Within An Inch of His Life
Within An Inch of His Life
BY
ÉMILE GABORIAU
1873
Within an Inch of His Life By Émile Gaboriau.
©GlobalGrey 2019
globalgreyebooks.com
CONTENTS
FIRST PART: FIRE AT VALPINSON
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
SECOND PART: THE BOISCORAN TRIAL
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
THIRD PART: COCOLEU
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 5
1
CHAPTER 1
In the night from the 22nd to the 23rd of June, 1871, towards one o’clock in
the morning, the Paris suburb of Sauveterre, the principal and most densely
populated suburb of that pretty town, was startled by the furious gallop of a
horse on its ill-paved streets.
The dark night allowed these only to see a peasant in his shirt sleeves, and
bareheaded, who belabored a large gray mare, on which he rode bareback,
with his heels and a huge stick.
This man, after having passed the suburbs, turned into National Street,
formerly Imperial Street, crossed New-Market Square, and stopped at last
before the fine house which stands at the corner of Castle Street.
Having alighted, the peasant seized the bell-knob, and began to ring so
furiously, that, in a few moments, the whole house was in an uproar.
A minute later, a big, stout servant-man, his eyes heavy with sleep, came and
opened the door, and then cried out in an angry voice,—
“Who are you, my man? What do you want? Have you taken too much wine?
Don’t you know at whose house you are making such a row?”
“I wish to see the mayor,” replied the peasant instantly. “Wake him up!”
Pushing the servant aside, the peasant came up to him, and said, making not
the slightest attempt at politeness,—
“The engine!”
To get the engine out, and to assemble the firemen, he had to rouse the
whole town; and to do this in the middle of the night was nothing less than
to frighten the poor people of Sauveterre, who had heard the drums
beating the alarm but too often during the war with the Germans, and then
again during the reign of the Commune. Therefore M. Seneschal asked,—
It was not exactly the first time, since he was mayor of Sauveterre, that he
was thus roused by a peasant, who came and cried under his window,
“Help! Fire, fire!”
At first, filled with compassion, he had hastily called out the firemen, put
himself at their head, and hurried to the fire.
And when they reached it, out of breath, and perspiring, after having made
two or three miles at double-quick, they found what? A wretched heap of
4
straw, worth about ten dollars, and almost consumed by the fire. They had
had their trouble for nothing.
The peasants in the neighborhood had cried, “Wolf!” so often, when there
was no reason for it, that, even when the wolf really was there, the
townspeople were slow in believing it.
The peasant seemed to be furious at all these delays, and bit his long whip.
“Must I tell you again and again,” he said, “that every thing is on fire,—
barns, outhouses, haystacks, the houses, the old castle, and every thing? If
you wait much longer, you won’t find one stone upon another in Valpinson.”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
“Fool! Why did you not say so at once?” exclaimed the mayor.
He hesitated no longer.
“Quick!” he said to his servant, “go and get me my clothes. Wait, no! my
wife can help me. There is no time to be lost. You run to Bolton, the
drummer, you know, and tell him from me to beat the alarm instantly all
over town. Then you run to Capt. Parenteau’s, and explain to him what you
have heard. Ask him to get the keys of the engine-house.—Wait!—when you
have done that, come back and put the horse in.—Fire at Valpinson! I shall
go with the engine. Go, run, knock at every door, cry, ‘Fire! Fire!’ Tell
everybody to come to the New-Market Square.”
When the servant had run off as fast as he could, the mayor turned to the
peasant, and said,—
5
“And you, my good man, you get on your horse, and reassure the count. Tell
them all to take courage, not to give up; we are coming to help them.”
“But”—
“All I can tell you is this. They have carried him into a little barn that was not
on fire yet. There I saw him myself lying on the straw, pale like a linen sheet,
his eyes closed, and bloody all over.”
“Why, of course!”
“The count is very passionate, to be sure, quite violent, in fact; but still he is
the best and fairest of men, everybody knows that.”
“That is what I think. And the proof of it is, that, as I came along, I made up
my mind I would first get the doctor, and then report the crime at the police
office.”
“Never mind,” said the mayor. “I will do that myself. In ten minutes I shall
see the attorney of the Commonwealth. Now go. Don’t spare your horse,
and tell your mistress that we are all coming after you.”
In his whole official career M. Seneschal had never been so terribly shocked.
He lost his head, just as he did on that unlucky day, when, all of a sudden,
nine hundred militia-men fell upon him, and asked to be fed and lodged.
Without his wife’s help he would never have been able to dress himself. Still
he was ready when his servant returned.
7
The good fellow had done all he had been told to do, and at that moment
the beat of the drum was heard in the upper part of the town.
“Now, put the horse in,” said M. Seneschal: “let me find the carriage at the
door when I come back.”
In the streets he found all in an uproar. At every window a head popped out,
full of curiosity or terror; on all sides house doors were opened, and
promptly closed again.
He accused himself of not being inspired with the “holy fire,” and, as he
expressed it in his own way, “of robbing Themis of all the time he could, to
devote it to the friendly Muses.” He was a passionate lover of fine books,
rare editions, costly bindings, and fine illustrations; and much the larger part
of his annual income of about ten thousand francs went to buying books. A
scholar of the old-fashioned type, he professed boundless admiration for
Virgil and Juvenal, but, above all, for Horace, and proved his devotion by
constant quotations.
Roused, like everybody else in the midst of his slumbers, this excellent man
hastened to put on his clothes, when his old housekeeper came in, quite
excited, and told him that M. Seneschal was there, and wanted to see him.
“For you will be able to tell me the meaning of all this noise, this beating of
drums,—
“A terrible misfortune has happened,” answered the mayor. From the tone
of his voice one might have imagined it was he himself who had been
afflicted; and the lawyer was so strongly impressed in this way, that he
said,—
“My dear friend, what is the matter? Quid? Courage, my friend, keep cool!
Remember that the poet advises us, in misfortune never to lose our balance
of mind:—
Sevare mentem.’”
“‘Jupiter,
“More than that. Count Claudieuse has been shot, and by this time he is
probably dead.”
“Oh!”
“You hear the drummer is beating the alarm. I am going to the fire; and I
have only come here to report the matter officially to you, and to ask you to
see to it that justice be done promptly and energetically.”
There was no need of such a serious appeal to stop at once all the lawyer’s
quotations.
9
“All?”
“There are hardly ten absentees. When they heard that Count and Countess
Claudieuse were in need—great heavens!—you know, they all were ready in
a moment.”
“Well, then, start and make haste,” commanded M. Seneschal. “We shall
overtake you on the way: M. Daubigeon and I are going to pick up M. Galpin,
the magistrate.”
The magistrate had already been looking for them all over town: he was just
appearing on the Square, and saw them at once.
narrow a sphere of action, and thought his brilliant ability wasted upon the
prosecution of a chicken-thief or a poacher. But his almost desperate efforts
to secure a better office had always been unsuccessful. In vain he had
enlisted a host of friends in his behalf. In vain he had thrown himself into
politics, ready to serve any party that would serve him.
But M. Galpin’s ambition was not easily discouraged, and lately after a
journey to Paris, he had thrown out hints at a great match, which would
shortly procure him that influence in high places which so far he had been
unable to obtain. When he joined M. Daubigeon and the mayor, he said,—
“Well, this is a horrible affair! It will make a tremendous noise.” The mayor
began to give him the details, but he said,—
“Don’t trouble yourself. I know all you know. I met the peasant who had
been sent in, and I have examined him.”
“I think we ought to proceed at once to the place where the crime has been
committed.”
The magistrate was so much excited, that his cold impassiveness actually
threatened to give way for once.
“Evidently.”
“Then we can act in concert, and side by side, each one in his own line of
duty, you examining, and I preparing for the trial.”
“You ought to know me well enough,” he said, “to be sure that I have never
interfered with your duties and privileges. I am nothing but a good old
fellow, a friend of peace and of studies.
CHAPTER 2
In a straight line it is only a mile from Sauveterre to Valpinson; but that mile
is as long as two elsewhere. M. Seneschal, however, had a good horse, “the
best perhaps in the county,” he said, as he got into his carriage. In ten
minutes they had overtaken the firemen, who had left some time before
them. And yet these good people, all of them master workmen of
Sauveterre, masons, carpenters, and tilers, hurried along as fast as they
could. They had half a dozen smoking torches with them to light them on
the way: they walked, puffing and groaning, on the bad road, and pulling the
two engines, together with the heavy cart on which they had piled up their
ladders and other tools.
“He says he will live. I am going to the druggist to get some medicines.” M.
Galpin, to hear better, was leaning out of the carriage. He asked,—
“No.”
“They have water enough,” replied the peasant, “but no engines: so what
can they do? And the wind is rising again! Oh, what a misfortune!”
13
He rode off as fast as he could, while M. Seneschal was whipping his poor
horse, which, unaccustomed as it was to such treatment, instead of going
any faster, only reared, and jumped from side to side. The excellent man was
in despair. He looked upon this crime as if it had been committed on
purpose to disgrace him, and to do the greatest possible injury to his
administration.
“For after all,” he said, for the tenth time to his companions, “is it natural, I
ask you, is it sensible, that a man should think of attacking the Count and the
Countess Claudieuse, the most distinguished and the most esteemed people
in the whole county, and especially a lady whose name is synonymous with
virtue and charity?”
And, without minding the ruts and the stones in the road, M. Seneschal
went on repeating all he knew about the owners of Valpinson.
Count Trivulce Claudieuse was the last scion of one of the oldest families of
the county. At sixteen, about 1829, he had entered the navy as an ensign,
and for many years he had appeared at Sauveterre only rarely, and at long
intervals. In 1859 he had become a captain, and was on the point of being
made admiral, when he had all of a sudden sent in his resignation, and taken
up his residence at the Castle of Valpinson, although the house had nothing
to show of its former splendor but two towers falling to pieces, and an
immense mass of ruin and rubbish. For two years he had lived here alone,
busy with building up the old house as well as it could be done, and by great
energy and incessant labor restoring it to some of its former splendor. It
was thought he would finish his days in this way, when one day the report
arose that he was going to be married. The report, for once, proved true.
One fine day Count Claudieuse had left for Paris; and, a few days later, his
friends had been informed by letter that he had married the daughter of one
of his former colleagues, Miss Genevieve de Tassar. The amazement had
been universal. The count looked like a gentleman, and was very well
preserved; but he was at least forty-seven years old, and Miss Genevieve
was hardly twenty. Now, if the bride had been poor, they would have
understood the match, and approved it: it is but natural that a poor girl
should sacrifice her heart to her daily bread. But here it was not so. The
14
Marquis de Tassar was considered wealthy; and report said that his
daughter had brought her husband fifty thousand dollars.
Next they had it that the bride was fearfully ugly, infirm, or at least
hunchback, perhaps idiotic, or, at all events, of frightful temper.
By no means. She had come down; and everybody was amazed at her noble,
quiet beauty. She had conversed with them, and charmed everybody.
All these dark forebodings came to nought. The fact was, that, for miles and
miles around, there was not a happier couple to be found than the Count
and the Countess Claudieuse; and two children, girls, who had appeared at
an interval of four years, seemed to have secured the happiness of the
house forever.
It is true the count retained somewhat of the haughty manners, the reserve,
and the imperious tone, which he had acquired during the time that he
controlled the destinies of certain important colonies. He was, moreover,
naturally so passionate, that the slightest excitement made him turn purple
in his face. But the countess was as gentle and as sweet as he was violent;
and as she never failed to step in between her husband and the object of his
wrath, as both he and she were naturally just, kind to excess, and generous
to all, they were beloved by everybody. There was only one point on which
the count was rather unmanageable, and that was the game laws. He was
passionately fond of hunting, and watched all the year round with almost
painful restlessness over his preserves, employing a number of keepers, and
prosecuting poachers with such energy, that people said he would rather
miss a hundred napoleons than a single bird.
The count and the countess lived quite retired, and gave their whole time,
he to agricultural pursuits, and she to the education of her children. They
entertained but little, and did not come to Sauveterre more than four times
a year, to visit the Misses Lavarande, or the old Baron de Chandore. Every
15
summer, towards the end of July, they went to Royan, where they had a
cottage. When the season opened, and the count went hunting, the
countess paid a visit to her relatives in Paris, with whom she usually stayed a
few weeks.
The commonwealth attorney and the magistrate listened but very carelessly
to these details, with which they were perfectly familiar. Suddenly M. Galpin
asked,—
“Are we not getting near? I look and look; but I see no trace of a fire.”
“We are in a deep valley,” replied the mayor. “But we are quite near now,
and, at the top of that hill before us, you will see enough.”
This hill is well known in the whole province, and is frequently called the
Sauveterre Mountain. It is so steep, and consists of such hard granite, that
the engineers who laid out the great turnpike turned miles out of their way
to avoid it. It overlooks the whole country; and, when M. Seneschal and his
companions had reached the top, they could not control their excitement.
The burning house itself was hid by high trees; but columns of fire rose high
above the tops, and illumined the whole region with their sombre light. The
whole country was in a state of excitement. The short, square tower of
16
Brechy sent the alarm from its big bell; and in the deep shade on all sides
was heard the strange sound of the huge shells which the people here use
for signals, and for the summoning of laborers at mealtimes. Hurried steps
were heard on all the high-roads and by-roads; and peasants were
continuously rushing by, with a bucket in each hand.
“Such a fine property!” said the mayor, “and so well managed!” And
regardless of danger, he dashed forward, down the hill; for Valpinson lies in
a deep valley, half a mile from the river. Here all was terror, disorder, and
confusion; and yet there was no lack of hands or of good-will. At the first
alarm, all the people of the neighborhood had hurried up, and there were
more coming every moment; but there was no one there to assume the
command. They were mainly engaged in saving the furniture. The boldest
tried to get into the rooms, and in a kind of rage, threw every thing they
could lay hold on out of the window. Thus the courtyard was already half full
of beds and mattresses, chairs and tables, books, linen, and clothes.
“Here comes the mayor!” cried the peasants, encouraged by his presence,
and all ready to obey him.
“Yes, here I am, my friends,” he said, “and I thank you for your zeal. Now we
must try not to waste our efforts. The farm buildings and the workshops are
lost: we must give them up. Let us try to save the dwelling-house. The river
is not far. We must form a chain. Everybody in line,—men and women! And
now for water, water! Here come the engines!”
They really came thundering up: the firemen appeared on the scene. Capt.
Parenteau took the command. At last the mayor was at leisure to inquire
after Count Claudieuse.
“Let us go and see how he is,” said the mayor to his two companions. They
stopped at the door of the only room of the cottage. It was a large room
with a floor of beaten clay; while overhead the blackened beams were full of
working tools and parcels of seeds. Two beds with twisted columns and
yellow curtains filled one side: on that on the left hand lay a little girl, four
years old, fast asleep, and rolled up in a blanket, watched over by her sister,
who was two or three years older. On the other bed, Count Claudieuse was
lying, or rather sitting; for they had supported his back by all the pillows that
had been saved from the fire. His chest was bare, and covered with blood;
and a man, Dr. Seignebos, with his coat off, and his sleeves rolled up above
the elbows, was bending over him, and holding a sponge in one hand and a
probe in the other, seemed to be engaged in a delicate and dangerous
operation.
The countess, in a light muslin dress, was standing at the foot of her
husband’s bed, pale but admirably composed and resigned. She was holding
a lamp, and moved it to and fro as the doctor directed. In a corner two
servant-women were sitting on a box, and crying, their aprons turned over
their heads.
“Ah, here is our good M. Seneschal. Come nearer, my friend; come nearer.
You see the year 1871 is a fatal year. It will soon leave me nothing but a few
handfuls of ashes of all I possessed.”
“It is a great misfortune,” replied the excellent mayor; “but, after all, it is
less than we apprehended. God be thanked, you are safe!”
Never did lover glance at his beloved with more tenderness than Count
Claudieuse did at his wife.
18
A sudden nervous spasm seized him; and then he exclaimed in a loud voice,
which sounded like a trumpet,—
“Then you must make up your mind to suffer, and keep quiet now; for every
motion adds to your pain.”
Then sponging a jet of blood which spurted out from under his knife, he
added,—
“However, you shall have a few minutes rest now. My eyes and my hand are
exhausted. I see I am no longer young.”
Dr. Seignebos was sixty years old. He was a small, thin man, with a bald head
and a bilious complexion, carelessly dressed, and spending his life in taking
off, wiping, and putting back again his large gold spectacles. His reputation
was widespread; and they told of wonderful cures which he had
accomplished. Still he had not many friends. The common people disliked his
bitterness; the peasants, his strictness in demanding his fees; and the
townspeople, his political views.
There was a story that one evening, at a public dinner, he had gotten up and
said, “I drink to the memory of the only physician of whose pure and chaste
renown I am envious,—the memory of my countryman, Dr. Guillotin of
Saintes!”
Had he really offered such a toast? The fact is, he pretended to be a fierce
radical, and was certainly the soul and the oracle of the small socialistic clubs
in the neighborhood. People looked aghast when he began to talk of the
reforms which he thought necessary; and they trembled when he
proclaimed his convictions, that “the sword and the torch ought to search
the rotten foundations of society.”
19
These opinions, certain utilitarian views of like eccentricity, and still stranger
experiments which he openly carried on before the whole world, had led
people more than once to doubt the soundness of his mind. The most
charitable said, “He is an oddity.” This eccentric man had naturally no great
fondness for M. Seneschal, the mayor, a former lawyer, and a legitimist. He
did not think much of the commonwealth attorney, a useless bookworm.
But he detested M. Galpin. Still he bowed to the three men; and, without
minding his patient, he said to them,—
“You see, gentlemen, Count Claudieuse is in a bad plight. He has been fired
at with a gun loaded with small shot; and wounds made in that way are very
puzzling. I trust no vital part has been injured; but I cannot answer for any
thing. I have often in my practice seen very small injuries, wounds caused by
a small-sized shot, which, nevertheless, proved fatal, and showed their true
character only twelve or fifteen hours after the accident had happened.”
He would have gone on in this way, if the magistrate had not suddenly
interrupted him, saying,—
“Doctor, you know I am here because a crime has been committed. The
criminal has to be found out, and to be punished: hence I request your
assistance, from this moment, in the name of the Law.”
20
CHAPTER 3
By this single phrase M. Galpin made himself master of the situation, and
reduced the doctor to an inferior position, in which, it is true, he had the
mayor and the commonwealth attorney to bear him company. There was
nothing now to be thought of, but the crime that had been committed, and
the judge who was to punish the author. But he tried in vain to assume all
the rigidity of his official air and that contempt for human feelings which has
made justice so hateful to thousands. His whole being was impregnated
with intense satisfaction, up to his beard, cut and trimmed like the box-
hedges of an old-fashioned garden.
“It would certainly be better for him to be left alone,” growled Dr.
Seignebos. “I have made him suffer enough this last hour; and I shall directly
begin again cutting out the small pieces of lead which have honeycombed
his flesh. But if it must be”—
“Well, then, make haste; for the fever will set in presently.”
“Galpin, Galpin!”
The other man paid no attention. Having taken a note-book and a pencil
from his pocket, he drew up close to the sick man’s bed, and asked him in an
undertone,—
“Oh, perfectly!”
“Then, pray tell me all you know of the sad events of to-night.”
With the aid of his wife and Dr. Seignebos, the count raised himself on his
pillows, and began thus,—
21
“Your statement, count, is certainly remarkably clear. But there is one point
we must try to establish. Were you really fired at the moment you showed
yourself at the door?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then the murderer must have been quite near on the watch. He must have
known that the fire would bring you out; and he was lying in wait for you.”
“Then,” he said to him, “the murder is the principal fact with which we have
to do; and the fire is only an aggravating circumstance,—the means which
the criminal employed in order to succeed the better in perpetrating his
crime.”
“Pray go on.”
22
“When I felt I was wounded,” continued Count Claudieuse, “my first impulse
was instinctively to rush forward to the place from which the gun seemed to
have been fired at me. I had not proceeded three yards, when I felt the same
pain once more in the shoulder and in the neck. This second wound was
more serous than the first; for I lost my consciousness, my head began to
swim and I fell.”
“I beg your pardon. At the moment when I fell, I thought I saw a man rush
forth from behind a pile of fagots, cross the courtyard, and disappear in the
fields.”
“No.”
“But you saw how he was dressed: you can give me a description?”
“No, I cannot. I felt as if there was a veil before my eyes; and he passed me
like a shadow.”
“Never mind,” he said, “we’ll find him out. But go on, sir.”
M. Galpin noted down the count’s answers with scrupulous exactness: when
he had done, he asked again,—
“We must return to the details of the attack, and examine them minutely.
Now, however, it is important to know what happened after you fell. Who
could tell us that?”
“Bertha,” the count went on to state, “our youngest daughter, who is lying
there on that bed, under the blanket, has the measles, and is suffering
terribly. My wife was sitting up with her. Unfortunately the windows of her
room look upon the garden, on the side opposite to that where the fire
broke out.”
“How, then, did the countess become aware of the accident?” asked the
magistrate.
Without waiting for a more direct question, the countess came forward and
said,—
“As my husband has just told you, I was sitting up with my little Bertha. I
was rather tired; for I had sat up the night before also, and I had begun to
nod, when a sudden noise aroused me. I was not quite sure whether I had
really heard such a noise; but just then a second shot was heard. I left the
room more astonished than frightened. Ah, sir! The fire had already made
such headway, that the staircase was as light as in broad day. I went down in
great haste. The outer door was open. I went out; and there, some five or
six yards from me, I saw, by the light of the flames, the body of my husband
lying on the ground. I threw myself upon him; but he did not even hear me;
his heart had ceased to beat. I thought he was dead; I called for help; I was
in despair.”
farm-hands, the workmen, and our servants. They rushed out, crying, ‘Fire!’
