked threatening, and said sharply,--

"Your orders cannot apply to this lady, who is the Marchioness de
Boiscoran."

"My orders apply to everybody, madam."

"You would not, I am sure, keep a poor, distressed mother from seeing
her son!"

"Ah! but--madam--it does not rest with me. I? Who am I? Nothing more
than one of the bolts, drawn or pushed at will."

For the first time, it entered the poor girl's head that her effort
might fail: still she tried once more, with tears in her eyes,--

"But I, my dear M. Blangin, think of me! You would not refuse me? Don't
you know who I am? Have you never heard your wife speak of me?"

The jailer was certainly touched. He replied,--

"I know how much my wife and myself are indebted to your kindness,
madam. But--I have my orders, and you surely would not want me to lose
my place, madam?"

"If you lose your place, M. Blangin, I, Dionysia de Chandore, promise
you another place twice as good."

"Madame!"

"You do not doubt my word, M. Blangin, do you?"

"God forbid, madam! But it is not my place only. If I did what you want
me to do, I should be severely punished."

The marchioness judged from the jailer's tone that Dionysia was not
likely to prevail over him, and so she said,--

"Don't insist, my child. Let us go back."

"What? Without finding out what is going on behind these pitiless walls;
without knowing even whether Jacques is dead or alive?"

There was evidently a great struggle going on in the jailer's heart. All
of a sudden he cast a rapid glance around, and then said, speaking very
hurriedly,--

"I ought not to tell you--but never mind--I cannot let you go away
without telling you that M. de Boiscoran is quite well."

"Ah!"

"Yesterday, when they brought him here, he was, so to say, overcome. He
threw himself upon his bed, and he remained there without stirring for
over two hours. I think he must have been crying."

A sob, which Dionysia could not suppress, made Blangin start.

"Oh, reassure yourself, madame!" he added quickly. "That state of things
did not last long. Soon M. de Boiscoran got up, and said, 'Why, I am a
fool to despair!'"

"Did you hear him say so?" asked the old lady.

"Not I. It was Trumence who heard it."

"Trumence?"

"Yes, one of our jail-birds. Oh! he is only a vagabond, not bad at all;
and he has been ordered to stand guard at the door of M. de Boiscoran's
cell, and not for a moment to lose sight of it. It was M. Galpin who had
that idea, because the prisoners sometimes in their first despair,--a
misfortune happens so easily,--they become weary of life--Trumence would
be there to prevent it."

The old lady trembled with horror. This precautionary measure, more than
any thing else, gave her the full measure of her son's situation.

"However," M. Blangin went on, "there is nothing to fear. M. de
Boiscoran became quite calm again, and even cheerful, if I may say
so. When he got up this morning, after having slept all night like a
dormouse, he sent for me, and asked me for paper, ink, and pen. All the
prisoners ask for that the second day. I had orders to let him have it,
and so I gave it to him. When I carried him his breakfast, he handed me
a letter for Miss Chandore."

"What?" cried Dionysia, "you have a letter for me, and you don't give it
to me?"

"I do not have it now, madam. I had to hand it, as is my duty, to M.
Galpin, when he came accompanied by his clerk, Mechinet, to examine M.
de Boiscoran."

"And what did he say?"

"He opened the letter, read it, put it into his pocket, and said,
'Well.'"

Tears of anger this time sprang from Dionysia's eyes; and she cried,--

"What a shame? This man reads a letter written by Jacques to me! That is
infamous!"

And, without thinking of thanking Blangin, she drew off the old lady,
and all the way home did not say a word.

"Ah, poor child, you did not succeed," exclaimed the two old aunts, when
they saw their niece come back.

But, when they had heard every thing, they said,--

"Well, we'll go and see him, this little magistrate, who but the day
before yesterday was paying us abject court to obtain the hand of our
cousin. And we'll tell him the truth; and, if we cannot make him give us
back Jacques, we will at least trouble him in his triumph, and take down
his pride."

How could poor Dionysia help adopting the notions of the old ladies,
when their project offered such immediate satisfaction to her
indignation, and at the same time served her secret hopes?

"Oh, yes! You are right, dear aunts," she said. "Quick, don't lose any
time; go at once!"

Unable to resist her entreaties, they started instantly, without
listening to the timid objections made by the marchioness. But the good
ladies were sadly mistaken as to the state of mind of M. Galpin. The
ex-lover of one of their cousins was not bedded on roses by any means.
At the beginning of this extraordinary affair he had taken hold of it
with eagerness, looking upon it as an admirable opportunity, long looked
for, and likely to open wide the doors to his burning ambition. Then
having once begun, and the investigation being under way, he had been
carried away by the current, without having time to reflect. He had even
felt a kind of unhealthy satisfaction at seeing the evidence increasing,
until he felt justified and compelled to order his former friend to
be sent to prison. At that time he was fairly dazzled by the most
magnificent expectations. This preliminary inquiry, which in a few hours
already had led to the discovery of a culprit the most unlikely of all
men in the province, could not fail to establish his superior ability
and matchless skill.

But, a few hours later, M. Galpin looked no longer with the same eye
upon these events. Reflection had come; and he had begun to doubt his
ability, and to ask himself, if he had not, after all, acted rashly.
If Jacques was guilty, so much the better. He was sure, in that case,
immediately after the verdict, to obtain brilliant promotion. Yes, but
if Jacques should be innocent? When that thought occurred to M. Galpin
for the first time, it made him shiver to the marrow of his bones.
Jacques innocent!--that was his own condemnation, his career ended, his
hopes destroyed, his prospects ruined forever. Jacques innocent!--that
was certain disgrace. He would be sent away from Sauveterre, where he
could not remain after such a scandal. He would be banished to some
out-of-the-way village, and without hope of promotion.

In vain he tried to reason that he had only done his duty. People would
answer, if they condescended at all to answer, that there are flagrant
blunders, scandalous mistakes, which a magistrate must not commit; and
that for the honor of justice, and in the interest of the law, it is
better, under certain circumstances, to let a guilty man escape, than to
punish an innocent one.

With such anxiety on his mind, the most cruel that can tear the heart of
an ambitious man, M. Galpin found his pillow stuffed with thorns. He
had been up since six o'clock. At eleven, he had sent for his clerk,
Mechinet; and they had gone together to the jail to recommence the
examination. It was then that the jailer had handed him the prisoner's
letter for Dionysia. It was a short note, such as a sensible man would
write who knows full well that a prisoner cannot count upon the secrecy
of his correspondence. It was not even sealed, a fact which M. Blangin
had not noticed.

"Dionysia, my darling," wrote the prisoner, "the thought of the terrible
grief I cause you is my most cruel, and almost my only sorrow. Need I
stoop to assure you that I am innocent? I am sure it is not needed. I am
the victim of a fatal combination of circumstances, which could not but
mislead justice. But be reassured, be hopeful. When the time comes, I
shall be able to set matters right.

"JACQUES."

"Well," M. Galpin had really said after reading this letter.
Nevertheless it had stung him to the quick.

"What assurance!" he had said to himself.

Still he had regained courage while ascending the steps of the prison.
Jacques had evidently not thought it likely that his note would reach
its destination directly, and hence it might be fairly presumed that he
had written for the eyes of justice as well as for his lady-love. The
fact that the letter was not sealed even, gave some weight to this
presumption.