When they saw me, they ran up and helped me carry my husband to a place
of safety; for the danger was increasing every minute. The fire was
spreading with terrific violence, thanks to a furious wind. The barns were
one vast mass of fire; the outbuildings were burning; the distillery was in a
blaze; and the roof of the dwelling-house was flaming up in various places.
And there was not one cool head among them all. I was so utterly
bewildered, that I forgot all about my children; and their room was already
in flames, when a brave, bold fellow rushed in, and snatched them from the
very jaws of death. I did not come to myself till Dr. Seignebos arrived, and
spoke to me words of hope. This fire will probably ruin us; but what matters
that, so long as my husband and my children are safe?”
Dr. Seignebos had more than once given utterance to his contemptuous
impatience: he did not appreciate these preliminary steps. The others,
however, the mayor, the attorney, and even the servants, had hardly been
able to suppress their excitement. He shrugged his shoulders, and growled
between his teeth,—
After having taken off his spectacles, wiped them and replaced them twenty
times, he had sat down at the rickety table in the corner of the room, and
amused himself with arranging the fifteen or twenty shot he had extracted
from the count’s wounds, in long lines or small circles. But, when the
countess uttered her last words, he rose, and, turning to M. Galpin, said in a
curt tone,—
The magistrate was not a little incensed: there was reason enough, surely;
and, frowning fiercely, he said,—
“I appreciate, sir, the importance of your duties; but mine are, I think, by no
means less solemn nor less urgent.”
“Oh!”
“Ten, if it must be, sir. Only I warn you that every minute henceforth may
endanger the life of my patient.”
They had drawn near to each other, and were measuring each other with
defiant looks, which betrayed the bitterest animosity. They would surely not
quarrel at the bedside of a dying man? The countess seemed to fear such a
thing; for she said reproachfully,—
“I have only one more question to ask you, sir: Where and how were you
standing, where and how do you think the murderer was standing, at the
moment when the crime was committed?”
“Sir,” replied the count, evidently with a great effort, “I was standing, as I
told you, on the threshold of my door, facing the courtyard. The murderer
must have been standing some twenty yards off, on my right, behind a pile
of wood.”
When he had written down the answer of the wounded man, the magistrate
turned once more to the physician, and said,—
“You heard what was said, sir. It is for you now to aid justice by telling us at
what distance the murderer must have been when he fired.”
“Ah, have a care, sir!” said M. Galpin. “Justice, whom I here represent, has
the right and the means to enforce respect. You are a physician, sir; and your
science is able to answer my question with almost mathematical accuracy.”
“Ah, indeed! Science has reached that point, has it? Which science? Medical
jurisprudence, no doubt,—that part of our profession which is at the service
of the courts, and obeys the judges’ behests.”
26
“Sir!”
But the doctor was not the man to allow himself to be defeated a second
time. He went on coolly,—
He was so evidently right in reality, if not in form, that even M. Galpin gave
way.
“Pray, inform me, then unofficially, what you think of the nature of the
wounds of Count Claudieuse.”
Dr. Seignebos settled his spectacles ceremoniously on his nose, and then
replied,—
“My impression, so far as I am now able to judge, is that the count has
stated the facts precisely as they were. I am quite ready to believe that the
murderer was lying in ambush behind one of the piles of wood, and at the
distance which he has mentioned. I am also able to affirm that the two shots
were fired at different distances,—one much nearer than the other. The
proof of it lies in the nature of the wounds, one of which, near the hip may
be scientifically called”—
27
“Ah, do we know that, indeed? You know it, M. Seneschal? Well, I declare I
do not know it. To be sure, I bear in mind, what you seem to forget, that we
have no longer, as in former days, only three or four kinds of guns. Did you
think of the immense variety of fire-arms, French and English, American and
German, which are nowadays found in everybody’s hands? Do you not see,
you who have been a lawyer and a magistrate, that the whole legal question
will be based upon this grave and all-important point?”
These cries were, unfortunately, not uttered without cause. The roof of the
main building had just fallen in, burying under its ruins the poor drummer
who had a few hours ago beaten the alarm, and one of the firemen, the
most respected carpenter in Sauveterre, and a father of five children.
Capt. Parenteau seemed to be maddened by this disaster; and all vied with
each other in efforts to rescue the poor fellows, who were uttering shrieks
of horror that rose high above the crash of falling timbers. But all their
endeavors were unavailing. One of the gendarmes and a farmer, who had
nearly succeeded in reaching the sufferers, barely escaped being burnt
themselves, and were only rescued after having been dangerously injured.
Then only it seemed as if all became fully aware of the abominable crime
committed by the incendiary. Then only the clouds of smoke and the
columns of fire, which rose high into the air, were accompanied by fierce
cries of vengeance rising heavenwards.
“Yes, my friends, you are right: death to the incendiary! Yes, the unfortunate
victims of the basest of all crimes must be avenged. We must find out the
incendiary; we must! You want it to be done, don’t you? Well, it depends
only on you. There must be some one among you who knows something
about this matter. Let him come forward and tell us what he has seen or
heard. Remember that the smallest trifle may be a clew to the crime. You
would be as bad as the incendiary himself, if you concealed him. Just think it
over, consider.”
Loud voices were heard in the crowd; then suddenly a voice said,—
“Who?”
“Cocoleu. He was there from the beginning. It was he who went and
brought the children of the countess out of their room. What has become of
him?—Cocoleu, Cocoleu!”
One must have lived in the country, among these simple-minded peasants,
to understand the excitement and the fury of all these men and women as
they crowded around the ruins of Valpinson. People in town do not mind
brigands, in general: they have their gas, their strong doors, and the police.
They are generally little afraid of fire. They have their fire-alarms; and at the
first spark the neighbor cries, “Fire!” The engines come racing up; and water
comes forth as if by magic. But it is very different in the country: here every
man is constantly under a sense of his isolation. A simple latch protects his
door; and no one watches over his safety at night. If a murderer should
attack him, his cries could bring no help. If fire should break out, his house
would be burnt down before the neighbors could reach it; and he is happy
who can save his own life and that of his family. Hence all these good
people, whom the mayor’s words had deeply excited, were eager to find out
the only man who knew anything about this calamity, Cocoleu.
There was not one among them who had not given him a piece of bread, or
a bowl of soup, when he was hungry; not one of them had ever refused him
29
a night’s rest on the straw in his barn, when it was raining or freezing, and
the poor fellow wanted a shelter.
For Cocoleu was one of those unfortunate beings who labor under a
grievous physical or moral deformity.
Some twenty years ago, a wealthy land-owner in Brechy had sent to the
nearest town for half a dozen painters, whom he kept at his house nearly a
whole summer, painting and decorating his newly-built house. One of these
men had seduced a girl in the neighborhood, whom he had bewitched by his
long white blouse, his handsome brown mustache, his good spirits, gay
songs, and flattering speeches. But, when the work was done, the tempter
had flown away with the others, without thinking any more of the poor girl
than of the last cigar which he had smoked.
And yet she was expecting a child. When she could no longer conceal her
condition, she was turned out of the house in which she had been
employed; and her family, unable to support themselves, drove her away
without mercy. Overcome with grief, shame, and remorse, poor Colette
wandered from farm to farm, begging, insulted, laughed at, beaten even at
times. Thus it came about, that in a dark wood, one dismal winter evening,
she gave life to a male child. No one ever understood how mother and child
managed to survive. But both lived; and for many a year they were seen in
and around Sauveterre, covered with rags, and living upon the dear-bought
generosity of the peasants.
Then the mother died, utterly forsaken by human help, as she had lived.
They found her body, one morning, in a ditch by the wayside.
The child survived alone. He was then eight years old, quite strong and tall
for his age. A farmer took pity on him, and took him home. The little wretch
was not fit for anything: he could not even keep his master’s cows. During
his mother’s lifetime, his silence, his wild looks, and his savage appearance,
had been attributed to his wretched mode of life. But when people began to
be interested in him, they found out that his intellect had never been
aroused. He was an idiot, and, besides, subject to that terrible nervous
affection which at times shakes the whole body and disfigures the face by
the violence of uncontrollable convulsions. He was not a deaf-mute; but he
30
could only stammer out with intense difficulty a few disjointed syllables.
Sometimes the country people would say to him,—
Then it took him five minutes’ hard work to utter, amid a thousand painful
contortions, the name of his mother.
“Co-co-co-lette.”
Hence came his name Cocoleu. It had been ascertained that he was utterly
unable to do anything; and people ceased to interest themselves in his
behalf. The consequence was, that he became a vagabond as of old.
It was about this time that Dr. Seignebos, on one of his visits, met him one
day on the public road.
This excellent man had, among other extraordinary notions, the conviction
that idiocy is nothing more than a defective state of the brains, which may
be remedied by the use of certain well-known substances, such as
phosphorus, for instance. He lost no time in seizing upon this admirable
opportunity to test his theory. Cocoleu was sent for, and installed in his
house. He subjected him to a treatment which he kept secret; and only a
druggist at Sauveterre, who was also well known as entertaining very
extraordinary notions, knew what had happened. At the end of eighteen
months, Cocoleu had fallen off terribly: he talked perhaps, a little more
fluently; but his intellect had not been perceptibly improved.
The doctor had rendered Cocoleu a sad service. The poor idiot had lost the
habit of privation: he had forgotten how to go from door to door, asking for
alms; and he would have perished, if his good fortune had not led him to
knock at the door of the house at Valpinson.
Count Claudieuse and his wife were touched by his wretchedness, and
determined to take charge of him. They gave him a room and a bed at one
of the farmhouses; but they could never induce him to stay there. He was by
31
nature a vagabond; and the instinct was too strong for him. In winter, frost
and snow kept him in for a little while; but as soon as the first leaves came
out, he went wandering again through forest and field, remaining absent
often for weeks altogether.
With time he had also become capable of performing some simple service.
He could be intrusted with certain messages: he could water the flowers,
summon a servant, or even carry a letter to the post-office at Brechy. His
progress in this respect was so marked, that some of the more cunning
peasants began to suspect that Cocoleu was not so “innocent,” after all, as
he looked, and that he was cleverly playing the fool in order to enjoy life
easily.
“We have him at last,” cried several voices at once. “Here he is; here he is!”
The crowd made way promptly; and almost immediately a young man
appeared, led and pushed forward by several persons. Cocoleu’s clothes, all
in disorder, showed clearly that he had offered a stout resistance. He was a
youth of about eighteen years, very tall, quite beardless, excessively thin,
and so loosely jointed, that he looked like a hunchback. A mass of reddish
hair came down his low, retreating forehead. His small eyes, his enormous
mouth bristling with sharp teeth, his broad flat nose, and his immense ears,
gave to his face a strange idiotic expression, and to his whole appearance a
most painful brutish air.
“And we’ll make him talk,” threatened his captors. “You hear! Go on, quick!”
33
CHAPTER 4
M. Galpin and the doctor had both considered it a point of honor who
should show the most perfect indifference; and thus they had betrayed by
no sign their curiosity to know what was going on out doors. Dr. Seignebos
was on the point of resuming the operation; and, as coolly as if he had been
in his own rooms at home, he was washing the sponge which he had just
used, and wiping his instruments. The magistrate, on the other hand, was
standing in the centre of the room, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed upon the
infinite, apparently. It may be he was thinking of his star which had at last
brought him that famous criminal case for which he had ardently longed
many a year.
Count Claudieuse, however, was very far from sharing their reserve. He was
tossing about on his bed; and as soon as the mayor and his friend
reappeared, looking quite upset, he exclaimed,—
“Great God! And I was complaining of my losses. Two men killed! That is a
real misfortune. Poor men! to die because they were so brave,—Bolton
hardly thirty years old; Guillebault, a father of a family, who leaves five
children, and not a cent!”
“As long as we have a mouthful of bread,” she said in a voice full of deep
emotion, “neither Bolton’s mother, nor Guillebault’s children, shall ever
know what want is.”
She could not say another word; for at that moment the peasants crowded
into the room, pushing the prisoner before them.
“He? A man who has no sense? You don’t really think so. The law cannot
attach any importance to the evidence of a fool.”
“And I,” replied the physician,—“I also know what I have to do. You have
summoned me to assist you in this investigation. I obey; and I declare
officially, that the mental condition of this unfortunate man makes his
evidence utterly worthless. I appeal to the commonwealth attorney.”
“Take care, sir, or you may get yourself into trouble. What would you do if
this poor fellow should make a formal charge against any one? Could you
attach any weight to his word?”
The peasants were listening with open mouths. One of them said,—
“He can say very well what he wants to say, the scamp!” added another.
35
“At all events, I am indebted to him for the life of my children,” said the
count gently. “He thought of them when I was unconscious, and when no
one else remembered them. Come, Cocoleu, come nearer, my friend, don’t
be afraid: there is no one here to hurt you.”
It was very well the count used such kind words; for Cocoleu was thoroughly
terrified by the brutal treatment he had received, and was trembling in all
his limbs.
He had found out that he stood not alone in his opinion. Count Claudieuse
came to his assistance, saying,—
But the magistrate was master of the situation, and conscious of all the
powers conferred upon him by the laws of France in such cases.
“I must beg, gentlemen,” he said, in a tone which did not allow of any
reply,—“I must beg to be permitted to act in my own way.”
“Come, my boy, listen to me, and try to understand what I say. Do you know
what has happened at Valpinson?”
“Yes, my friend, fire, which burns down the house of your benefactor,—fire,
which has killed two good men. But that is not all: they have tried to murder
the count. Do you see him there in his bed, wounded, and covered with
blood? Do you see the countess, how she suffers?”
Did Cocoleu follow him? His distorted features betrayed nothing of what
might be going on within him.
“Sir, do not force me to remind you that I have not far from here, men
whose duty it is to see that my authority is respected here.”
“All these misfortunes are the work of a vile incendiary. You hate him, don’t
you; you detest him, the rascal!”
“Yes, yes!”
“Well, then you must help me to find him out, so that the gendarmes may
catch him, and put him in jail. You know who it is; you have told these
people and”—
“But, now I think of it, whom has this poor fellow talked to?”
Not one of the peasants could tell. They inquired; but no answer came.
Perhaps Cocoleu had never said what he was reported to have said.
“The fact is,” said one of the tenants at Valpinson, “that the poor devil, so to
say, never sleeps, and that he is roaming about all night around the house
and the farm buildings.”
This was a new light for M. Galpin; suddenly changing the form of his
interrogatory, he asked Cocoleu,—
“In—in—the—court—yard.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
37
The idiot looked fixedly at the Countess Claudieuse with the timid and abject
expression of a dog who tries to read something in his master’s eyes.
“On purpose?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“A gentleman.”
There was not a person present at this extraordinary scene who did not
anxiously hold his breath as the word was uttered. The doctor alone kept
cool, and exclaimed,—
But the magistrate did not seem to hear his words; and, turning to Cocoleu,
he asked him, in a deeply agitated tone of voice—
“Yes.”
“Very—very—well.”
“Oh, yes!”
“M. de Boiscoran an incendiary! Who does he think will believe that story?”
Dr. Siegnebos had taken off his spectacles, and was wiping them with an air
of intense satisfaction.
“What did I tell you?” he exclaimed. “But the gentleman did not condescend
to attach any importance to my suggestions.”
The magistrate was by far the most excited man in the crowd. He had
turned excessively pale, and made, visibly, the greatest efforts to preserve
his equanimity. The commonwealth attorney leaned over towards him, and
whispered,—
“If I were in your place, I would stop here, and consider the answer as not
given.”
But M. Galpin was one of those men who are blinded by self-conceit, and
who would rather be cut to pieces than admit that they have been mistaken.
He answered,—
“I shall go on.”
Then turning once more to Cocoleu, in the midst of so deep a silence that
the buzzing of a fly would have been distinctly heard, he asked,—
“Do you know, my boy, what you say? Do you know that you are accusing a
man of a horrible crime?”
39
“Yes.”
Cocoleu’s restless eyes wandered incessantly from the count, who looked
indignant, to the countess, who seemed to listen with painful surprise. The
magistrate repeated,—
“Speak!”
After another moment’s hesitation, the idiot began to explain what he had
seen; and it took him many minutes to state, amid countless contortions,
and painful efforts to speak, that he had seen M. de Boiscoran pull out some
papers from his pocket, light them with a match, put them under a rick of
straw near by, and push the burning mass towards two enormous piles of
wood which were in close contact with a vat full of spirits.
“This is sheer nonsense!” cried the doctor, thus giving words to what they
all seemed to feel.
“At the first sign of applause or of displeasure, I shall send for the
gendarmes, and have the room cleared.”
“He had light trousers on,” replied the idiot, stammering still most painfully,
“a dark-brown shooting-jacket, and a big straw hat. His trousers were
stuffed into his boots.”
40
Two or three peasants looked at each other, as if they had at last hit upon a
suspicious fact. The costume which Cocoleu had so accurately described was
well known to them all.
“And when he had kindled the fire,” said the magistrate again, “what did he
do next?”
“And then?”
“He loaded his gun, and, when master came out, he fired.”
Count Claudieuse was so indignant that he forgot the pain which his wounds
caused him, and raised himself on his bed.
But the efforts which the unfortunate man had made during the last half-
hour had exhausted his little strength. He broke out into stupid laughter;
and almost instantly one of his fearful nervous attacks overcame him: he fell
down yelling, and had to be carried away.
The magistrate had risen, pale and deeply excited, but evidently meditating
on what was to be done next. The commonwealth attorney asked him in an
undertone what he was going to do; and the lawyer replied,—
“Prosecute!”
“What?”
“And now?”
“Now I can no longer hesitate. There have been ten witnesses present at
the examination. My honor is at stake. I must establish either the guilt or the
innocence of the man whom Cocoleu accuses.” Immediately, walking up to
the count’s bed, he asked,—
“Will you have the kindness, Count Claudieuse, to tell me what your
relations are to M. de Boiscoran?”
“Can it be possible, sir, that you believe the words of that idiot?”
“The doctor has told you what the state of Cocoleu’s mind is?”
“My relations with M. de Boiscoran are neither good nor bad. We have
none.”
“It is reported, I have heard it myself, that you are on bad terms.”
“That may be. We are neither of the same age, nor have we the same tastes
or the same opinions. He is young: I am old. He likes Paris and the great
world: I am fond of solitude and hunting. I am a Legitimist: he used to be an
Orleanist, and now he is a Republican. I believe that the descendant of our
old kings alone can save the country; and he is convinced that the happiness
of France is possible only under a Republic. But two men may be enemies,
and yet esteem each other. M. de Boiscoran is an honorable man; he has
42
done his duty bravely in the war, he has fought well, and has been
wounded.”
M. Galpin noted down these answers with extreme care. When he had done
so, he continued,—
“The question is not one of political opinions only. You have had personal
difficulties with M. de Boiscoran.”
“Of no importance.”
“Our estates adjoin each other. There is an unlucky brook between us,
which is a source of constant trouble to the neighbors.”
“These are not the only difficulties you have had with each other. Everybody
in the country knows that you have had violent altercations.”
“It is true: we have used hard words. M. de Boiscoran had two wretched
dogs that were continually escaping from his kennels, and came hunting in
my fields. You cannot imagine how much game they destroyed.”
“Exactly so. And one day you met M. de Boiscoran, and you warned him that
you would shoot his dogs.”
“I must confess I was furious. But I was wrong, a thousand times wrong: I
did threaten”—
“That is it. You were both of you armed. You threatened one another: he
actually aimed at you. Don’t deny it. A number of persons have seen it; and I
know it. He has told me so himself.”
43
CHAPTER 5
There was not a person in the whole district who did not know of what a
fearful disease poor Cocoleu was suffering; and everybody knew, also, that
it was perfectly useless to try and help him. The two men who had taken him
out had therefore laid him simply on a pile of wet straw, and then they had
left him to himself, eager as they were to see and hear what was going on.
These few words opened at once a door to all kinds of bold guesses.
The next step was, of course, to look out for circumstances which might
support such a theory; and the opportunity was not lacking. Groups were
formed; and soon two men and a woman declared aloud that they could
astonish the world if they chose to talk. They were urged to tell what they
knew; and, of course, they refused. But they had said too much already.
Willing or not willing, they were carried up to the house, where, at that very
44
“More witnesses,” replied the peasants. “Here are some more witnesses.”
The mayor turned round, and, after having exchanged glances with M.
Daubigeon, he said to the magistrate,—
No doubt M. Galpin was little pleased at the interruption; but he knew the
people well enough to bear in mind, that, unless he took them at the
moment when they were willing to talk, he might never be able to get any
thing out of them at any other time.
“We shall return some other time to our conversation,” he said to Count
Claudieuse.
The first who entered was the only son of a well-to-do farmer in the village
of Brechy, called Ribot. He was a young fellow of about twenty-five, broad-
shouldered, with a very small head, a low brow, and formidable crimson
ears. For twenty miles all around, he was reputed to be an irresistible
beau,—a reputation of which he was very proud. After having asked him his
name, his first names, and his age, M. Galpin said,—
The young man straightened himself, and with a marvellously conceited air,
which set all the peasants a-laughing, he replied,—
“I was out that night on some little private business of my own. I was on the
other side of the chateau of Boiscoran. Somebody was waiting for me, and I
was behind time: so I cut right across the marsh. I knew the rains of the last
45
days would have filled all the ditches; but, when a man is out on such
important business as mine was, he can always find his way”—
“Spare us those tedious details,” said the magistrate coldly. The handsome
fellow looked surprised, rather than offended, by the interruption, and then
went on,—
“As your Honor desires. Well, it was about eight o’clock, or a little more, and
it was growing dark, when I reached the Seille swamps. They were
overflowing; and the water was two inches above the stones of the canal. I
asked myself how I should get across without spoiling my clothes, when I
saw M. de Boiscoran coming towards me from the other side.”
“Why, I should think so! I talked to him. But stop, he was not afraid of
getting wet. Without much ado, he rolled up his trousers, stuffed them into
the tops of his tall boots, and went right through. Just then he saw me, and
seemed to be surprised. I was as much so as he was. ‘Why, is it you, sir?’ I
said. He replied ‘Yes: I have to see somebody at Brechy.’ That was very
probably so; still I said again, ‘But you have chosen a queer way.’ He
laughed. ‘I did not know the swamps were overflowed,’ he answered, ‘and I
thought I would shoot some snipes.’ As he said this, he showed me his gun.
At that moment I had nothing to say; but now, when I think it over, it looks
queer to me.”
M. Galpin had written down the statement as fast as it was given. Then he
asked,—
The count and the countess looked distressed and almost overcome; nor did
the mayor and his friend seem to be less troubled. One circumstance in
Ribot’s evidence seemed to have struck them with peculiar force,—the fact
that he had seen M. de Boiscoran push his trousers inside his boots.
46
“You can go,” said M. Galpin to the young man. “Let another witness come
in.”
The next one was an old man of bad reputation, who lived alone in an old
hut two miles from Valpinson. He was called Father Gaudry. Unlike young
Ribot, who had shown great assurance, the old man looked humble and
cringing in his dirty, ill-smelling rags. After having given his name, he said,—
“It might have been eleven o’clock at night, and I was going through the
forest of Rochepommier, along one of the little by-paths”—
“Great God, what an idea!” cried the old man, raising his hands to heaven.
“How can you say such a thing! I steal wood! No, my dear sir, I was very
quietly going to sleep in the forest, so as to be up with daylight, and gather
champignons and other mushrooms to sell at Sauveterre. Well, I was
trotting along, when, all of a sudden, I hear footsteps behind me. Naturally, I
was frightened.”
“Oh, no! my dear sir; only, at night, you understand. Well, I hid behind a tree;
and almost at the same moment I saw M. de Boiscoran pass by. I recognized
him perfectly in spite of the dark; for he seemed to be in a great rage, talked
loud to himself, swore, gesticulated, and tore handfuls of leaves from the
branches.”
“Yes, my dear sir; for that was the very thing that frightened me so. I
thought he was a keeper.”
The third and last witness was a good old woman, Mrs. Courtois, whose
little farm lay on the other side of the forest of Rochepommier. When she
was asked, she hesitated a moment, and then she said,—
“I do not know much; but I will tell you all I do know. As we expected to
have a house full of workmen a few days hence, and as I was going to bake
bread to-morrow, I was going with my ass to the mill on Sauveterre
47
Mountain to fetch flour. The miller had not any ready; but he told me, if I
could wait, he would let me have some: and so I staid to supper. About ten
o’clock, they gave me a bag full of flour. The boys put it on my ass, and I
went home. I was about half-way, and it was, perhaps, eleven o’clock, when,
just at the edge of the forest of Rochepommier, my ass stumbled, and the
bag fell off. I had a great deal of trouble, for I was not strong enough to lift it
alone; and just then a man came out of the woods, quite near me. I called to
him, and he came. It was M. de Boiscoran: I ask him to help me; and at once,
without losing a moment, he puts his gun down, lifts the bag from the
ground, and puts it on my ass. I thank him. He says, ‘Welcome,’ and—that is
all.”
The mayor had been all this time standing in the door of the chamber,
performing the humble duty of a doorkeeper, and barring the entrance to
the eager and curious crowd outside. When Mrs. Courtois retired, quite
bewildered by her own words, and regretting what she had said, he called
out,—
“Well, then, you can go home now, my friends. Let the law have free
course.”
The law, represented by the magistrate, was a prey at that moment to the
most cruel perplexity. M. Galpin was utterly overcome by consternation. He
sat at the little table, on which he had been writing, his head resting on his
hands, thinking, apparently, how he could find a way out of this labyrinth.
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
48
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.”
But M. Galpin did not even hear the interruption. Speaking faster and faster,
he went on,—
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.
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.
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”—
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.”
“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,—
“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.”
52
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.”
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 held responsible
53
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.”
“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.
The door opened and three peasants appeared, looking bewildered, but
evidently well pleased.
“It looks very much like a case; but Pitard says it is the paper of a cartridge.”
“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.”
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
54
was so perfectly uninjured, that one could read the embossed letters of the
name of the manufacturer, Clebb.
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,—
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.
“Close by the old tower, where they keep the tools, and where the ivy is
growing all over the old castle.”
“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.”
55
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.
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.”
56
CHAPTER 6
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.
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.
57
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.
“Ah! do I know it myself? I have lost my head: the whole thing looks to me
like a nightmare.”
“Alas!” he said, “why did you, contrary to everybody’s opinion, insist upon
examining Cocoleu, a poor idiotic wretch?”
“You do not mean to reproach me, sir, for having followed the impulses of
my conscience?”
“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?”
58
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“I am sure of myself!”
“Have a care!”
“What! Immediately?”
“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.
“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,—
60
“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,—
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.”
added largely both to his importance in the community and to his modest
income.
These varied talents had drawn upon him the hostility of all the other
teachers and public servants of the community, especially that of the
mayor’s clerk, and the clerks of the bank and great institutions of
Sauveterre. But all these enemies he had gradually conquered by the
unmistakable superiority of his ability; so that they fell in with the universal
habit, and, when any thing special happened, said to each other,—
The fact is, people were afraid of him, and dreaded his terrible tongue. Not
that he had ever injured anybody, he was too wise for that; but they knew
the harm he might do, if he chose, as he was master of every important
secret in Sauveterre, and the best informed man in town as regarded all
their little intrigues, their private foibles, and their dark antecedents.
62
“How could any thing escape me, when I have the church and the press, the
court and the theatre, to keep me informed?”
Such a man would have considered himself disgraced if he had not known
every detail of M. de Boiscoran’s private affairs. He did not hesitate,
therefore, while the carriage was rolling along on an excellent road, in the
fresh spring morning, to explain to his companions the “case,” as he called
it, of the accused nobleman.
M. de Boiscoran, called Jacques by his friends, was rarely on his estate, and
then only staid a month or so there. He was living in Paris, where his family
owned a comfortable house in University Street. His parents were still alive.
His father, the Marquis de Boiscoran, the owner of a large landed estate, a
deputy under Louis Philippe, a representative in 1848, had withdrawn from
public life when the Second Empire was established, and spent, since that
time, all his money, and all his energies, in collecting rare old books, and
especially costly porcelain, on which he had written a monograph.
His mother, a Chalusse by birth, had enjoyed the reputation of being one of
the most beautiful and most gifted ladies at the court of the Citizen King. At
a certain period in her life, unfortunately, slander had attacked her; and
about 1845 or 1846, it was reported that she had had a remarkable affair
with a young lawyer of distinction, who had since become one of the
austerest and most renowned judges. As she grew old, the marchioness
devoted herself more and more to politics, as other women become pious.
While her husband boasted that he had not read a newspaper for ten years,
she had made her salon a kind of parliamentary centre, which had its
influence on political affairs.
63
His character was less well known at Sauveterre than his person. Those who
had had any business with him described him as an honorable, upright man:
his companions spoke of him as cheerful and gay, fond of pleasure, and
always in good humor. At the time of the Prussian invasion, he had been
made a captain of one of the volunteer companies of the district. He had led
his men bravely under fire, and conducted himself so well on the battlefield,
that Gen. Chanzy had rewarded him, when wounded, with the cross of the
legion of honor.
“And such a man should have committed such a crime at Valpinson,” said M.
Daubigeon to the magistrate. “No, it is impossible! And no doubt he will very
easily scatter all our doubts to the four winds.”
“And that will be done at once,” said young Ribot; “for here we are.”
CHAPTER 7
It was seven o’clock when the carriage containing the justice drove into the
courtyard at Boiscoran,—a vast court, planted with lime-trees, and
surrounded by farm buildings. The chateau was wide awake. Before her
house-door, the farmer’s wife was cleaning the huge caldron in which she
had prepared the morning soup; the maids were going and coming; and at
the stable a groom was rubbing down with great energy a thorough-bred
horse.
As he had been born in the family, and never left it afterwards, he looked
upon himself as one of them, and saw no difference between his own
interests and those of his master. In fact, he was treated less like a servant
than like a friend; and he fancied he knew every thing about M. de
Boiscoran’s affairs.
With strangers, Anthony would not have allowed himself such familiarity, for
he was very formal; but he had seen M. Daubigeon more than once at the
chateau; and he knew the plans that had been discussed between M. Galpin
and his master. Hence he was not a little amazed at the embarrassed
stiffness of the two gentlemen, and at the tone of voice in which the
magistrate asked him,—
“Not yet,” he replied; “and I have orders not to wake him. He came home
late last night, and wanted to make up this morning.”
Instinctively the magistrate and the attorney looked away, each fearing to
meet the other’s eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
But for the respect which he felt for his master’s friends, Anthony would not
have answered these questions, which he thought were extremely
impertinent. But this last question seemed to him to go beyond all fair limits.
He replied, therefore, in a tone of injured self-respect,—
“Do not imagine, my friend, that I ask you these questions from idle
curiosity. Tell me what you know; for your frankness may be more useful to
your master than you imagine.”
66
“No.”
“Let me think,” he said. “My master went up to his bedroom, and remained
there four or five minutes. Then he came down, ate a piece of a pie, and
drank a glass of wine. Then he lit a cigar, and told me to go to bed, adding
that he would take a little walk, and undress without my help.”
“Of course.”
“So that you do not know what your master may have done?”
“How long is it since your master and Count Claudieuse have ceased seeing
each other?”
“Oh!”
“Something unpleasant has happened, I know; but it was not much. As they
do not visit each other, they cannot well hate each other. Besides, I have
heard master say a hundred times, that he looked upon Count Claudieuse as
one of the best and most honorable men; that he respected him highly,
and”—
“If you were going there, what road would you take?”
“Certainly not.”
“Why not?”
“Because the Seille is out of its banks, and the ditches are full of water.”
“Yes, the way is shorter; but it would take more time. The paths are very
indistinct, and overgrown with briers.”
68
“Now,” said the magistrate again, “if fire should break out at Valpinson,
would you see it from here?”
“I think not, sir. There are hills and tall woods between.”
“The wind was from the west, as it always is when we have a storm.”
“So that you have heard nothing? You do not know what a terrible
calamity”—
This conversation had taken place in the court-yard: and at this moment
there appeared two gendarmes on horseback, whom M. Galpin had sent for
just before he left Valpinson.
“Keep that lad under your eyes, and let him have no communication with
anybody.”
CHAPTER 8
In spite of its grand feudal air, the chateau at Boiscoran was, after all, little
more than a bachelor’s modest home, and in a very bad state of
preservation. Of the eighty or a hundred rooms which it contained, hardly
more than eight or ten were furnished, and this only in the simplest possible
manner,—a sitting-room, a dining-room, a few guest-chambers: this was all
M. de Boiscoran required during his rare visits to the place. He himself used
in the second story a small room, the door of which opened upon the great
staircase.
When they reached this door, guided by old Anthony, the magistrate said to
the servant,—
“Knock!”
The man obeyed: and immediately a youthful, hearty voice replied from
within,—
“Who is there?”
“But, sir”—
“Let me sleep, rascal. I have not been able to close an eye till now.” The
magistrate, becoming impatient, pushed the servant aside, and, seizing the
door-knob tried to open it; it was locked inside. But he lost no time in
saying,—
“Upon my word!” he said. “That was a happy inspiration you had, my dear
Galpin. You come to join me at breakfast?”
“Not to say how much I thank you for bringing our excellent commonwealth
attorney with you. This is a veritable judicial visit”—
The magistrate had never been stiffer in his life, when he replied,—
“We shall have to forget our relations, sir. It is not as a friend I come to-day,
but as a magistrate.”
They went in; and, as they passed the door, Mechinet whispered into the
attorney’s ear,—
“Sir, that man is certainly innocent. A guilty man would never have received
us thus.”
And grave and sad he went and stood in one of the window embrasures. M.
Galpin remained standing in the centre of the room, trying to see every
thing in it, and to fix it in his memory, down to the smallest details. The
prevailing disorder showed clearly how hastily M. de Boiscoran had gone to
71
bed the night before. His clothes, his boots, his shirt, his waistcoat, and his
straw hat lay scattered about on the chairs and on the floor. He wore those
light gray trousers, which had been succcessively seen and recognized by
Cocoleu, by Ribot, by Gaudry, and by Mrs. Courtois.
“Now, sir,” began M. de Boiscoran, with that slight angry tone of voice
which shows that a man thinks a joke has been carried far enough, “will you
please tell me what procures for me the honor of this early visit?”
Not a muscle in M. Galpin’s face was moving. As if the question had been
addressed to some one else, he said coldly,—
“If this is a joke,” he said, “it has perhaps lasted long enough.”
More and more amazed, M. de Boiscoran looked rapidly around him. In the
door stood Anthony, his faithful old servant, with anguish on his face. Near
the fireplace, the clerk had improvised a table, and put his paper, his pens,
and his horn inkstand in readiness. Then with a shrug of his shoulders, which
showed that he failed to understand, M. de Boiscoran showed his hands.
They were perfectly clean and white: the long nails were carefully cleaned
also.
“When did you last wash your hands?” asked M. Galpin, after having
examined them minutely.
“Upon my word! I confess you nearly caught me. I was on the point of
getting angry. I almost feared”—
“And there was good reason for fear,” said M. Galpin; “for a terrible charge
has been brought against you. And it may be, that on your answer to my
question, ridiculous as it seems to you, your honor may depend, and
perhaps your liberty.”
This time there was no mistake possible. M. de Boiscoran felt that kind of
terror which the law inspires even in the best of men, when they find
themselves suddenly accused of a crime. He turned pale, and then he said in
a troubled voice,—
“What! A charge has been brought against me, and you, M. Galpin, come to
my house to examine me?”
“I am a magistrate, sir.”
“But you were also my friend. If anyone should have dared in my presence
to accuse you of a crime, of a mean act, of something infamous, I should
have defended you, sir, with all my energy, without hesitation, and without
a doubt. I should have defended you till absolute, undeniable evidence
should have been brought forward of your culpability; and even then I
should have pitied you, remembering that I had esteemed you so highly as
to favor your alliance with my family. But you—I am accused, I do not know
of what, falsely, wrongly; and at once you hasten hither, you believe the
charge, and consent to become my judge. Well, let it be so! I washed my
hands last night after coming home.”
M. Galpin had not boasted too much in praising his self-possession and his
perfect control over himself. He did not move when the terrible words fell
upon his ear; and he asked again in the same calm tone,—
“What has become of the water you used for that purpose?”
The magistrate at once went in. On the marble table stood a basin full of
water. That water was black and dirty. At the bottom lay particles of
charcoal. On the top, mixed with the soapsuds, were swimming some
73
“Is that the water in which you washed your hands last night after coming
home?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Having left the house at eight, you returned only around midnight.”
“After midnight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where is it?”
“There it is!”
“When did you last fire this gun?” asked the magistrate.
“What for?”
M. Galpin raised and lowered the cock with all possible care: he noticed that
it was the Remington patent. Then he opened the chamber, and found that
the gun was loaded. Each barrel had a cartridge in it. Then he put the gun
back in its place, and, pulling from his pocket the leaden cartridge-case
which Pitard had found, he showed it to M. de Boiscoran, and asked him,—
“Perfectly!” replied the other. “It is a case of one of the cartridges which I
have probably thrown away as useless.”
“Do you think you are the only one in this country who has a gun by this
maker?”
“So that you must, as a matter of course, have been at a spot where such a
cartridge-case as this has been found?”
“Not necessarily. I have often seen children pick up these things, and play
with them.”
The clerk, while he made his pen fly across his paper, could not resist the
temptation of making all kinds of faces. He was too well acquainted with
lawyers’ tactics not to understand M. Galpin’s policy perfectly well, and to
see how cunningly it was devised to make every fact strengthen the
suspicion against M. de Boiscoran.
75
“If that is so,” he began again, “I beg you will give me an account of how
you spent the evening after eight o’clock: do not hurry, consider, take your
time; for your answers are of the utmost importance.”
M. de Boiscoran had so far remained quite cool; but his calmness betrayed
one of those terrible storms within, which may break forth, no one knows
when. This warning, and, even more so, the tone in which it was given,
revolted him as a most hideous hypocrisy. And, breaking out all of a sudden,
he cried,—
“After all, sir, what do you want of me? What am I accused of?”
“You will hear it at the proper time. First answer my question, and believe
me in your own interest. Answer frankly. What did you do last night?”
“That is no answer.”
“No.”
“Sir!”
“Your boots there at the foot of the bed speak against you. Where does the
mud come from with which they are covered?”
76
“Do not attempt to deny it. You have been seen there.”
“But”—
“Young Ribot met you at the moment when you were crossing the canal.”
For the first time a real embarrassment appeared in the features of the
accused,—the embarrassment of a man who suddenly sees an abyss
opening before him. He hesitated; and, seeing that it was useless to deny,
he said,—
“To whom?”
“To my wood-merchant, who has bought all this year’s wood. I did not find
him at home, and came back on the high road.”
“Oh!”
“And the proof is, that, about eleven o’clock, you were hurriedly crossing
the forest of Rochepommier.”
“I?”
“Yes, you! And do not say No; for there are your trousers torn to pieces by
the thorns and briers through which you must have made your way.”
“By whom?”
“By Gaudry the poacher. And he saw so much of you, that he could tell us in
what a bad humor you were. You were very angry. You were talking loud,
and pulling the leaves from the trees.”
As he said so, the magistrate got up and took the shooting-jacket, which
was lying on a chair not far from him. He searched the pockets, and pulled
out of one a handful of leaves.
“Yes; but a woman, Mrs. Courtois, saw you come out of the forest of
Rochepommier. You helped her to put a sack of flour on her ass, which she
could not lift alone. Do you deny it? No, you are right; for, look here! on the
sleeve of your coat I see something white, which, no doubt, is flour from her
bag.”
“You confess, then, that last night, between ten and eleven you were at
Valpinson?”
“But this cartridge-case which I have just shown you was picked up at
Valpinson, close by the ruins of the old castle.”
“Well, sir, have I not told you before that I have seen a hundred times
children pick up these cases to play with? Besides, if I had really been at
Valpinson, why should I deny it?”
M. Galpin rose to his full height, and said in the most solemn manner,—
“I am going to tell you why! Last night, between ten and eleven, Valpinson
was set on fire; and it has been burnt to the ground.”
“Oh!”
78
“Great God!”
“And it is thought, in fact there are strong reasons to think, that you,
Jacques de Boiscoran, are the incendiary and the assassin.”
79
CHAPTER 9
M. de Boiscoran looked around him like a man who has suddenly been
seized with vertigo, pale, as if all his blood had rushed to his heart.
Anthony, his old trusted servant, was leaning against the doorpost, as if he
feared to fall. The clerk was mending his pen in the air, overcome with
amazement. M. Daubigeon hung his head.
He fell heavily into a chair, pressing his hands on his heart, as if to keep
down the sobs that threatened to rise. M. Galpin alone seemed to remain
perfectly cool. The law, which he imagined he was representing in all its
dignity, knows nothing of emotions. His thin lips even trembled a little, as if
a slight smile was about to burst forth: it was the cold smile of the ambitious
man, who thinks he has played his little part well.
Did not every thing tend to prove that Jacques de Boiscoran was the guilty
man, and that, in the alternative between a friend, and an opportunity of
gaining high distinction, he had chosen well? After the silence of a minute,
which seemed to be a century, he went and stood, with arms crossed on his
chest, before the accused, and asked him,—
The young man pressed his hands convulsively on his brow, and cried out,—
He would have moved the marble on his mantelpiece sooner than M. Galpin.
The latter replied in icy tones,—
“I am not part of the question here. Why will you refer to relations which
must be forgotten? It is no longer the friend who speaks to you, not even
the man, but simply the magistrate. You were seen”—
“Cocoleu!”
“Cocoleu? That poor epileptic idiot whom the Countess Claudieuse has
picked up?”
“The same.”
Never had the magistrate made such efforts to assume an air of impassive
dignity and icy solemnity, as when he replied,—
“For an hour, at least, poor Cocoleu has been in the full enjoyment of his
faculties. The ways of Providence are inscrutable.”
“But sir”—
“And what does Cocoleu depose? He says he saw you kindle the fire with
your own hands, then conceal yourself behind a pile of wood, and fire twice
at Count Claudieuse.”
“And that is not all,” continued the magistrate, raising his voice, “I examine
you, and you admit having been out from eight o’clock till after midnight. I
ask what you have been doing, and you refuse to tell me. I insist, and you tell
a falsehood. In order to overwhelm you, I am forced to quote the evidence
of young Ribot, of Gaudry, and Mrs. Courtois, who have seen you at the very
places where you deny having been. That circumstance alone condemns
you. Why should you not be willing to tell me what you have been doing
during those four hours? You claim to be innocent. Help me, then, to
establish your innocence. Speak, tell me what you were doing between
eight and midnight.”
For some time already, half-suppressed cries, and the sound of a large
crowd, had come up from the courtyard. A gendarme came in quite excited;
and, turning to the magistrate and the commonwealth attorney, he said,—
“Gentlemen, there are several hundred peasants, men and women, in the
yard, who clamor for M. de Boiscoran. They threaten to drag him down to
the river. Some of the men are armed with pitchforks; but the women are
the maddest. My comrade and I have done our best to keep them quiet.”
And just then, as if to confirm what he said, the cries came nearer, growing
louder and louder; and one could distinctly hear,—
“Go down and tell these people that the authorities are this moment
examining the accused; that they interrupt us; and that, if they keep on, they
will have to do with me.”
The gendarme obeyed his orders. M. de Boiscoran had turned deadly pale.
He said to himself,—
“Yes,” said M. Galpin, who had overheard the words; “and you would
comprehend their rage, for which there is good reason, if you knew all that
has happened.”
“What else?”
“Two Sauveterre firemen, one the father of five children, have perished in
the flames. Two other men, a farmer from Brechy, and a gendarme who
tried to rescue them, have been so seriously burned that their lives are in
danger.”
“And it is you,” continued the magistrate, “who is charged with all these
calamities. You see how important it is for you to exculpate yourself.”
“If you are innocent, nothing is easier. Tell us how you employed yourself
last night.”
“Do so.”
“I shall be obliged to order your arrest at once, and to send you to jail in
Sauveterre.”
“Very well.”
“Prove it.”
83
“Be good enough, then, to dress, sir, and to follow the gendarmes.”
“Sir,” he whispered into his master’s ear while helping him to put on his
clothes.
“What?”
“Hush! Don’t speak so loud! The other window is open. It is only about
twenty feet to the ground: the ground is soft. Close by is one of the cellar
openings; and in there, you know, there is the old hiding-place. It is only five
miles to the coast, and I will have a good horse ready for you to-night, at the
park-gate.”
“I conjure you,” said Anthony, “I answer for any thing. It is barely twenty
feet. In your mother’s name”—
In one point, at least, M. de Boiscoran had been right. Nothing would have
been easier for him than to escape, to get into the garden, and to reach the
hiding-place which his servant had suggested to him. But after that? He had,
to be sure, with old Anthony’s assistance, some chance of escaping
altogether. But, after all, he might have been found out in his hiding-place,
or he might have been overtaken in his ride to the coast. Even if he had
succeeded, what would have become of him? His flight would necessarily
have been looked upon as a confession of his guilt.
84
“Very well, sir. This circumstance shall be mentioned, as well as the others,
at the trial.”
Very differently thought the commonwealth attorney and the clerk. If the
magistrate had been too much engaged in his dictation to notice any thing,
they had been perfectly able to notice the great excitement under which the
accused had naturally labored. Perfectly amazed at first, and thinking, for a
moment, that the whole was a joke, he had next become furiously angry;
then fear and utter dejection had followed one another. But in precise
proportion as the charges had accumulated, and the evidence had become
overwhelming, he had, so far from becoming demoralized, seemed to
recover his assurance.
The poor man bowed. He was pale, but calm and self-possessed.
“I’ll be brief. You seemed to be surprised and indignant at any one’s daring
to accuse you. That was weakness. Justice is but the work of man, and must
needs judge by appearances. If you reflect, you will see that the
appearances are all against you.”
“If you were on a jury, you would not hesitate to pronounce a man guilty
upon such evidence.”
85
“I speak to you without the slightest hope of convincing you, but in all
sincerity. No, I should not condemn a man, as you say, if he asserted his
innocence, and if I did not see any reason for his crime. For, after all, unless a
man is mad, he does not commit a crime for nothing. Now I ask you, how
could I, upon whom fortune has always smiled; I who am on the eve of
marrying one whom I love passionately,—how could I have set Valpinson on
fire, and tried to murder Count Claudieuse?”
M. Galpin had scarcely been able to disguise his impatience, when he saw
the attorney take part in the affair. Seizing, therefore, the opportunity to
interfere, he said,—
“Your reason, sir, was hatred. You hated the count and the countess
mortally. Do not protest: it is of no use. Everybody knows it; and you
yourself have told me so.”
“Even if that were so, I do not see what right you have to abuse the
confidence of a friend, after having declared, upon your arrival here, that all
friendship between us had ceased. But that is not so. I never told you any
such thing. As my feelings have never changed, I can repeat literally what I
have said. I have told you that the count was a troublesome neighbor, a
stickler for his rights, and almost absurdly attached to his preserves. I have
also told you, that, if he declared my public opinions to be abominable, I
looked upon his as ridiculous and dangerous. As for the countess, I have
simply said, half in jest, that so perfect a person was not to my taste; and
that I should be very unhappy if my wife were a Madonna, who hardly ever
deigned to put her foot upon the ground.”
86
“And that was the only reason why you once pointed your gun at Count
Claudieuse? A little more blood rushing to your head would have made you a
murderer on that day.”
“My passion was less fiery than it may have looked. I have the most
profound respect for the count’s character. It is an additional grief to me
that he should have accused me.”
“But he has not accused you!” broke in M. Daubigeon. “On the contrary, he
was the first and the most eager to defend you.”
“Nothing.”
“I am going to put the seals on this room, and I shall leave it in the
meanwhile in your keeping. You know your duty, and the penalties to which
you would be subject, if, at the proper time, every thing is not found in the
same condition in which it is left now. Now, how shall we get back to
Sauveterre?”
Daubigeon, the magistrate, and the clerk would return in the mayor’s
carriage, driven by Ribot, who was furious at being kept under surveillance.
“Let us be off,” said the magistrate, when the last formalities had been
fulfilled.
M. de Boiscoran came down slowly. He knew the court was full of furious
peasants; and he expected to be received with hootings. It was not so. The
gendarme whom the attorney had sent down had done his duty so well,
that not a cry was heard. But when he had taken his seat in the carriage, and
the horse went off at a trot, fierce curses arose, and a shower of stones fell,
one of which wounded a gendarme.
“Upon my word, you bring ill luck, prisoner,” said the man, a friend of the
other gendarme who had been so much injured at the fire.
M. de Boiscoran made no reply. He sank back into the corner, and seemed
to fall into a kind of stupor, from which he did not rouse himself till the
carriage drove into the yard of the prison at Sauveterre. On the threshold
stood Master Blangin, the jailer, smiling with delight at the idea of receiving
so distinguished a prisoner.
“I am going to give you my best room,” he said, “but first I have to give a
receipt to the gendarme, and to enter you in my book.” Thereupon he took
down his huge, greasy register, and wrote the name of Jacques de
Boiscoran beneath that of Trumence Cheminot, a vagabond who had just
been arrested for having broken into a garden.
CHAPTER 1
The Paris house of the Boiscoran family, No. 216 University Street, is a house
of modest appearance. The yard in front is small; and the few square yards
of damp soil in the rear hardly deserve the name of a garden. But
appearances are deceptive. The inside is marvellously comfortable; careful
and painstaking hands have made every provision for ease; and the rooms
display that solid splendor for which our age has lost the taste. The vestibule
contains a superb mosaic, brought home from Venice, in 1798, by one of the
Boiscorans, who had degenerated, and followed the fortunes of Napoleon.
The balusters of the great staircase are a masterpiece of iron work; and the
wainscoting in the dining-room has no rival in Paris.
Though sixty-one years old at that time, the marquis was as straight as ever,
and most aristocratically lean. He had a perfectly magnificent nose, which
absorbed immense quantities of snuff; his mouth was large, but well
furnished; and his brilliant eyes shone with that restless cunning which
betrayed the amateur, who has continually to deal with sharp and eager
dealers in curiosities and second-hand articles of vertu.
In the year 1845 he had reached the summit of his renown by a great speech
on the question of public meetings; but at that hour his watch seemed to
have stopped. All his ideas were those of an Orleanist. His appearance, his
costume, his high cravat, his whiskers, and the way he brushed his hair, all
betrayed the admirer and friend of the citizen king. But for all that, he did
90
not trouble himself about politics; in fact, he troubled himself about nothing
at all. With the only condition that his inoffensive passion should be
respected, the marchioness was allowed to rule supreme in the house,
administering her large fortune, ruling her only son, and deciding all
questions without the right of appeal. It was perfectly useless to ask the
marquis any thing: his answer was invariably,—
“Ask my wife.”
The good man had, the evening before, purchased a little at haphazard, a
large lot of faiences, representing scenes of the Revolution; and at about
three o’clock, he was busy, magnifying-glass in hand, examining his dishes
and plates, when the door was suddenly opened.
The marchioness came in, holding a blue paper in her hand. Six or seven
years younger than her husband, she was the very companion for such an
idle, indolent man. In her walk, in her manner, and in her voice, she showed
at once the woman who stands at the wheel, and means to be obeyed. Her
once celebrated beauty had left remarkable traces enough to justify her
pretensions. She denied having any claims to being considered handsome,
since it was impossible to deny or conceal the ravages of time, and hence by
far her best policy was to accept old age with good grace. Still, if the
marchioness did not grow younger, she pretended to be older than she
really was. She had her gray hair puffed out with considerable affectation,
so as to contrast all the more forcibly with her ruddy, blooming cheeks,
which a girl might have envied and she often thought of powdering her hair.
She was so painfully excited, and almost undone, when she came into her
husband’s cabinet, that even he, who for many a year had made it a rule of
his life to show no emotion, was seriously troubled. Laying aside the dish
which he was examining, he said with an anxious voice,—
“A terrible misfortune.”
The old man, who has risen at the sight of his wife, sank slowly back into his
chair.
She handed him the blue paper which she had brought in, and said slowly,—
“Here. A telegram which I have just received from old Anthony, our son’s
valet.”
With trembling hands the old marquis unfolded the paper, and read,—
The marchioness had feared lest the marquis should have been crushed by
this despatch, which in its laconic terms betrayed Anthony’s abject terror.
But it was not so. He put it back on the table in the calmest manner, and
said, shrugging his shoulders,—
“It is absurd!”
“I understand,” he broke in, “that our son is accused of a crime which he has
not and can not have committed. You surely do not doubt his innocence?
What a mother you would be! On my part, I assure you I am perfectly
tranquil. Jacques an incendiary! Jacques a murderer! That is nonsense!”
“Ah! you did not read the telegram,” exclaimed the marchioness.
“You did not see that there was evidence against him.”
“If there had been none, he could not have been arrested. Of course, the
thing is disagreeable: it is painful.”
92
“But do you not see that Anthony evidently thinks our son is guilty?”
Then pulling out his snuffbox, and stuffing his nose full of snuff, he said,—
“Besides, let us consider. Did you not tell me that Jacques is in love with that
little Dionysia Chandore?”
“And she?”
“Well. And did you not also tell me that the wedding-day was fixed?”
“And you think a boy like our Jacques, a Boiscoran, in love, and beloved,
who is about to be married, and has his head full of wedding-presents, could
have committed such a horrible crime? Such things are not worth discussing,
and, with your leave, I shall return to my occupation.”
back to her cheeks; and smiles reappeared on pale lips. She said in a
stronger voice,—
“Yes, much too easily, my dear. And, between us, I would not say much
about it. How could the officers help accusing our Jacques if his own mother
suspects him?”
The marchioness had taken up the telegram, and was reading it over once
more.
“And yet,” she said, answering her own objections, “who in my place would
not have been frightened? This name of Claudieuse especially”—
“And he has done right, only he ought to have carried the matter through.
Claudieuse has claims on the Magpie, which divides our lands,—absurd
claims. He wants at all seasons, and according as he may desire, to direct the
waters of the little stream into his own channels, and thus drown the
meadows at Boiscoran, which are lower than his own. Even my brother, who
was an angel in patience and gentleness, had his troubles with this tyrant.”
“What?”
“No. I only know this. Last year, at the Duchess of Champdoce’s, I met by
chance the Countess Claudieuse and her children. The young woman is
perfectly charming; and, as we were going to give a ball the week after, it
occurred to me to invite her at once. She refused, and did so in such an icy,
formal manner, that I did not insist.”
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,—
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.”
“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,—
“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.”
The marquis stopped her with a threatening gesture, and cried with an
accent of bitter hatred,—
96
“I would a thousand times rather my son should die innocent on the scaffold
than owe his safety to that man!”
“Great God! And yet you know very well that I was only a little indiscreet.”
“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.
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.
“Ah!”
97
“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.”
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.
CHAPTER 2
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.
“If only Dionysia and her father,” sighed the marchioness, “have thought of
sending a carriage to meet us.”
“Because I do not want all the world to see my grief and my tears.”
99
“You will certainly not do that, madame, if you are disposed to follow my
advice.”
“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.”
“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.’”
“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.”
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,—
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.
101
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.”
And bowing to the good people of Sauveterre, who were quite dumfounded
by her assurance, she said,—
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
102
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.
grandchild. He invited her little friends, arranged picnics for her, helped her
drive her hoops, and if needs be, led in a cotillion.
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.
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,—
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
104
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.
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.
Still he checked his feelings, and replied that he could give no reply till he
had consulted his granddaughter.
M. de Chandore bent his head to conceal a tear which burned in his eyes.
Then he said very low,—
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.
105
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,—
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,—
CHAPTER 3
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.
“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,—
In the passage M. de Chandore was coming forward. He had not been able
to follow his granddaughter’s rapid steps.
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,
107
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.
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”—
“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.”
“Ah, that is just like him,” he said. “Nothing can move him. His only son is
wickedly accused of a crime, arrested, thrown into prison. They write to him;
they hope he will come at once. By no means. Let his son get out of trouble
as he can. He has his faiences to attend to. Oh, if I had a son!”
“Moreover,” she went on, “he intrusted me to this gentleman.” She pointed
out M. Folgat.
“M. Manuel Folgat, who has promised us the assistance of his experience,
his talents, and his devotion.”
“I am all hope. But I think with Miss Chandore, that we must go to work
without losing a second. Before I can decide, however, upon what is to be
done, I must know all the facts.”
“Well, then, we must try to find out. You know, no doubt, all the law officers
of Sauveterre?”
“And the magistrate before whom the matter has been brought.”
“Yes,” added the other old lady, “if all Sauveterre thinks Jacques guilty, let
them also say, ‘His own friend has become his judge.’”
“To be sure! He is a friend of ours; and, if any one is well informed, he is. Let
us go to him. Come.”
Nor was the assistance all on one side. The example of great people like M.
de Chandore and Jacques’s uncle had brought many a peasant on business
into M. Seneschal’s office; and when he was, at a later period of his life,
attacked by the fever of political ambition, and offered to “sacrifice himself
for his country” by becoming mayor of Sauveterre, and a member of the
general council, their support had been of great service to him.
To be sure, Mrs. Seneschal trembled very easily. She was a woman of forty-
five or fifty years, very dark, short, and fat, trying hard to breathe in the
corsets which were specially made for her by the Misses Mechinet, the
111
clerk’s sisters. When she was young, she had been rather pretty: now she
still kept the red cheeks of her younger days, a forest of jet black hair, and
excellent teeth. But she was not happy. Her life had been spent in wishing
for children, and she had none.
She was quite ready, therefore, to sigh and to sob when her husband told
her what had happened during the night. When he had ended, she said,—
“I shall take good care not to do so,” replied M. Seneschal; “and I tell you
expressly not to go there yourself.”
For he was by no means a philosopher; and, if he had been his own master,
he would have taken the first train, and gone off a hundred miles, so as not
to see the grief of the Misses Lavarande and Grandpapa Chandore. He was
exceedingly fond of Dionysia: he had been hard at work for years to settle
and to add to her fortune, as if she had been his own daughter, and now to
witness her grief! He shuddered at the idea. Besides, he really did not know
what to believe, and influenced by M. Galpin’s assurance, misled by public
opinion, he had come to ask himself if Jacques might not, after all, have
committed the crimes with which he was charged.
112
They had returned several hours later with empty hands. The idiot had
disappeared; and no one in the whole district had been able to give any
information as to this whereabouts.
“And you think that is natural?” exclaimed Dr. Seignebos, whose eyes were
glaring at the mayor from under his spectacles. “To me that looks like an
absolute proof that a plot has been hatched to ruin M. de Boiscoran.”
“But can’t you be quiet?” M. Seneschal said angrily. “Do you think Cocoleu is
lost? He will turn up again.”
The doctor had left him without insisting any longer; but before going
home, he had dropped in at his club, and there, in the presence of twenty
people he had declared that he had positive proof of a plot formed against
M. de Boiscoran, whom the Monarchists had never forgiven for having left
them; and that the Jesuits were certainly mixed up with the business.
113
This interference was more injurious than useful to Jacques; and the
consequences were soon seen. That same evening, when M. Galpin crossed
the New-Market Place, he was wantonly insulted. Very naturally he went,
almost in a fury, to call upon the mayor, to hold him responsible for this
insult offered to Justice in his person, and asking for energetic punishment.
M. Seneschal promised to take the proper measures, and went to the
commonwealth attorney to act in concert with him. There he learned what
had happened at Boiscoran, and the terrible result of the examination.
“M. Manuel Folgat, my dear Seneschal, a famous lawyer from Paris, who has
been kind enough to come down with the Marchioness de Boiscoran.”
“Certainly, sir, and with all my heart,” replied M. Seneschal, bowing politely,
and evidently flattered by this deference on the part of a great Paris lawyer.
He had offered his guests seats. He had sat down himself, and resting his
elbow on the arm of his big office-chair, he rubbed his clean-shaven chin
with his hand.
M. Seneschal did not say, No. He was silent, thinking of the wise remarks
made by his wife the evening before.
“What! do you talk to me of wrath?” he broke in; “and what do you see of
wrath in this Valpinson affair? I see nothing in it, for my part, but the very
meanest crime, long prepared and coolly carried out.”
“Sir,” added M. Folgat, “it is precisely for the purpose of hearing what has
happened that we come to you.”
“Finally, do you know what Daubigeon said to me, whose evidence you will
certainly know how to appreciate? He said in so many words, ‘Galpin could
not but order the arrest of M. de Boiscoran. Is he guilty? I do not know what
to think of it. The accusation is overwhelming. He swears by all the gods that
he is innocent; but he will not tell how he spent the night.’”
M. de Chandore, in spite of his vigor, was near fainting, although his face
remained as crimson as ever. Nothing on earth could make him turn pale.
“And yet Jacques had something in his mind for that evening.”
“I am sure of it. But for that, he would certainly have come to the house, as
he has done every evening for a month. Besides, he said so himself in the
letter which he sent Dionysia by one of his tenants, and which she
mentioned to you. He wrote, ‘I curse from the bottom of my heart the
business which prevents me from spending the evening with you; but I
cannot possibly defer it any longer. To-morrow!’”
“The letter is of such a nature,” continued the old gentleman, “that I repeat,
No man who premeditated such a hideous crime could possibly have written
it. Nevertheless, I confess to you, that, when I heard the fatal news, this very
allusion to some pressing business impressed me painfully.”
“He did not say any more when he was told that he was under arrest.”
“Because he hopes he will get out of this trouble without betraying his
secret.”
The young lawyer spoke in that short, imperious tone which is, so to say, the
privilege of his profession, and with such an accent of assurance, that M. de
Chandore felt his hopes revive. M. Seneschal was sorely troubled.
“Oh!”
“But.”
117
“But.”
“Allow me to finish. Can one and the same person be at once so unusually
clever and so unusually stupid? Judge yourself. But again: if M. de Boiscoran
is guilty, he ought to be sent to the insane asylum, and not to prison; for any
one else but a madman would have poured out the dirty water in which he
had washed his blackened hands, and would have buried anywhere that
famous breech-loader, of which the prosecution makes such good use.”
“I do not know. I have just told you my first impression. Now I must study
the case, and examine the witnesses, beginning with old Anthony.”
“Above all, be prudent and circumspect. The public mind is already but too
much inflamed. Politics are mixed up with the case. I am afraid of some
disturbance at the burial of the firemen; and they bring me word that Dr.
118
The driver whipped the horse, and, as the carriage was going down through
the suburbs, M. de Chandore said,—
CHAPTER 4
M. Seneschal’s horse was perhaps one of the very best in the whole
province; but M. de Chandore’s was still better. In less than fifty minutes
they had driven the whole distance to Boiscoran; and during this time M. de
Chandore and M. Folgat had not exchanged fifty words.
When they reached Boiscoran, the courtyard was silent and deserted. Doors
and windows were hermetically closed. On the steps of the porch sat a stout
young peasant, who, at the sight of the newcomers, rose, and carried his
hand to his cap.
He was knocking fiercer and fiercer, when at last Anthony’s voice was heard
from within,—
“Who is there?”
The bars were removed instantly, and the old valet showed himself in the
door. He looked pale and undone. The disordered condition of his beard, his
hair, and his dress, showed that he had not been to bed. And this disorder
was full of meaning in a man who ordinarily prided himself upon appearing
always in the dress of an English gentleman.
Instead of replying, Anthony drew the baron and his companion inside; and,
when he had fastened the door again, he crossed his arms, and said,—
The old gentleman and the lawyer looked at each other. They evidently both
thought the poor man had lost his mind. Anthony saw it, and said quickly,—
“No, I am not mad, although, certainly, there are things passing here which
could make one doubtful of one’s own senses. If I am afraid, it is for good
reasons.”
The servant cast such fierce, threatening glances at the lawyer, that M. de
Chandore hastened to interfere.
“Ah! If the gentleman is a lawyer. Welcome, sir. Now I can say all that weighs
on my heart. No, most assuredly I do not think Master Jacques guilty. It is
impossible he should be so: it is absurd to think of it. But what I believe,
what I am sure of, is this,—there is a plot to charge him with all the horrors
of Valpinson.”
“Ah! that is more than I know. But I am not mistaken; and you would think
so too, if you had been present at the examination, as I was. It was fearful,
gentlemen, it was unbearable, so that even I was stupefied for a moment,
and thought my master was guilty, and advised him to flee. The like has
never been heard of before, I am sure. Every thing went against him. Every
answer he made sounded like a confession. A crime had been committed at
Valpinson; he had been seen going there and coming back by side paths. A
fire had been kindled; his hands bore traces of charcoal. Shots had been
121
fired; they found one of his cartridge-cases close to the spot where Count
Claudieuse had been wounded. There it was I saw the plot. How could all
these circumstances have agreed so precisely if they had not been pre-
arranged, and calculated beforehand? Our poor M. Daubigeon had tears in
his eyes; and even that meddlesome fellow, Mechinet, the clerk, was quite
overcome. M. Galpin was the only one who looked pleased; but then he was
the magistrate, and he put the questions. He, my master’s friend!—a man
who was constantly coming here, who ate our bread, slept in our beds, and
shot our game. Then it was, ‘My dear Jacques,’ and ‘My dear Boiscoran’
always, and no end of compliments and caresses; so that I often thought
one of these days I should find him blackening my master’s boots. Ah! he
took his revenge yesterday; and you ought to have seen with what an air he
said to master, ‘We are friends no longer.’ The rascal! No, we are friends no
longer; and, if God was just, you ought to have all the shot in your body that
has wounded Count Claudieuse.”
“Why did you not come and tell me all that immediately?”
The old servant ventured to shrug his shoulders slightly, and replied,—
“How could I? When the examination was over, that man, Galpin, put the
seals everywhere,—strips of linen, fastened on with sealing-wax, as they do
with dead people. He put one on every opening, and on some of them two.
He put three on the outer door. Then he told me that he appointed me
keeper of the house, that I would be paid for it, but that I would be sent to
the galleys if any one touched the seals with the tip of the finger. When he
had handed master over to the gendarmes, that man, Galpin, went away,
leaving me here alone, dumfounded, like a man who has been knocked in
the head. Nevertheless, I should have come to you, sir, but I had an idea, and
that gave me the shivers.”
“It was this: you must know, gentlemen, that, in the examination, that
breech-loading gun played a prominent part. That man, Galpin looked at it
carefully, and asked master when he had last fired it off. Master said, ‘About
five days ago. You hear, I say, five days.’ Thereupon, that man, Galpin, puts
the gun down, without looking at the barrels.”
“Well, sir, I—Anthony—I had the evening before—I say the evening
before—cleaned the gun, washed it, and”—
“Upon my word,” cried M. de Chandore, “why did you not say so at once? If
the barrels are clean, that is an absolute proof that Jacques is innocent.”
“Oh!”
“Master may have been mistaken as to the time when he last fired the gun,
and then the barrels would be soiled; and, instead of helping him, my
evidence might ruin him definitely. Before I say any thing, I ought to be
sure.”
“Yes,” said Folgat, approvingly, “and you have done well to keep silence, my
good man, and I cannot urge you too earnestly not to say a word of it to any
one. That fact may become a decisive argument for the defence.”
“Oh! I can keep my tongue, sir. Only you may imagine how impatient it has
made me to see these accursed seals which prevent me from going to look
at the gun. Oh, if I had dared to break one of them!”
“Poor fellow!”
seals with arms in my hands all the time. Let the rascals come on; they will
find somebody to receive them.”
In spite of all that is said, lawyers are better than their reputation. Lawyers,
accused of being sceptics above all men, are, on the contrary, credulous and
simple-minded. Their enthusiasm is sincere; and, when we think they play a
part, they are in earnest. In the majority of cases, they fancy their own side
the just one, even though they should be beaten. Hour by hour, ever since
his arrival at Sauveterre, M. Folgat’s faith in Jacques’s innocence had
steadily increased. Old Anthony’s tale was not made to shake his growing
conviction. He did not admit the existence of a plot, however; but he was
not disinclined to believe in the cunning calculations of some rascal, who,
availing himself of circumstances known to him alone, tried to let all
suspicion fall upon M. de Boiscoran, instead of himself.
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”—
“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?”
“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.
124
“This fact about the gun will save him, won’t it?” he asked.
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,—
“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,—
“When he was here, sir, he had, so to say, no habits. We came here very
rarely, and only for a short time.”
125
“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.”
“M. Galpin most frequently, Dr. Seignebos, the priest from Brechy, M.
Seneschal, M. Daubigeon.”
“No.”
“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,—
And he went out, understanding very well that his being Dionysia’s
grandfather might keep Anthony from telling the truth.
“Now we are alone, my dear Anthony, you can speak frankly. Did M. de
Boiscoran keep a mistress?”
“No, sir.”
“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 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,—
“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!”
127
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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.’”
“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.”
“Never.”
“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?”
129
“Just as usual.”
“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!”
“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.”
“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”—
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,—
“How could I help knowing him, when I lived all my life here at Boiscoran in
the service of master’s uncle?”
“An idiot, sir or, as they here call it, an innocent, who has Saint Vitus dance
into the bargain, and epilepsy moreover.”
“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”—
“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.”
“If the gendarmes should take Cocoleu, Cocoleu must have given himself up
voluntarily.”
131
“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.”
“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.”
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.”
“What? You are alone here!” said M. de Chandore. “Why have they left you
alone?”
“They have gone out, grandpapa. They are probably, by this time at M.
Galpin’s.”
“Oh!”
132
The young girl closed his lips by a single word. She said,—
CHAPTER 5
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?
“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,—
They had both heard repeatedly that Jacques was kept in close
confinement; but neither of them realized fully what that meant. They had
134
“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.
“From whom?”
“From M. Galpin.”
“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.”
“You would not, I am sure, keep a poor, distressed mother from seeing her
son!”
135
“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?”
“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!”
“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,—
“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!”
136
“Did you hear him say so?” asked the old lady.
“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.
“What?” cried Dionysia, “you have a letter for me, and you don’t give it to
me?”
“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.
“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!”
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
139
“JACQUES.”
“Well,” M. Galpin had really said after reading this letter. Nevertheless it had
stung him to the quick.
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.
“After all we shall see,” said M. Galpin, while Blangin was unlocking the
door.
But it was too late. He had burnt his vessels, and condemned himself to go
on to the end. For his own safety, for his future life, it was henceforth
necessary that Jacques de Boiscoran should be found guilty; that he should
be tried in open court, and there be sentenced. It must be. It was a question
of life or death for him.
He was in this state of mind when the two Misses Lavarande called at his
house, and asked to see him. He shook himself; and in an instant his over-
excited mind presented to him all possible contingencies. What could the
two old ladies want of him?
They came in, and haughtily declined the chairs that were offered.
140
The older of the two, Miss Adelaide, cut him short, saying,—
And thereupon, speaking with all the eloquence of a pious woman who is
trying to wither an impious man, she poured upon him a stream of
reproaches for what she called his infamous treachery. What? How could he
appear against Jacques, who was his friend, and who had actually aided him
in obtaining the promise of a great match. By that one hope he had become,
so to say, a member of the family. Did he not know that among kinsmen it
was a sacred duty to set aside all personal feelings for the purpose of
protecting that sacred patrimony called family honor?
M. Galpin felt like a man upon whom a handful of stones falls from the fifth
story of a house. Still he preserved his self-control, and even asked himself
what advantage he might obtain from this extraordinary scene. Might it
open a door for reconciliation?
“If he is so dear to you,” broke in Miss Adelaide, “why don’t you set him
free?”
“At least give his family and his friends leave to see him.”
“The law will not let me. If he is innocent, he has only to prove it. If he is
guilty, he must confess. In the first case, he will be set free; in the other
case, he can see whom he wishes.”
“If he is so dear to you, how could you dare read the letter he had written to
Dionysia?”
“Ah! And does that profession also prevent you from giving us that letter
after having read it?”
He took it out of a drawer, and the younger of the two sisters, Miss
Elizabeth, copied it in pencil. Then they withdrew, almost without saying
good-by.
“Ah, old witches! I see clearly you do not believe in Jacques’s innocence.
Why else should his family be so very anxious to see him? No doubt they
want to enable him to escape by suicide the punishment of his crime. But, by
the great God, that shall not be, if I can help it!”
“I am sure, my dear child, I don’t wish to blame you. But you know your
aunts, and you know, also, how uncompromising they are. They are quite
capable of exasperating M. Galpin.”
“What does it matter?” asked the young girl haughtily. “Circumspection is all
very well for guilty people; but Jacques is innocent.”
“But”—
“Oh! I do not blame him,” broke in the young lawyer; “but I blame the laws
which make him act as he does. How can a magistrate remain perfectly
142
impartial in certain very important cases, like this one, when his whole
future career depends upon his success? A man may be a most upright
magistrate, incapable of unfairness, and conscientious in fulfilling all his
duties, and yet he is but a man. He has his interest at stake. He does not like
the court to find that that there is no case. The great rewards are not always
given to the lawyer who has taken most pains to find out the truth.”
“Yes; and that is what makes me fear. What will be his fate on the day when
M. Jacques’s innocence is established?”
They were just coming home, quite proud of their achievement, and waving
in triumph the copy of Jacques’s letter. Dionysia seized upon it; and, while
she read it aside, Miss Adelaide described the interview, stating how
haughty and disdainful she had been, and how humble and repentant M.
Galpin had seemed to be.
“He was completely undone,” said the two old ladies with one voice: “he
was crushed, annihilated.”
“Yes, you have done a nice thing,” growled the old baron; “and you have
much reason to boast, forsooth.”
“My aunts have done well,” declared Dionysia. “Just see what Jacques has
written! It is clear and precise. What can we fear when he says, ‘Be
reassured: when the time comes, I shall be able to set matters right’?”
M. Folgat took the letter, read it, and shook his head. Then he said,—
His mother’s entrance prevented the young lawyer from making any reply.
Two hours’ rest had restored to the old lady a part of her energy, and her
usual presence of mind; and she now asked that a telegram should be sent
to her husband.
Still the despatch was drawn up and sent, at the very moment when a
servant came in, and announced that dinner was ready. The meal was less
sad than they had anticipated. Everybody, to be sure, felt a heaviness at
heart as he thought that at the same hour a jailer probably brought Jacques
his meal to his cell; nor could Dionysia keep from dropping a tear when she
saw M. Folgat sitting in her lover’s place. But no one, except the young
advocate, thought that Jacques was in real danger.
They heard in the passage the noise of steps and voices, something like a
scuffle; and almost instantly the tenant’s son Michael pushed open the door
of the sitting-room, crying out,—
And with these words he pushed in Cocoleu, all struggling, and looking
around him, like a wild beast caught in a trap.
The manner in which Michael winked with his eye showed that he had not a
very exalted opinion of the cleverness of the gendarmes.
And Michael held up his left hand, wrapped up in a bloody piece of linen.
“It was pretty hard work to get the madman here. I was compelled to tie
him hand and foot, and to carry him bodily to my father’s house. There we
put him into the little carriage, and here he is. Just look at the pretty fellow!”
He was hideous at that moment, with his livid face spotted all over with red
marks, his hanging lips covered with white foam, and his brutish glances.
“Do you know that M. de Boiscoran is in prison because of what you have
said?”
Still no reply.
“Ah!” said Michael, “it is of no use to question him. You might beat him till
to-morrow, and he would rather give up the ghost than say a word.”
“And to think,” he said, “that, upon the testimony of such a thing, a capital
charge has been made!”
“I am going to take him,” said M. Seneschal, “to the hospital. I will go with
him myself, and let Dr. Seignebos know, and the commonwealth attorney.”
Dr. Seignebos was an eccentric man, beyond doubt; and the absurd stories
which his enemies attributed to him were not all unfounded. But he had, at
all events, the rare quality of professing for his art, as he called it, a respect
very nearly akin to enthusiasm. According to his views, the faculty were
infallible, as much so as the pope, whom he denied. He would, to be sure, in
confidence, admit that some of his colleagues were amazing donkeys; but
he would never have allowed any one else to say so in his presence. From
the moment that a man possessed the famous diploma which gives him the
right over life and death, that man became in his eyes an august personage
for the world at large. It was a crime, he thought, not to submit blindly to
the decision of a physician. Hence his obstinacy in opposing M. Galpin, hence
the bitterness of his contradictions, and the rudeness with which he had
requested the “gentlemen of the law” to leave the room in which his patient
was lying.
“For these devils,” he said, “would kill one man in order to get the means of
cutting off another man’s head.”
146
And thereupon, resuming his probes and his sponge, he had gone to work
once more, with the aid of the countess, digging out grain by grain the lead
which had honeycombed the flesh of the count. At nine o’clock the work
was done.
“Not that I fancy I have gotten them all out,” he said modestly, “but, if there
is any thing left, it is out of reach, and I shall have to wait for certain
symptoms which will tell me where they are.”
As he had foreseen, the count had grown rather worse. His first excitement
had given way to perfect prostration; and he seemed to be insensible to
what was going on around him. Fever began to show itself; and, considering
the count’s constitution, it was easily to be foreseen that delirium would set
in before the day was out.
“Nevertheless, I think there is hardly any danger,” said the doctor to the
countess, after having pointed out to her all the probable symptoms, so as
to keep her from being alarmed. Then he recommended to her to let no one
approach her husband’s bed, and M. Galpin least of all.
This recommendation was not useless; for almost at the same moment a
peasant came in to say that there was a man from Sauveterre at the door
who wished to see the count.
It was a man called Tetard, a former constable, who had given up his place,
and become a dealer in stones. But besides being a former officer of justice
and a merchant, as his cards told the world, he was also the agent of a fire
insurance company. It was in this capacity that he presumed, as he told the
countess, to present himself in person. He had been informed that the farm
buildings at Valpinson, which were insured in his company, had been
destroyed by fire; that they had been purposely set on fire by M. de
Boiscoran; and that he wished to confer with Count Claudieuse on the
subject. Far from him, he added, to decline the responsibility of his
company: he only wished to establish the facts which would enable him to
fall back upon M. de Boiscoran, who was a man of fortune, and would
certainly be condemned to make compensation for the injury done. For this
147
“And I,” said Dr. Seignebos,—“I request you to take to your heels.” He
added with a thundering voice,—
“I think you are very bold to dare to speak in that way of M. de Boiscoran.”
M. Tetard disappeared without saying another word; and the doctor, very
much excited by this scene, turned to the youngest daughter of the
countess, the one with whom she was sitting up when the fire broke out,
and who was now decidedly better: after that nothing could keep him at
Valpinson. He carefully pocketed the pieces of lead which he had taken from
the count’s wounds, and then, drawing the countess out to the door, he
said,—
“Before I go away, madam, I should like to know what you think of these
events.”
The poor lady, who looked as pale as death itself, could hardly hold up any
longer. There seemed to be nothing alive in her but her eyes, which were
lighted up with unusual brilliancy.
“Ah! I do not know, sir,” she replied in a feeble voice. “How can I collect my
thoughts after such terrible shocks?”
“Who would not have done so, when the truth was at stake?”
“I saw; and that is exactly why I ask you, and why I want to know what you
really think of the state of mind of the poor creature.”
“I know; and that is why I was so surprised to see you insist upon making
him talk. Do you really think, that, in spite of his habitual imbecility, he may
have glimpses of sense?”
148
“He is very much attached to me indeed, just like a poor animal that I might
have picked up and cared for.”
“Perhaps so. And still he showed more than mere animal instinct.”
“That may well be so. I have more than once noticed flashes of intelligence
in Cocoleu.”
The doctor had taken off his spectacles, and was wiping them furiously.
“It is a great pity that one of these flashes of intelligence did not enlighten
him when he saw M. de Boiscoran make a fire and get ready to murder
Count Claudieuse.”
“But it is exactly to his excitement at the sight of the flames, and at hearing
the shots fired, that I ascribe Cocoleu’s return to reason.”
“Yes, and very thoroughly, madam, I tell you. And now I have the honor of
wishing you good-bye. However, I shall come back to-night, unless you
should succeed during the day in finding lodgings in Sauveterre,—an
arrangement which would be very desirable for myself, in the first place, and
not less so for your husband and your daughter. They are not comfortable in
this cottage.”
who saw how unfortunate all this was for Jacques, began to get terribly
impatient, when on Saturday night, towards ten o’clock, M. Seneschal came
in, and said,—
“Cocoleu is found.”
The doctor jumped up, and in a moment his hat on his head, and stick in
hand, asked,—
“Where is he?”
“At the hospital. I have seen him myself put into a separate room.”
“I am going there.”
“Am I not one of the hospital physicians? And is it not open to me by night
and by day?”
M. Seneschal had too often discussed that subject with the doctor, to open
it anew. He kept silent, and that was wise; for Dr. Seignebos sat down,
saying,—
CHAPTER 6
“The hospital in Sauveterre,” says the guide book, “is, in spite of its limited
size, one of the best institutions of the kind in the department. The chapel
and the new additions were built at the expense of the Countess de
Maupaison, the widow of one of the ministers of Louis Philippe.”
But what the guide book does not say is, that the hospital was endowed
with three free beds for pregnant women, by Mrs. Seneschal, or that the
two wings on both sides of the great entrance-gate have also been built by
her liberality. One of these wings, the one on the right, is used by the janitor,
a fine-looking old man, who formerly was beadle at the cathedral, and who
loves to think of the happy days when he added to the splendor of the
church by his magnificent presence, his red uniform, his gold bandelaire, his
halbert, and his gold-headed cane.
This janitor was, on Sunday morning, a little before eight o’clock, smoking
his pipe in the yard, when he saw Dr. Seignebos coming in. The doctor was
walking faster than usual, his hat over his face, and his hands thrust deep
into his pockets, evident signs of a storm. Instead of coming, as he did every
day before making the rounds, into the office of the sister-druggist, he went
straight up to the room of the lady superior. There, after the usual
salutations, he said,—
“They have no doubt brought you, my sister, last night, a patient, an idiot,
called Cocoleu?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“The mayor saw him himself put into the little room opposite the linen
room.”
“Perfectly well: the sister who kept the watch did not hear him stir.”
He was already in the door, when the lady superior recalled him.
“Are you going to see the poor man, doctor?” she asked.
“I cannot?”
“No. The commonwealth attorney has sent us orders not to let any one,
except the sister who nurses him, come near Cocoleu,—no one, doctor, not
even the physician, a case of urgency, of course, excepted.”
“Ah, these are your orders, are they? Well, I tell you that I do not mind them
in the least. Who can prevent me from seeing my patient? Tell me that! Let
the commonwealth attorney give his orders in his court-house as much as he
chooses: that is all right. But in my hospital! My sister, I am going to
Cocoleu’s room.”
“A gendarme?”
For a moment the doctor was overcome. Then he suddenly broke out with
unusual violence, and a voice that made the windows shake,—
Then he rushed out without ceremony, crossed the yard, and disappeared
like an arrow, in the direction of the court-house. At that very moment M.
Daubigeon was getting up, feeling badly because he had had a bad,
sleepless night, thanks to this unfortunate affair of M. de Boiscoran, which
troubled him sorely; for he was almost of M. Galpin’s opinion. In vain he
recalled Jacques’s noble character, his well-known uprightness, his keen
sense of honor, the evidence was so strong, so overwhelming! He wanted to
doubt; but experience told him that a man’s past is no guarantee for his
152
future. And, besides, like many great criminal lawyers, he thought, what he
would never have ventured to say openly, that some great criminals act
while they are under the influence of a kind of vertigo, and that this explains
the stupidity of certain crimes committed by men of superior intelligence.
Since his return from Boiscoran, he had kept close in his house; and he had
just made up his mind not to leave the house that day, when some one rang
his bell furiously. A moment later Dr. Seignebos fell into the room like a
bombshell.
“I know what brings you, doctor,” said M. Daubigeon. “You come about
that order I have given concerning Cocoleu.”
“And why did you not refuse? You alone are responsible for it in my eyes.
You are commonwealth attorney, consequently the head of the bar, and
superior to M. Galpin.”
“Then, M. Galpin has even the right to deprive a sick man of his physician’s
assistance.”
153
“If he assumes the responsibility, yes. But he does not mean to go so far. He
was, on the contrary, about to ask you, although it is Sunday, to come and
be present at a second examination of Cocoleu. I am surprised that you have
not received his note, and that you did not meet him at the hospital.”
And he went back hurriedly, and was glad he had done so; for at the door of
the hospital he came face to face against M. Galpin, who was just coming in,
accompanied by his faithful clerk, Mechinet.
“You came just in time, doctor,” began the magistrate, with his usual
solemnity.
But, short and rapid as the doctor’s walk had been, it had given him time to
reflect, and to grow cool. Instead of breaking out into recriminations, he
replied in a tone of mock politeness,—
“Yes, I know. It is that poor devil to whom you have given a gendarme for a
nurse. Let us go up: I am at your service.”
The room in which Cocoleu had been put was large, whitewashed, and
empty, except that a bed, a table and two chairs, stood about. The bed was
no doubt a good one; but the idiot had taken off the mattress and the
blankets, and lain down in his clothes on the straw bed. Thus the magistrate
and the physician found him as they entered. He rose at their appearance;
but, when he saw the gendarme, he uttered a cry, and tried to hide under
the bed. M. Galpin ordered the gendarme to pull him out again. Then he
walked up to him, and said,—
But the magistrate pretended not to hear; and, when they were about to
leave the room, he said to the doctor,—
“In forty-eight hours I shall have the honor to hand it to you,” replied the
latter.
“And that report is going to give you some trouble, my good man.”
The report was ready then, and his reason for not giving it in, was that he
thought, the longer he could delay it, the more chance he would probably
have to defeat the plan of the prosecution.
“As I mean to keep it two days longer,” he thought on his way home, “why
should I not show it to this Paris lawyer who has come down with the
marchioness? Nothing can prevent me, as far as I see, since that poor Galpin,
in his utter confusion, has forgotten to put me under oath.”
“But I have clearly the right to do so,” he growled. “I can only be bound by
my oath. The authorities are clear on that subject. I have in my favor the
decisions of the Court of Appeals of 27 November, and 27 December, 1828;
those of the 13th June, 1835; of the 3d May, 1844; of the 26th June, 1866.”
The result of this mediation was, that, as soon as he had breakfasted, he put
his report in his pocket, and went by side streets to M. de Chandore’s house.
The marchioness and the two aunts were still at church, where they had
thought it best to show themselves; and there was no one in the sitting-
155
room but Dionysia, the old baron, and M. Folgat. The old gentleman was
very much surprised to see the doctor. The latter was his family physician, it
is true; but, except in cases of sickness, the two never saw each other, their
political opinions were so very different.
“If you see me here,” said the physician, still in the door, “it is simply
because, upon my honor and my conscience, I believe M. Boiscoran is
innocent.”
Dionysia would have liked to embrace the doctor for these words of his; and
with the greatest eagerness she pushed a large easy-chair towards him, and
said in her sweetest voice,—
Grandpapa Chandore did not move. If they had come and told him Jacques
had been a member of the Commune, he would not have been any more
moved. Dionysia loved Jacques. That was enough for him.
“But let us understand each other,” said the physician earnestly. “If I speak
of listening to your suggestions, I take it for granted that they are based
upon facts. If I had a son, and he was to die on the scaffold I would not use
the slightest falsehood to save him.”
156
He had, meanwhile, drawn the report from a pocket in his long coat, and
now put in on the table with these words,—
“I shall call for it again to-morrow morning. In the meantime you can think it
over. I should like, however, to point out to you the main point, the
culminating point, if I may say so.”
At all events he was “saying so” with much hesitation, and looking fixedly at
Dionysia as if to make her understand that he would like her to leave the
room. Seeing that she did not take the hint, he added,—
“A medical and legal discussion would hardly interest the young lady.”
“Why, sir, why, should I not be deeply, passionately, interested in any thing
that regards the man who is to be my husband?”
“Because ladies are generally very sensational,” said the doctor uncivilly,
“very sensitive.”
“Don’t think so, doctor. For Jacques’s sake, I promise you I will show you
quite masculine energy.”
The doctor knew Dionysia well enough to see that she did not mean to go:
so he growled,—
“You know there were two shots fired at Count Claudieuse. One, which hit
him in the side, nearly missed him; the other, which struck his shoulder and
his neck, hit well.”
“The difference in the effect shows that the two shots were fired from
different distances, the second much nearer than the first.”
“I know, I know!”
Claudieuse, I at once set to work extracting the particles of lead that had
lodged in his flesh. While I was thus busy, M. Galpin arrived. I expected he
would ask me to show him the shot: but no, he did not think of it; he was
too full of his own ideas. He thought only of the culprit, of his culprit. I did
not recall to him the A B C of his profession: that was none of my business.
The physician has to obey the directions of justice, but not to anticipate
them.”
“Well, then?”
He paused, waiting to see the effect of his words; and, when everybody’s
attention seemed to him fully roused, he went on,—
“I found out that the shot in the two wounds was not alike.”
“Oh!”
“The shot that was first fired,” continued Dr. Seignebos, “and which has
touched the side, is the very smallest sized ‘dust.’ That in the shoulder, on
the other hand, is quite large sized, such as I think is used in shooting hares.
However, I have some samples.”
And with these words, he opened a piece of white paper, in which were ten
or twelve pieces of lead, stained with coagulated blood, and showing at
once a considerable difference in size. M. Folgat looked puzzled.
“I rather think,” said M. de Chandore, “that the murderer had, like many
sportsmen, one barrel ready for birds, and another for hares or rabbits.”
“At all events, this fact puts all premeditation out of question. A man does
not load his gun with small-shot in order to commit murder.”
158
Dr. Seignebos thought he had said enough about it, and was rising to take
leave, when M. de Chandore asked him how Count Claudieuse was doing.
“He is not doing well,” replied the doctor. “The removal, in spite of all
possible precautions, has worn him out completely; for he is here in
Sauveterre since yesterday, in a house which M. Seneschal has rented for
him provisionally. He has been delirious all night through; and, when I came
to see him this morning, I do not think he knew me.”
“The countess, madam, is quite as sick as her husband, and, if she had
listened to me, she would have gone to bed, too. But she is a woman of
uncommon energy, who derives from her affection for her husband an
almost incomprehensible power of resistance. As to Cocoleu,” he added,
standing already near the door, “an examination of his mental condition
might produce results which no one seems to expect now. But we will talk
of that hereafter. And now, I must bid you all good-by.”
“Well?” asked Dionysia and M. de Chandore, as soon as they had heard the
street door close behind Dr. Seignebos.
Unfortunately, the report contained nothing that the doctor had not
mentioned. In vain did the young advocate try all the afternoon to find
something in it that might be useful for the defence. There were arguments
in it, to be sure, which might be very valuable when the trial should come
on, but nothing that could be used to make the prosecution give up the
case.
The whole house was, therefore, cruelly disappointed and dejected, when,
about five o’clock, old Anthony came in from Boiscoran. He looked very sad,
and said,—
Master Jacques with him, who was guarded by two gendarmes in citizen’s
clothes. When the room was opened, that unlucky man Galpin asked Master
Jacques if those were the clothes which he wore the night of the fire, his
boots, his gun, and the water in which he washed his hands. When he had
acknowledged every thing, the water was carefully poured into a bottle,
which they sealed, and handed to one of the gendarmes. Then they put
master’s clothes in a large trunk, his gun, several parcels of cartridge, and
some other articles, which the magistrate said were needed for the trial.
That trunk was sealed like the bottle, and put on the carriage; then that man
Galpin went off, and told me that I was free.”
The brow of the old servant grew still darker, as he replied sadly,—
“I saw that I had done well to keep silent. The lock is black. Master must
have used his gun since I cleaned it.”
“He used cartridges, sir, of course. They sent him, I think, two thousand with
the gun,—some for balls, some with large shot, and others with shot of
every size. At this season, when hunting is prohibited, master could shoot
nothing but rabbits, or those little birds, you know, which come to our
160
marshes: so he always loaded one barrel with tolerably large shot, and the
other with small-shot.”
M. Folgat did not give her time to say any more. He asked,—
“My dear Anthony, did M. Galpin take all of your master’s cartridges away
with him?”
“Well, you must instantly go back to Boiscoran, and bring me three or four
cartridges of every number of shot.”
“All right,” said the old man. “I’ll be back in a short time.”
M. de Chandore and M. Folgat had quickly opened some of them; and, after
a few failures, they found two numbers of shot which seemed to
correspond exactly to the samples left them by the doctor.
“Then, madam, he might give us the key to this mystery, which we are in
vain trying to solve; or, at least, he might tell us the way to find it all out. But
that is not to be thought of. M. de Boiscoran is held in close confinement,
161
and you may rest assured M. Galpin will see to it that no communication is
held with his prisoner.”
And immediately she drew M. de Chandore aside into one of the little card-
rooms adjoining the parlor, and asked him,—
“Grandpapa, am I rich?”
Never in her life had she thought of that, and she was to a certain extent
utterly ignorant of the value of money.
“You have in your own right, as coming to you from your poor father and
from your mother, twenty-five thousand francs a year, or a capital of about
five hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
“It is so much, that you are one of the richest heiresses of the district; but
you have, besides, considerable expectations.”
Dionysia was so preoccupied, that she did not even protest. She went on
asking,—
“Exactly.”
“Never mind. I presume that is quite a large sum, and it would be rather
difficult for you, grandpapa, to get it together by to-morrow morning?”
“Not at all. I have that much in railway coupon-bonds; and they are just as
good as current money.”
“Ah! Do you mean to say, that, if I gave anybody twenty thousand francs in
such bonds, it would be just the same to him as if I gave him twenty
thousand francs in bank-notes?”
“Just so.”
Dionysia smiled. She thought she saw light. Then she went on,—
“If that is so, I must beg you, grandpapa, to give me twenty thousand francs
in coupon-bonds.”
“You are joking,” he said. “What do you want with so much money? You are
surely joking.”
“Not at all. I have never in my life been more serious,” replied the young girl
in a tone of voice which could not be mistaken. “I beseech you, grandpapa,
if you love me, give me these twenty thousand francs this evening, right
now. You hesitate? O God! You may kill me if you refuse.”
“Since you will have it so,” he said, “I am going up stairs to get it.”
“That’s it,” she said. “Make haste and dress; for I have to go out, and you
must go with me.”
163
Then going up to her aunts and the marchioness, she said to them,—
“I hope you will excuse me, if I leave you; but I must go out.”
“At this hour?” cried Aunt Elizabeth. “Where are you going?”
“Great God!” cried Aunt Adelaide, “the child is losing her mind!”
“Thank you, no. I shall go alone; that is to say, alone with dear grandpapa.”
And as M. de Chandore came back, his pockets full of bonds, his hat on his
head, and his cane in his hand, she carried him off, saying,—
CHAPTER 7
“Now that we are alone, my dear child, will you tell me what you mean to do
with all this money?”
“And you have not confidence enough in your old grandfather to tell him
what it is, darling?”
“You shall know it all, and in less than an hour. But, oh! You must not be
angry, grandpapa. I have a plan, which is no doubt very foolish. If I told you, I
am afraid you would stop me; and if you succeeded, and then something
happened to Jacques, I should not survive the misery. And think of it, what
you would feel, if you were to think afterwards, ‘If I had only let her have her
way!’”
“On the other hand, if you did not induce me to give up my project, you
would certainly take away all my courage; and I need it all, I tell you,
grandpapa, for what I am going to risk.”
“You see, my dear child, and you must pardon me for repeating it once
more, twenty thousand francs are a big sum of money; and there are many
excellent and clever people who work hard, and deny themselves every
thing, a whole life long, without laying up that much.”
“Ah, so much the better!” cried the young girl. “So much the better. I do
hope there will be enough so as to meet with no refusal!”
165
“After all,” he said, “you have not told me where we are going.”
“To my dressmakers.”
“Yes.”
“We shall not find them at home,” he said. “This is Sunday; and they are no
doubt at church.”
“We shall find them, grandpapa; for they always take tea at half-past seven,
for their brother’s, the clerk’s sake. But we must make haste.”
The old gentleman did make haste; but it is a long way from the New-Market
Place to Hill Street; for the sisters Mechinet lived on the Square, and, if you
please, in a house of their own,—a house which was to be the delight of
their days, and which had become the trouble of their nights.
They bought the house the year before the war, upon their brother’s advice,
and going halves with him, paying a sum of forty-seven thousand francs,
every thing included. It was a capital bargain; for they rented out the
basement and the first story to the first grocer in Sauveterre. The sisters did
not think they were imprudent in paying down ten thousand francs in cash,
and in binding themselves to pay the rest in three yearly instalments. The
first year all went well; but then came the war and numerous disasters. The
income of the sisters and of the brother was much reduced, and they had
nothing to live upon but his pay as clerk; so that they had to use the utmost
economy, and even contract some debts, in order to pay the second
instalment. When peace came, their income increased again, and no one
doubted in Sauveterre but that they would manage to get out of their
difficulties, as the brother was one of the hardest working men, and the
sisters were patronized by “the most distinguished” ladies of the whole
country.
166
“Grandpapa, they are at home,” said Dionysia, when they reached the
Square.
M. de Chandore stopped.
“You are going to give me the bonds, grandpapa, and to wait for me here,
walking up and down, whilst I am going to the Misses Mechinet. I would ask
you to come up too; but they would be frightened at seeing you. Moreover,
if my enterprise does not succeed, it would not matter much as long as it
concerned only a little girl.”
“O God!” she replied, checking her tears with difficulty, “why will you
discourage me?”
He said nothing. Suppressing a sigh, he pulled the papers out of his pockets,
and helped Dionysia to stuff them, as well as she could, into her pocket and
a little bag she had in her hand. When she had done, she said,—
And lightly, like a bird, she crossed the street, and ran up to her
dressmakers. The old ladies and their brother were just finishing their
supper, which consisted of a small piece of pork and a light salad, with an
abundance of vinegar. At the unexpected entrance of Miss Chandore they
all started up.
Dionysia understood perfectly well what that simple “you” meant. It meant,
with the help of the tone of voice, “What? your betrothed is charged with an
abominable crime; there is overwhelming evidence against him; he is in jail,
167
“Yes,” she replied, “it is I. I must have two dresses for next week; and I
come to ask you to show me some samples.”
The Misses Mechinet, always acting upon their brother’s advice, had made
an arrangement with a large house in Bordeaux, by which they received
samples of all their goods, and were allowed a discount on whatever they
sold.
“I will do so with pleasure,” said the older sister. “Just allow me to light a
lamp. It is almost dark.”
While she was wiping the chimney, and trimming the wick, she asked her
brother,—
“No: I sent them word I would not come. I have to lithograph two plates for
the printer, and some very urgent copying to do for the court.”
While he was thus replying, he had folded up his napkin, and lighted a
candle.
“Good-night!” he said to his sisters. “I won’t see you again to-night,” and,
bowing deeply to Miss Chandore, he went out, his candle in his hand.
“To his room, madam. His room is just opposite on the other side of the
staircase.”
Dionysia was as red as fire. Was she thus to let her opportunity slip,—an
opportunity such as she had never dared hope for? Gathering up all her
courage, she said,—
168
“But, now I think of it, I want to say a few words to your brother, my dear
ladies. Wait for me a moment. I shall be back in a moment.” And she rushed
out, leaving the dressmakers stupefied, gazing after her with open mouths,
and asking themselves if the grand calamity had bereft the poor lady of
reason.
The clerk was still on the landing, fumbling in his pocket for the key of his
room.
Mechinet was so utterly amazed, that he could not utter a word. He made a
movement as if he wanted to go back to his sisters; but the young girl
said,—
“No, in your room. We must not be overheard. Open sir, please. Open,
somebody might come.”
The fact is, he was so completely overcome, that it took him half a minute to
find the keyhole, and put the key in. At last, when the door was opened, he
moved aside to let Dionysia pass: but she said, “No, go in!”
He obeyed. She followed him, and, as soon as she was in the room, she shut
the door again, pushing even a bolt which she had noticed. Mechinet the
clerk was famous in Sauveterre for his coolness. Dionysia was timidity
personified, and blushed for the smallest trifle, remaining speechless for
some time. At this moment, however, it was certainly not the young girl
who was embarrassed.
The clerk started up, as if he had been moved by a spring, beat his forehead
furiously with his hand, and said,—
169
“Yes, you are right,” replied the girl. “I come to talk to you about M. de
Boiscoran, my betrothed, my husband.”
She paused; and for a minute Mechinet and the young girl remained there
face to face, silent and immovable, looking at each other, he asking himself
what she could want of him, and she trying to guess how far she might
venture.
“But I can assure you, madam, that I, who have been present at all the
examinations, and who have no small experience in criminal matters,—that I
believe M. de Boiscoran innocent. I know M. Galpin does not think so, nor M.
Daubigeon, nor any of the gentlemen of the bar, nor the town; but,
nevertheless, that is my conviction. You see, I was there when they fell upon
M. de Boiscoran, asleep in his bed. Well, the very tone of his voice, as he
cried out, ‘Oh, my dear Galpin!’ told me that the man is not guilty.”
“There is nothing to thank me for, madam; for time has only confirmed my
conviction. As if a guilty man ever bore himself as M. de Boiscoran does! You
ought to have seen him just now, when we had gone to remove the seals,
calm, dignified, answering coldly all the questions that were asked. I could
not help telling M. Galpin what I thought. He said I was a fool. Well, I
maintain, on the contrary, that he is. Ah! I beg your pardon, I mean that he is
mistaken. The more I see of M. de Boiscoran, the more he gives me the
impression that he has only a word to say to clear up the whole matter.”
Dionysia listened to him with such absorbing interest, that she well-nigh
forgot why she had come.
“I should lie if I said he did not look sad, madam,” was the reply. “But he is
not overcome. After the first astonishment, his presence of mind returned;
and M. Galpin has in vain tried these three days by all his ingenuity and his
cleverness”—
“Great God! what am I talking about? For Heaven’s sake, madam, do not let
anybody hear what I was led by my respectful sympathy to tell you just
now.”
Dionysia felt that the decisive moment had come. She said,—
“If you knew me better, sir, you would know that you can rely upon my
discretion. You need not regret having given me by your confidence some
little comfort in my great sorrow. You need not; for”—
Her voice nearly failed her, and it was only with a great effort she could
add,—
“For I come to ask you to do even more than that for me, oh! yes, much
more.”
“Not another word, madam: your hope already is an insult to me. You ought
surely to know that by my profession, as well as by my oath, I am bound to
be as silent as the very cell in which the prisoners are kept. If I, the clerk,
were to betray the secret of a criminal prosecution”—
Dionysia trembled like an aspen-leaf; but her mind remained clear and
decided. She said,—
“Madam!”
“You would let an innocent man be condemned, when by a single word you
could remove the mistake of which he is the victim? You would say to
171
yourself, ‘It is unlucky; but I have sworn not to speak’? And you would see
him with quiet conscience mount the scaffold? No, I cannot believe that! No,
that cannot be true!”
“And you refuse to aid me in establishing his innocence? O God! what ideas
men form of their duty! How can I move you? How can I convince you? Must
I remind you of the torture this man suffers, whom they charge with being
an assassin? Must I tell you what horrible anguish we suffer, we, his friends,
his relatives?—how his mother weeps, how I weep, I, his betrothed! We
know he is innocent; and yet we cannot establish his innocence for want of
a friend who would aid us, who would pity us!”
In all his life the clerk had not heard such burning words. He was moved to
the bottom of his heart. At last he asked, trembling,—
“Oh! very little, sir, very little,—just to send M. de Boiscoran ten lines, and to
bring us his reply.”
“Never!”
“And, if you let an innocent one be condemned, what would that be?”
“And if I were found out? I should lose my place, ruin my sisters, destroy my
career for life.”
With trembling hands, Dionysia drew from her pocket the bonds which her
grandfather had given her, and threw them in a heap on the table. She
began,—
172
“Oh, don’t be offended!” began the young girl again, with a voice that
would have moved a stone. “How could I want to offend you, when I ask of
you more than my life? There are services which can never be paid. But, if
the enemies of M. de Boiscoran should find out that you have aided us, their
rage might turn against you.”
Instinctively the clerk unloosed his cravat. The struggle within him, no
doubt, was terrible. He was stifled.
“Is it not enough?” asked the young girl. “Yes, you are right: it is very little.
But I have as much again for you, twice as much.”
With haggard eyes, Mechinet had approached the table, and was
convulsively handling the pile of papers, while he repeated,—
“No, double that much, and moreover, our gratitude, our devoted
friendship, all the influence of the two families of Boiscoran and Chandore;
in a word, fortune, position, respect.”
But by this time, thanks to a supreme effort of will, the clerk had recovered
his self-control.
“Take your money back again, madam. If I were to do what you want me to
do, if I were to betray my duty for money, I should be the meanest of men.
If, on the other hand, I am actuated only by a sincere conviction and an
interest in the truth, I may be looked upon as a fool; but I shall always be
worthy of the esteem of honorable men. Take back that fortune, madam,
173
which has made an honest man waver for a moment in his conscience. I will
do what you ask, but for nothing.”
If grandpapa was getting tired of walking up and down in the Square, the
sisters of Mechinet found time pass still more slowly in their workroom.
They asked each other,—
At the end of ten minutes, their curiosity, stimulated by the most absurd
suppositions, had become such martyrdom to them, that they made up their
minds to knock at the clerk’s door.
“Ah, leave me alone!” he cried out, angry at being thus interrupted. But then
he considered a moment, opened hastily, and said quite gently,—
“Go back to your room, my dear sisters, and, if you wish to spare me a very
serious embarrassment, never tell anybody in this world that Miss Chandore
has had a conversation with me.”
Trained to obey, the two sisters went back, but not so promptly that they
should have not seen the bonds which Dionysia had thrown upon the table,
and which were quite familiar in their appearance to them, as they had once
owned some of them themselves. Their burning desire to know was thus
combined with vague terror; and, when they got back to their room, the
younger asked,—
“What can that mean, Holy Virgin! And what have we to expect?”
It was so. Dionysia, as long as she had been uncertain of the result, had felt
in her heart that Jacques’s safety depended on her courage and her
presence of mind. But now, assured of success, she could no longer control
her excitement; and, overcome by the effort, she had sunk down on a chair
and burst out into tears.
The clerk shut the door, and looked at her for some time; then, having
overcome his own emotions, he said to her,—
“Madame.”
But, as she heard his voice, she jumped up, and taking his hands into hers,
she broke out,—
“O sir! How can I thank you! How can I ever make you aware of the depth of
my gratitude!”
“Don’t speak of that,” he said almost rudely, trying to conceal his deep
feeling.
“I will say nothing more,” she replied very gently; “but I must tell you that
none of us will ever forget the debt of gratitude which we owe you from
this day. You say the great service which you are about to render us is not
free from danger. Whatever may happen, you must remember, that, from
this moment, you have in us devoted friends.”
The interruption caused by his sisters had had the good effect of restoring
to Mechinet a good portion of his habitual self-possession. He said,—
“I hope no harm will come of it; and yet I cannot conceal from you, madam,
that the service which I am going to try to render you presents more
difficulties than I thought.”
“M. Galpin,” the clerk went on saying, “is, perhaps, not exactly a superior
man; but he understands his profession; he is cunning, and exceedingly
175
“Oh, no, madam! But he is ambitious: he thinks his success in his profession
depends upon his success in this case; and he is afraid the accused might
escape or be carried off.”
Mechinet was evidently in great perplexity, and scratched his ear. Then he
added,—
“Never for an instant, madam. I only go in with the magistrate, and I come
out with him. You will say, perhaps, that in leaving, as I am behind, I might
drop the note cleverly. But, when we leave, the jailer is there, and he has
good eyes. I should have to dread, besides, M. de Boiscoran’s own
suspicions. If he saw a letter coming to him in that way, from me, he is quite
capable of handing it at once to M. Galpin.”
“The safest way would probably be to win the confidence of M. Blangin, the
keeper of the jail, or of some prisoner, whose duty it is to wait on M. de
Boiscoran, and to watch him.”
“Yes, I do; for Blangin mentioned him to me; and the name struck me the
day when M. de Boiscoran’s mother and I went to the jail, not knowing what
was meant by ‘close confinement.’”
He murmured some words, which Dionysia could not hear; and then, coming
to some decision, apparently, he said,—
“Well, never mind! I’ll see what can be done. Write your letter, madam: here
are pens and ink.”
The young girl made no reply, but sat down at Mechinet’s table; but, at the
moment when she was putting pen to paper she asked,—
“O Jacques!” she said, “how glad I am you counted upon me!” and, without
noticing how utterly Mechinet seemed to be surprised, she wrote,—
“We are sure of your innocence, Jacques, and still we are in despair. Your
mother is here, with a Paris lawyer, a M. Folgat, who is devoted to your
interests. What must we do? Give us your instructions. You can reply without
fear, as you have our book.
“DIONYSIA.”
“Read this,” she said to the clerk, when she had finished. But he did not avail
himself of the permission. He folded the paper, and slipped it into an
envelope, which he sealed.
“Oh, you are very kind!” said the young girl, touched by his delicacy.
177
“Not at all, madam. I only try to do a dishonest thing in the most honest
way. To-morrow, madam, you shall have your answer.”
Mechinet trembled.
“Take care not to do so,” he said. “The good people of Sauveterre are too
cunning not to know that just now you are not thinking much of dress; and
your calls here would look suspicious. Leave it to me to see to it that you get
M. de Boiscoran’s answer.”
While Dionysia was writing, the clerk had made a parcel of the bonds which
she had brought. He handed it to her, and said,—
“Take it, madam. If I want money for Blangin, or for Trumence, I will ask you
for it. And now you must go: you need not go in to my sisters. I will explain
your visit to them.”
178
CHAPTER 8
“What can have happened to Dionysia, that she does not come back?”
murmured Grandpapa Chandore, as he walked up and down the Square, and
looked, for the twentieth time, at his watch. For some time the fear of
displeasing his grandchild, and of receiving a scolding, kept him at the place
where she had told him to wait for her; but at last it was too much for him,
and he said,—
And, crossing the road which separates the Square from the houses, he
entered the long, narrow passage in the house of the sisters Mechinet. He
was just putting his foot on the first step of the stairs, when he saw a light
above. He distinguished the voice of his granddaughter, and then her light
step.
And swiftly, like a schoolboy who hears his teacher coming, and fears to be
caught in the act, he slipped back into the Square. Dionysia was there almost
at the same moment, and fell on his neck, saying,—
“Dear grandpapa, I bring you back your bonds,” and then she rained a
shower of kisses upon the old gentleman’s furrowed cheeks.
If any thing could astonish M. de Chandore, it was the idea that there should
exist in this world a man with a heart hard, cruel, and barbarous enough, to
resist his Dionysia’s prayers and tears, especially if they were backed by
twenty thousand francs. Nevertheless, he said mournfully,—
“And you were mistaken, dear grandpapa, and you are still mistaken; for I
have succeeded!”
“You are right, darling: that clerk is a good man, and he has won our eternal
gratitude.”
“Oh, dear, dear child!” murmured the old gentleman, deeply moved.
The grandfather and his child were standing all the while under the trees in
the great Square while they were thus talking to each other; and already a
number of people had taken the opportunity of passing close by them, with
ears wide open, and all eagerness, to find out what was going on: it is a way
people have in small towns. Dionysia remembered the clerk’s kindly
warnings; and, as soon as she became aware of it, she said to her
grandfather,—
“Come, grandpapa. People are listening. I will tell you the rest as we are
going home.”
180
And so, on their way, she told him all the little details of her interview; and
the old gentleman declared, in all earnest, that he did not know which to
admire most,—her presence of mind, or Mechinet’s disinterestedness.
“All the more reason,” said the young girl, “why we should not add to the
dangers which the good man is going to run for us. I promised him to tell
nobody, and I mean to keep my promise. If you believe me, dear grandpapa,
we had better not speak of it to anybody, not even to my aunts.”
“You might just as well declare at once, little scamp, that you want to save
Jacques quite alone, without anybody’s help.”
Thus it was done. The poor aunts, and even the marchioness, had to be
content with Dionysia’s not very plausible explanation of her visit. And a few
hours afterwards M. de Chandore, the young girl, and M. Folgat held a
council in the baron’s study. The young lawyer was even more surprised by
Dionysia’s idea, and her bold proceedings, then her grandfather; he would
never have imagined that she was capable of such a step, she looked so
timid and innocent, like a mere child. He was about to compliment her; but
she interrupted him eagerly, saying,—
“To bribe an official,” continued M. Folgat, “is a very grave offence. The
Criminal Code has a certain paragraph, No. 179, which does not trifle, and
punishes the man who bribes, as well as the man who is bribed.”
“Well, so much the better!” cried Dionysia. “If poor M. Mechinet has to go
to prison, I’ll go with him!”
“After all, sir, you see that your wishes have been fulfilled. We shall be able
to communicate with M. de Boiscoran: he will give us his instructions.”
“He will tell us all, sir, without reserve, without fear, and without danger.”
“Oh!”
Alas, yes! They had to wait, and that was what distressed Dionysia. She
hardly slept that night. The next day was one unbroken torment. At each
ringing of the bell, she trembled, and ran to see.
At last, towards five o’clock, when nothing had come, she said,—
“It is not to be to-day, provided, O God! that poor Mechinet has not been
caught.”
And, perhaps in order to escape for a time the anguish of her fears, she
agreed to accompany Jacques’s mother, who wanted to pay some visits.
Ah, if she had but known! She had not left the house ten minutes, when one
of those street-boys, who abound at all hours of the day on the great
Square, appeared, bringing a letter to her address. They took it to M. de
Chandore, who, while waiting for dinner, was walking in the garden with M.
Folgat.
“A letter for Dionysia!” exclaimed the old gentleman, as soon as the servant
had disappeared. “Here is the answer we have been waiting for!”
182
He boldly tore it open. Alas! It was useless. The note within the envelope ran
thus,—
“31:9, 17, 19, 23, 25, 28, 32, 101, 102, 129, 137, 504, 515—37:2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10, 11,
13, 14, 24, 27, 52, 54, 118, 119, 120, 200, 201—41:7, 9, 17, 21, 22, 44, 45, 46”—
“Look at this, and try to make it out,” said M. de Chandore, handing the
letter to M. Folgat.
The young man actually tried it; but, after five minutes’ useless efforts, he
said,—
“Just think of these little girls! Here we are utterly helpless without her, as
she alone can translate those hieroglyphics for you.”
“Does the woman think Jacques is guilty?” thought Dionysia, and felt almost
angry.
And that was not all. As they returned home, and passed the house which
had been provisionally taken for Count Claudieuse and his family, they heard
a little boy calling out,—
“O mamma, come quick! Here are the murderer’s mother and his
sweetheart.”
183
Thus the poor girl came home more downcast than before. Immediately,
however, her maid, who had evidently been on the lookout for her return,
told her that her grandfather and the lawyer from Paris were waiting for her
in the baron’s study. She hastened there without stopping to take off her
bonnet; and, as soon as she came in, M. de Chandore handed her Jacques’s
letter, saying,—
She could not repress a little cry of delight, and rapidly touched the letter
with her lips, repeating,—
“But, Miss Hypocrite,” he said, “it seems you had great secrets to
communicate to M. de Boiscoran, since you resorted to cipher, like arch
conspirators. M. Folgat and I tried to read it; but it was all Greek to us.”
Now only the young lady remembered M. Folgat’s presence, and, blushing
deeply, she said,—
“Latterly Jacques and I had been discussing the various methods to which
people resort who wish to carry on a secret correspondence: this led him to
teach me one of the ways. Two correspondents choose any book they like,
and each takes a copy of the same edition. The writer looks in his volume for
the words he wants, and numbers them; his correspondent finds them by
the aid of these numbers. Thus, in Jacques’s letters, the numbers followed
by a colon refer to the pages, and the others to the order in which the
words come.”
“Ah, ah!” said Grandpapa Chandore, “I might have looked a long time.”
“It is a very simple method,” replied Dionysia, “very well known, and still
quite safe. How could an outsider guess what book the correspondents
have chosen? Then there are other means to mislead indiscreet people. It
may be agreed upon, for instance, that the numbers shall never have their
apparent value, or that they shall vary according to the day of the month or
the week. Thus, to-day is Monday, the second day of the week. Well, I have
184
to deduct one from each number of a page, and add one to each number of
a word.”
“Then, dear child, go and read your letter, and solve the riddle,” said M. de
Chandore.
“How she loves him! How she loves this man Jacques! Sir, if any thing should
happen to him, she would die.”
M. Folgat made no reply; and nearly an hour passed, before Dionysia, shut
up in her room, had succeeded in finding all the words of which Jacques’s
letter was composed. But when she had finished, and came back to her
grandfather’s study, her youthful face expressed the most profound
despair.
The same idea crossed, like a sharp arrow, the minds of M. de Chandore and
M. Folgat. Had Jacques confessed?
Jacques wrote,—
“Thanks for your letter, my darling. A presentiment had warned me, and I
had asked for a copy of Cooper.
“I understand but too well how grieved you must be at seeing me kept in
prison without my making an effort to establish my innocence. I kept
silence, because I hoped the proof of my innocence would come from
outside. I see that it would be madness to hope so any longer, and that I
must speak. I shall speak. But what I have to say is so very serious, that I
shall keep silence until I shall have had an opportunity of consulting with
some one in whom I can feel perfect confidence. Prudence alone is not
enough now: skill also is required. Until now I felt secure, relying on my
innocence. But the last examination has opened my eyes, and I now see the
danger to which I am exposed.
“I shall suffer terribly until the day when I can see a lawyer. Thank my
mother for having brought one. I hope he will pardon me, if I address myself
first to another man. I want a man who knows the country and its customs.
“That is why I have chosen M. Magloire; and I beg you will tell him to hold
himself ready for the day on which, the examination being completed, I shall
be relieved from close confinement.
“Until then, nothing can be done, nothing, unless you can obtain that the
case be taken out of M. G——-’s hands, and be given to some one else. That
man acts infamously. He wants me to be guilty. He would himself commit a
crime in order to charge me with it, and there is no kind of trap he does not
lay for me. I have the greatest difficulty in controlling myself every time I see
this man enter my cell, who was my friend, and now is my accuser.
“Ah, my dear ones! I pay a heavy price for a fault of which I have been, until
now, almost unconscious.
“And you, my only friend, will you ever be able to forgive me the terrible
anxiety I cause you?
“I should like to say much more; but the prisoner who has handed me your
note says I must be quick, and it takes so much time to pick out the words!
186
“J.”
When the letter had been read, M. Folgat and M. de Chandore sadly turned
their heads aside, fearing lest Dionysia should read in their eyes the secret of
their thoughts. But she felt only too well what it meant.
“I should have been the first, madam, to advise him to consult a native.”
“Yes,” she said, “this letter is terrible; but how can it be otherwise? Don’t
you see that Jacques is in despair, that his mind wanders after all these
fearful shocks?”
At last, as they did not come down yet, Jacques’s mother had come to the
conclusion that something extraordinary had occurred.
“Now, what could this be, that they should keep it from her?” she thought.
If it were something good, they would not have concealed it from her. She
had come up stairs, therefore, with the firm resolution to force them to let
her come in. When M. Folgat opened the door, she said instantly,—
187
“Whatever you may hear, my dear mother, pray remember, that if you allow
a single word to be torn from you, by joy or by sorrow, you cause the ruin of
an honest man, who has put us all under such obligations as can never be
fully discharged. I have been fortunate enough to establish a
correspondence between Jacques and us.”
“O Dionysia!”
“I have written to him, and I have received his answer. Here it is.”
The marchioness was almost beside herself, and eagerly snatched at the
letter. But, as she read on, it was fearful to see how the blood receded from
her face, how her eyes grew dim, her lips turned pale, and at last her breath
failed to come. The letter slipped from her trembling hands; she sank into a
chair, and said, stammering,—
There was something grand in Dionysia’s gesture and the admirable accent
of her voice, as she said,—
“Why don’t you say at once, my mother, that Jacques is an incendiary and an
assassin?”
Raising her head with an air of dauntless energy, with trembling lips, and
fierce glances full of wrath and disdain, she added,—
“And do I really remain the only one to defend him,—him, who, in his days
of prosperity, had so many friends? Well, so be it!”
Naturally, M. Folgat had been less deeply moved than either the
marchioness or M. de Chandore; and hence he was also the first to recover
his calmness.
“We shall be two, madam, at all events,” he said; “for I should never forgive
myself, if I allowed myself to be influenced by that letter. It would be
inexcusable, since I know by experience what your heart has told you
188
“That is exactly what I felt, sir; but I could not express it as clearly as you
do.”
“Your son tells us, madam, we have only to wait for the end of the
preliminary examination.”
“I beg your pardon,” said M. de Chandore, “we have to try to get the case
handed over to another magistrate.”
“However”—
“Oh, very clearly!” said M. de Chandore. “Only, since Jacques wishes it”—
“I beg your pardon. He knows that the magistrate is his mortal enemy.”
“Be it so. But how would that help us? Do you think that a demand for a
change of venue would prevent M. Galpin from carrying on the proceedings?
Not at all. He would go on until the decision comes from the Court of
Appeals. He could, it is true, issue no final order; but that is the very thing M.
de Boiscoran ought to desire, since such an order would make an end to his
close confinement, and enable him to see an advocate.”
In the meantime Dionysia had been meditating; and now she said to the
young advocate,—
“Above all,” said the lawyer, “explain to him clearly that any such steps as
he proposes to take will turn to his disadvantage. M. Galpin is our enemy;
but we can make no specific charge against him. They would always reply, ‘If
M. de Boiscoran is innocent, why does he not speak?’”
“Can you?”
“Certainly. Boiscoran has old friends, who, no doubt, are all-powerful still
under the present government. He was, in former years, very intimate with
M. de Margeril.”
“Ah!” he said, “if M. de Margeril could give us a lift! But he is not easily
approached.”
“We might send Boiscoran to see him, at least. Since he remained in Paris
for the purpose of assisting us there, now he will have an opportunity. I will
write to him to-night.”
190
Since the name of Margeril had been mentioned, the marchioness had
become, if possible, paler than ever. At the old gentleman’s last words she
rose, and said anxiously,—
Her embarrassment was so evident, that the others were quite surprised.
“Yes.”
“But,” cried Dionysia, “it is a matter of life and death for Jacques.”
Alas! The poor woman could not speak of the suspicions which had
darkened the whole life of the Marquis de Boiscoran, nor of the cruel
penalty which the wife was now called upon to pay for a slight imprudence.
“If it is absolutely necessary,” she said with a half-stifled voice, “if that is our
very last hope, then I will go and see M. de Margeril myself.”
M. Folgat was the only one who suspected what painful antecedents there
might be in the life of the marchioness, and how she was harassed by their
memory now. He interposed, therefore, saying,—
“At all events, my advice is to await the end of the preliminary investigation.
I may be mistaken, however, and, before any answer is sent to M. Jacques, I
desire that the lawyer to whom he alludes should be consulted.”
“That is certainly the wisest plan,” said M. de Chandore. And, ringing for a
servant, he sent him at once to M. Magloire, to ask him to call after dinner.
Jacques de Boiscoran had chosen wisely. M. Magloire was looked upon in
Sauveterre as the most eloquent and most skilful lawyer, not only of the
district, but of the whole province. And what is rarer still, and far more
glorious, he had, besides, the reputation of being unsurpassed in integrity
and a high sense of honor. It was well known that he would never have
consented to plead a doubtful cause; and they told of him a number of
heroic stories, in which he had thrown clients out of the window, who had
been so ill-advised to come to him, money in hand, to ask him to undertake
191
an unclean case. He was naturally not a rich man, and preserved, at fifty-four
or five, all the habits of a frugal and thrifty young man.
After having married quite young, M. Magloire had lost his wife after a few
months, and had never recovered from the loss. Although thirty years old,
the wound had never healed; and regularly, on certain days, he was seen
wending his way to the cemetery, to place flowers on a modest grave there.
Any other man would have been laughed at for such a thing at Sauveterre;
but with him they dared not do so, for they all respected him highly. Young
and old knew and reverenced the tall man with the calm, serene face, the
clear, bright eyes, and the eloquent lips, which, in their well-cut, delicate
lines, by turns glowed with scorn, with tenderness, or with disdain.
Like Dr. Seignebos, M. Magloire also was a Republican; and, at the last
Imperial elections, the Bonapartists had had the greatest trouble, aided
though they were by the whole influence of the government, and shrinking
from no unfair means, to keep him out of the Chamber. Nor would they
have been successful after all, but for the influence of Count Claudieuse,
who had prevailed upon a number of electors to abstain from voting.
This was the man, who, towards nine o’clock, presented himself, upon the
invitation of M. de Chandore, at his house, where he was anxiously expected
by all the inmates. His greeting was affectionate, but at the same time so
sad, that it touched Dionysia’s heart most painfully. She thought she saw
that M. Magloire was not far from believing Jacques guilty.
And she was not mistaken; for M. Magloire let them see it clearly, in the
most delicate manner, to be sure, but still so as to leave no doubt. He had
spent the day in court, and there had heard the opinions of the members of
the court, which was by no means favorable to the accused. Under such
circumstances, it would have evidently been a grave blunder to yield to
Jacques’s wishes, and to apply for a change of venue from M. Galpin to
some other magistrate.
“I believe, on the contrary, madam, that the investigation will be very soon
concluded.”
“Neither the silence of an accused, nor any other caprice or obstinacy of his,
can interfere with the regular process. Called upon to produce his
justification, if he refuses to do so, the law proceeds without him.”
“There are no reasons which can force a man to let himself be accused
unjustly. But even that case has been foreseen. The accused is at liberty not
to answer a question which may inculpate him. Nemo tenetur prodere se
ipsum. But you must admit that such a refusal to answer justifies a judge in
believing that the charges are true which the accused does not refute.”
“My son’s situation appears to you very serious, sir?” asked the marchioness
in a feeble voice.
“You think, as M. Folgat does, that every day adds to the danger to which he
is exposed?”
“Ah, M. Magloire!” broke in Dionysia, “how can you, who are a friend of
Jacques’s, say so?”
M. Magloire looked at the young girl with an air of deep and sincere pity,
and then said,—
“It is precisely because I am his friend, madam, that I am bound to tell you
the truth. Yes, I know and I appreciate all the noble qualities which
193
distinguish M. de Boiscoran. I have loved him, and I love him still. But this is a
matter which we have to look at with the mind, and not with the heart.
Jacques is a man; and he will be judged by men. There is clear, public, and
absolute evidence of his guilt on hand. What evidence has he to offer of his
innocence? Moral evidence only.”
“And yet,” he exclaimed, “Jacques will not change his system: any one who
knows his mulish obstinacy might be quite sure of that.”
Until now nothing had been said to let the Sauveterre lawyer suspect that
communications had been opened with the prisoner. Now that the letter
had been alluded to, it became necessary to take him into confidence. At
first he was astonished, then he looked displeased; and, when he had been
told every thing, he said,—
“Our profession has certain rules which cannot be broken without causing
trouble. To bribe a clerk, to profit by his weakness and his sympathy”—
“I should never have advised such imprudence; but, when it was once
committed, I did not feel bound to insist upon its being abandoned: and
even if I should be blamed for it, or more, I mean to profit by it.”
M. Magloire did not reply; but, after having read Jacques’s letter, he said,—
“Certainly,” said M. de Chandore, “we will write to him; but we might just as
well whistle. He will wait for the end of the investigation.”
And, without vouchsafing any further explanation, she left the room, and
hastened to her chamber to write the following letter:—
“I must speak to you. There is a little gate in our garden which opens upon
Charity Lane, I will wait for you there. However late it may be when you get
these lines, come!
“DIONYSIA.”
Then having put the note into an envelope, she called the old nurse, who
had brought her up, and, with all the recommendations which extreme
prudence could suggest, she said to her,—
195
“You must see to it that M. Mechinet the clerk gets this note to-night. Go!
make haste!”
196
CHAPTER 9
During the last twenty-four hours, Mechinet had changed so much, that his
sisters recognized him no longer. Immediately after Dionysia’s departure,
they had come to him, hoping to hear at last what was meant by that
mysterious interview; but at the first word he had cried out with a tone of
voice which frightened his sisters to death,—
He would lose his place and all his other employments, one by one. He
would lose confidence and consideration. Farewell to all ambitious dreams,
all hopes of wealth, all dreams of an advantageous marriage. And still, by an
odd contradiction, Mechinet did not repent what he had done, and felt quite
197
ready to do it over again. He was in this state of mind when the old nurse
brought him Dionysia’s letter.
“Tell your mistress I will be there!” But in his heart he thought some
untoward event must have happened.
The little garden-gate was half-open: he had only to push it to enter. There
was no moon; but the night was clear, and at a short distance from him,
under the trees, he recognized Dionysia, and went towards her.
“Pardon me, sir,” she said, “for having dared to send for you.”
“You were quite right to send for me, madam,” he replied, “if I can be of any
service to you.”
In a few words she had told him all; and, when she asked his advice, he
replied,—
“I am entirely of M. Folgat’s opinion, and think that grief and isolation begin
to have their effect upon M. de Boiscoran’s mind.”
“And then.”
“But”—
“You must use it promptly, madam: don’t lose a moment. There is no time.”
The night was clear, but not clear enough for the clerk to see how very pale
Dionysia was.
She expected the clerk to start, to cry out, to protest. Far from it: he said in
the quietest tone,—
“Blangin the keeper, and his wife, keep their places only because they give
them a support. Why might I not offer them, in return for an interview with
M. de Boiscoran, the means to go and live in the country?”
And in a lower voice, replying to the voice of his conscience, he went on,—
“The jail in Sauveterre is not at all like the police-stations and prisons of
larger towns. The prisoners are few in number; they are hardly guarded.
When the doors are shut, Blangin is master within.”
There are certain slopes on which you must glide down. Having once yielded
to Dionysia’s suggestions, Mechinet had, unconsciously, bound himself to
her forever.
“No: do not go there, madam,” he said. “You could not make Blangin
believe that he runs no danger; nor could you sufficiently arouse his
cupidity. I will speak to him myself.”
“Then, madam, I will bring you an answer to-morrow, here, and at the same
hour.”
And he went away, leaving Dionysia so buoyed up by hope, that all the
evening, and the next day, the two aunts and the marchioness, neither of
whom was in the secret, asked each other incessantly,—
She was thinking, that, if the answer was favorable, ere twenty-four hours
had gone by, she would see Jacques; and she kept saying to herself,—
He was so. At ten o’clock precisely, he pushed open the little gate, just as
the night before, and said at once,—
Dionysia was so terribly excited, that she had to lean against a tree.
“Blangin agrees,” the clerk went on. “I promised him sixteen thousand
francs. Perhaps that is rather much?”
“Finally, he makes certain conditions with regard to the interview, which will
appear rather hard to you.”
service, will be standing in the door. If she does not speak to you, you keep
on: something has happened. If she does speak to you, go up to her, you,
quite alone, and she will show you into a small room which adjoins her own.
There you will stay till Blangin, perhaps at a late hour, thinks he can safely
take you to M. de Boiscoran’s cell. When the interview is over, you come
back into the little room, where a bed will be ready for you, and you spend
the night there; for this is the hardest part of it: you cannot leave the prison
till next day.”
This was certainly terrible; still, after a moment’s reflection, Dionysia said,—
That Dionysia should accept all the conditions of Blangin the jailer was
perfectly natural; but to obtain M. de Chandore’s consent was a much more
difficult task. The poor girl understood this so well, that, for the first time in
her life, she felt embarrassed in her grandfather’s presence. She hesitated,
she prepared her little speech, and she selected carefully her words. But in
spite of all her skill, in spite of all the art with which she managed to present
her strange request, M. de Chandore had no sooner understood her project
than he exclaimed,—
Perhaps in his whole life the old gentleman had never expressed himself in
so positive a manner. His brow had never looked so dark. Usually, when his
granddaughter had a petition, his lips might say, “No;” but his eyes always
said, “Yes.”
Surely, in all these painful events, he had not spared himself, and he had so
far done for Dionysia all that she could possibly expect of him. Her will had
been his will. As she had prompted, he had said, “Yes,” or “No.” What more
could he have said or done?
Without telling him what she was going to do with it, Dionysia had asked
him for twenty thousand francs, and he had given them to her, however big
201
But for Dionysia to leave her home one evening at six o’clock, and not to
return to it till the next morning—
But for Dionysia to spend a night in the Sauveterre jail, in order to have an
interview with her betrothed, who was accused of incendiarism and murder;
to remain there all night, alone, absolutely at the mercy of the jailer, a hard,
coarse, covetous man—
“That I will never permit,” exclaimed the old gentleman once more.
Dionysia remained calm, and let the storm pass. When her grandfather
became silent, she said,—
“But if I must?”
“If I must, in order to decide Jacques to abandon this system that will ruin
him, to induce him to speak before the investigation is completed?”
“Oh!”
“And you think you have more influence over him than his mother?”
“Never mind!”
202
“Do not insist, my dear child,” he said again. “My mind is made up; and I
assure you”—
And her attitude was so determined, and her voice so firm, that the old
gentleman was quite overwhelmed for a moment.
“You will consent, dear papa, you will certainly not force your little
granddaughter, who loves you so dearly, to the painful necessity of
disobeying you for the first time in her life.”
“Because, for the first time in her life I am not doing what my
granddaughter wants me to do?”
“Rather listen to me, poor child, and let me show you to what dangers, to
what misfortunes, you expose yourself. To go and spend a night at this
prison would be risking, understand me well, your honor,—that tender,
delicate honor which is tarnished by a breath, which involves the happiness
and the peace of your whole life.”
“Poor imprudent girl! How do you know but he would be the very first to
blame you cruelly for such a step?”
“He?”
“Men are made so: the most perfect devotion irritates them at times.”
“Be it so. I would rather endure Jacques’s unjust reproaches than the idea of
not having done my duty.”
“You would cause me fearful pain, dear papa: but it would be all in vain; for I
must resist your prayers, as I must resist your orders.”
“And since nothing can move you, I will speak to Mechinet, I will let Blangin
know my will.”
Dionysia, turning as pale as death, but with burning eyes, drew back a step,
and said,—
“Well?”
“Ah, my God! Are these our children? And is this what is in store for us old
people? We have spent a lifetime in watching over them; we have
submissively gratified all their fancies; they have been our greatest anxiety,
and our sweetest hope; we have given them our life day by day, and we
would not hesitate to give them our life’s blood drop by drop; they are every
thing to us, and we imagine they love us—poor fools that we are! One fine
day, a man goes by, a careless, thoughtless man, with a bright eye and a
ready tongue, and it is all over. Our child is no longer our own; our child no
longer knows us. Go, old man, and die in your corner.”
204
Overwhelmed by his grief, the old man staggered and sank into a chair, as
an old oak, cut by the woodman’s axe, trembles and falls.
“Ah, this is fearful!” murmured Dionysia. “What you say, grandpapa, is too
fearful. How can you doubt me?”
She had knelt down. She was weeping; and her hot tears fell upon the old
gentleman’s hands. He started up as he felt them on his icy-cold hand; and,
making one more effort, he said,—
“Poor, poor child! And suppose Jacques is guilty, and, when he sees you,
confesses his crime, what then?”
“That is impossible,” she said; “and still, even if it were so, I ought to be
punished as much as he is; for I know, if he had asked me, I should have
acted in concert with him.”
“She is mad!” exclaimed M. de Chandore, falling back into his chair. “She is
mad!”
But he was overcome; and the next day, at five in the afternoon, his heart
torn by unspeakable grief, he went down the steep street with his daughter
on his arm.
Dionysia had chosen her simplest and plainest dress; and the little bag she
carried on her arm contained not sixteen but twenty thousand francs. As a
matter of course, it had been necessary to take the marchioness into their
confidence; but neither she, nor the Misses Lavarande, nor M. Folgat, had
raised an objection.
Down to the prison, grandfather and grandchild had not exchanged a word;
but, when they reached it, Dionysia said,—
“Come, it is time,” said the young girl. “Till to-morrow, dear papa! Go home
quickly, and be not troubled about me.”
205
Then joining the keeper’s wife, she disappeared inside the prison.
206
CHAPTER 10
The prison of Sauveterre is in the castle at the upper end of town, in a poor
and almost deserted suburb. This castle, once upon a time of great
importance, had been dismantled at the time of the siege of Rochelle; and
all that remains are a few badly-repaired ruins, ramparts with fosses that
have been filled up, a gate surmounted by a small belfry, a chapel converted
into a magazine, and finally two huge towers connected by an immense
building, the lower rooms in which are vaulted.
Nothing can be more mournful than these ruins, enclosed within an ivy-
covered wall; and nothing would indicate the use that is made of them,
except the sentinel which stands day and night at the gate. Ancient elm-
trees overshadow the vast courts; and on the old walls, as well as in every
crevice, there grow and bloom enough flowers to rejoice a hundred
prisoners. But this romantic prison is without prisoners.
“It is a cage without birds,” says the jailer often in his most melancholy
voice.
He takes advantage of this to raise his vegetables all along the slopes; and
the exposure is so excellent, that he is always the first in Sauveterre who
had young peas. He has also taken advantage of this—with leave granted by
the authorities—to fit up very comfortable lodgings for himself in one of the
towers. He has two rooms below, and a chamber up stairs, which you reach
by a narrow staircase in the thickness of the wall. It was to this chamber that
the keeper’s wife took Dionysia with all the promptness of fear. The poor
girl was out of breath. Her heart was beating violently; and, as soon as she
was in the room, she sank into a chair.
“Great God!” cried the woman. “You are not sick, my dear young lady? Wait,
I’ll run for some vinegar.”
For Colette was her name, though she was as dark as gingerbread, nearly
forty-five years old, and boasted of a decided mustache on her upper lip.
“Poor young lady!” she said. “You feel badly at being here.”
“Down stairs, on the lookout, madam. He will come up directly.” Very soon
afterwards, a heavy step was heard on the stairs; and Blangin came in,
looking pale and anxious, like a man who feels that he is running a great risk.
“Neither seen nor known,” he cried. “No one is aware of your presence
here. I was only afraid of that dog of a sentinel; and, just as you came by, I
had managed to get him round the corner, offering him a drop of something
to drink. I begin to hope I shall not lose my place.”
“Ah!” she said, “don’t mind your place: don’t you know I have promised you
a better one?”
And, with a gayety which was very far from being real, she opened her little
bag, and put upon the table the rolls which it contained.
“Yes. Each one of these rolls contains a thousand francs; and here are
sixteen.”
“Certainly!” replied the young girl. “Look for yourself and count.”
She was mistaken. Blangin did not think of counting, not he. What he
wanted was only to gratify his eye by the sight of the gold, to hear its sound,
to handle it.
With feverish eagerness he tore open the wrappings, and let the pieces fall
in cascades upon the table; and, as the heap increased, his lips turned white,
and perspiration broke out on his temples.
208
“I did not know how sixteen thousand francs would look. How beautiful
gold is! Just look, wife.”
But Colette turned her head away. She was quite as covetous as her
husband, and perhaps even more excited; but she was a woman, and she
knew how to dissemble.
“Ah, my dear young lady!” she said, “never would my old man and myself
have asked you for money, if we had only ourselves to think of. But we have
children.”
“I know sixteen thousand francs is a big sum. Perhaps you will be sorry to
give us so much money.”
“I am not sorry at all: I would even add to it willingly.” And she showed them
one of the other four rolls in her bag.
“You are at home here, madam; and the jail and the jailer are at your
disposal. What do you desire? Just speak. I have nine prisoners, not counting
M. de Boiscoran and Trumence. Do you want me to set them all free?”
“Before you play the master, wait, at least, till you have rendered our young
lady the service which she expects from you.”
“Certainly.”
“Then go and conceal this money,” said the prudent woman; “or it might
betray us.”
209
And, drawing from her cupboard a woollen stocking, she handed it to her
husband, who slipped the sixteen thousand francs into it, retaining about a
dozen gold-pieces, which he kept in his pocket so as always to have in his
hands some tangible evidence of his new fortune. When this was done, and
the stocking, full to overflowing, had been put back in the cupboard under a
pile of linen, she ordered her husband,—
“Now, you go down. Somebody might be coming; and, if you were not there
to open when they knock, that might look suspicious.”
The woman insisted only the more. She remembered (God be thanked!) her
dear young lady’s taste; and she had made her an admirable broth, and
some beautiful dessert. And, while thus talking, she set the table, having
made up her mind that Dionysia must eat at all hazards; at least, so says the
tradition of the place.
Night had come. It was nine o’clock; then it struck ten. At last, the watch
came round to relieve the sentinels. A quarter of an hour after that, Blangin
reappeared, holding a lantern and an enormous bunch of keys in his hands.
“I have seen Trumence to bed,” he said. “You can come now, madam.”
Then she followed the jailer along interminable passages, through a vast
vaulted hall, in which their steps resounded as in a church, then through a
210
long gallery. At last, pointing at a massive door, through the cracks of which
the light was piercing, he said,—
“Here we are.”
But Dionysia seized his arm, and said in an almost inaudible voice,—
“Wait a moment.”
She was almost overcome by so many successive emotions. She felt her legs
give way under her, and her eyes become dim. In her heart she preserved all
her usual energy; but the flesh escaped from her will and failed her at the
last moment.
She prayed to God for courage and strength: when her prayer was finished,
she said,—
And, making a great noise with the keys and the bolts, Blangin opened the
door to Jacques de Boiscoran’s cell.
Jacques counted no longer the days, but the hours. He had been imprisoned
on Friday morning, June 23, and this was Wednesday night, June 28, He had
been a hundred and thirty-two hours, according to the graphic description
of a great writer, “living, but struck from the roll of the living, and buried
alive.”
Each one of these hundred and thirty-two hours had weighed upon him like
a month. Seeing him pale and haggard, with his hair and beard in disorder,
and his eyes shining brightly with fever, like half-extinguished coals, one
would hardly have recognized in him the happy lord of Boiscoran, free from
care and trouble, upon whom fortune had ever smiled,—that haughty
sceptical young man, who from the height of the past defied the future.
The fact is, that society, obliged to defend itself against criminals, has
invented no more fearful suffering than what is called “close confinement.”
There is nothing that will sooner demoralize a man, crush his will, and utterly
conquer the most powerful energy. There is no struggle more distressing
211
than the struggle between an innocent man accused of some crime, and the
magistrate,—a helpless being in the hands of a man armed with unlimited
power.
If great sorrow was not sacred, to a certain degree, Dionysia might have
heard all about Jacques. Nothing would have been easier. She would have
been told by Blangin, who was watching M. de Boiscoran like a spy, and by
his wife, who prepared his meals, through what anguish he had passed since
his imprisonment.
Stunned at first, he had soon recovered; and on Friday and Saturday he had
been quiet and confident, talkative, and almost cheerful. But Sunday had
been a fatal day. Two gendarmes had carried him to Boiscoran to take off
the seals; and on his way out he had been overwhelmed with insults and
curses by the people who had recognized him. He had come back terribly
distressed.
On Tuesday, he had received Dionysia’s letter, and answered it. This had
excited him fearfully, and, during a part of the night, Trumence had seen him
walk up and down in his cell with all the gestures and incoherent
imprecations of a madman.
He had hoped for a letter on Wednesday. When none came, he had sunk
into a kind of stupor, during which M. Galpin had been unable to draw a
word from him. He had taken nothing all day long but a little broth and a cup
of coffee. When the magistrate left him, he had sat down, leaning his head
on his elbows, facing the window; and there he had remained, never
moving, and so deeply absorbed in his reveries, that he had taken no notice
when they brought him light. He was still in this state, when, a little after ten
o’clock, he heard the grating of the bolts of his cell. He had become so well
acquainted with the prison that he knew all its regulations. He knew at what
hours his meals were brought, at what time Trumence came to clean up his
room, and when he might expect the magistrate. After night, he knew he
was his own master till next morning. So late a visit therefore, must needs
bring him some unexpected news, his liberty, perhaps,—that visitor for
whom all prisoners look so anxiously.
212
And, moving aside, he made way for Dionysia, or, rather, he pushed her into
the room; for she seemed to have lost all power to move.
But the jailer had raised his lantern, and the poor man could recognize his
betrothed.
If not her own life (for she cared nothing for that), but Jacques’s life, had at
that moment depended on a single word, Dionysia could not have uttered it.
Her throat was parched, and her lips refused to move. The jailer took it upon
himself to answer,—
“And I agreed,” said Blangin in a paternal tone of voice, “to bring her in
secretly. It is a great sin I commit; and if it ever should become known—But
one may be ever so much a jailer, one has a heart, after all. I tell you so
merely because the young lady might not think of it. If the secret is not kept
213
carefully, I should lose my place, and I am a poor man, with wife and
children.”
“You are the best of men!” exclaimed M. de Boiscoran, far from suspecting
the price that had been paid for Blangin’s sympathy, “and, on the day on
which I regain my liberty, I will prove to you that we whom you have obliged
are not ungrateful.”
“Jacques, grandpapa has told me, that by coming thus to you at night,
alone, and in secret, I run the risk of losing your affection, and of diminishing
your respect.”
“Grandpapa has more experience than I have, Jacques. Still I did not
hesitate. Here I am; and I should have run much greater risks; for your honor
is at stake, and your honor is my honor, as your life is my life. Your future is
at stake, our future, our happiness, all our hopes here below.”
But Dionysia had sworn to herself, as she came, that nothing should turn her
aside from her purpose. So she went on,—
“By the sacred memory of my mother, I assure you, Jacques, that I have
never for a moment doubted your innocence.”
“Do you think I would be here, if he thought you were guilty? My aunts and
your mother are as sure of it as I am.”
“Listen to me, Jacques,” she said: “let me tell you why I ran the risk of
taking this serious step, that may cost me so dear. I come to you in the name
of all your friends, in the name of M. Folgat, the great advocate whom your
mother has brought down from Paris and in the name of M. Magloire, in
whom you put so much confidence. They all agree you have adopted an
abominable system. By refusing obstinately to speak, you rush voluntarily
into the gravest danger. Listen well to what I tell you. If you wait till the
examination is over, you are lost. If you are once handed over to the court, it
is too late for you to speak. You will only, innocent as you are, make one
more on the list of judicial murders.”
“Alas! Every thing you tell me I have told myself more than once.”
“I did not.”
“Ah, Jacques, you are not aware of the danger you run! You do not know”—
215
Poor girl! She had imagined that she would only have to show herself to
triumph over Jacques’s obstinacy, and that, as soon as she had heard what
he had to say, she would feel reassured. And instead of that—
“What a misfortune!” she cried. “You have taken up these fearful notions,
and you will not abandon them!”
“And what do you think I have been doing these hundred and thirty mortal
hours since I have been alone in this prison,—alone to confront a terrible
accusation, and a still more terrible emergency?”
“That is the difficulty, Jacques: you are the victim of your own imagination.
And who could help it in your place? M. Folgat said so only yesterday. There
is no man living, who, after four days’ close confinement, can keep his mind
cool. Grief and solitude are bad counsellors. Jacques, come to yourself;
listen to your dearest friends who speak to you through me. Jacques, your
Dionysia beseeches you. Speak!”
“I cannot.”
“Why not?”
She waited for some seconds; and, as he did not reply, she said, not without
a slight accent of bitterness in her voice,—
“Is it not the first duty of an innocent man to establish his innocence?”
The prisoner, with a movement of despair, clasped his hands over his brow.
Then bending over Dionysia, so that she felt his breath in her hair, he said,—
216
She drew back, pale unto death, tottering so that she had to lean against
the wall, and cast upon Jacques de Boiscoran glances in which the whole
horror of her soul was clearly expressed.
He laughed, the wretched man! with that laugh which is the last utterance
of despair. And then he replied,—
“I say that there are circumstances which upset our reason; unheard-of
circumstances, which could make one doubt of one’s self. I say that every
thing accuses me, that every thing overwhelms me, that every thing turns
against me. I say, that if I were in M. Galpin’s place, and if he were in mine, I
should act just as he does.”
But Jacques de Boiscoran did not hear her. All the bitterness of the last days
rose within him: he turned red, and became excited. At last, with gasping
vice, he broke forth,—
“Establish my innocence! Ah! that is easily said. But how? No, I am not guilty:
but a crime has been committed; and for this crime justice will have a culprit.
If it is not I who fired at Count Claudieuse, and set Valpinson on fire, who is
it? ‘Where were you,’ they ask me, ‘at the time of the murder?’ Where was I?
Can I tell it? To clear myself is to accuse others. And if I should be mistaken?
Or if, not being mistaken, I should be unable to prove the truthfulness of my
accusation? The murderer and the incendiary, of course, took all possible
precautions to escape detection, and to let the punishment fall upon me. I
was warned beforehand. Ah, if we could always foresee, could know
beforehand! How can I defend myself? On the first day I said, ‘Such a charge
cannot reach me: it is a cloud that a breath will scatter.’ Madman that I was!
The cloud has become an avalanche, and I may be crushed. I am neither a
child nor a coward; and I have always met phantoms face to face. I have
measured the danger, and I know it is fearful.”
This time M. de Boiscoran heard her, and was ashamed of his weakness. But,
before he could master his feelings, the young girl went on, saying,—
“But never mind. These are idle thoughts. Truth soars invincible,
unchangeable, high above all the ablest calculations and the most skilful
combinations. Jacques, you must tell the truth, the whole truth, without
subterfuge or concealment.”
“It is improbable.”
Dionysia looked at him almost with fear. She did not recognize his old face,
nor his eye, nor the tone of his voice. She drew nearer to him, and taking his
hand between her own small white hands, she said,—
“Your mind is too pure for such wretched intrigues. I do not want your
wedding-dress to be stained by a speck of that mud into which they have
thrown me.”
Was she deceived? No; but she had the courage to seem to be deceived. She
went on quietly,—
“Very well, then. But the truth will have to be told sooner or later.”
“Yes, to M. Magloire.”
“Well, then, Jacques, write down at once what you mean to tell him. Here
are pen and ink: I will carry it to him faithfully.”
She felt she was beaten; she understood that nothing would ever bend that
iron will, and yet she said once more,—
“But if I were to beseech you, Jacques, by our past and our future, by that
great and eternal love which you have sworn?”
“Do you really wish to make my prison hours a thousand times harder than
they are? Do you want to deprive me of my last remnant of strength and of
courage? Have you really no confidence in me any longer? Could you not
believe me a few days more?”
He paused. Somebody knocked at the door; and almost at the same time
Blangin the jailer called out through the wicket,—
“Go home now, Dionysia,” said Jacques eagerly, “go home. I cannot think of
your being seen here.”
Dionysia had paid dear enough to know that she was quite safe; still she did
not object. She offered her brow to Jacques, who touched it with his lips;
and half dead, holding on to the walls, she went back to the jailer’s little
room. They had made up a bed for her, and she threw herself on it, dressed
as she was, and remained there, immovable, as if she had been dead,
overcome by a kind of stupor which deprived her even of the faculty of
suffering.
It was bright daylight, it was eight o’clock, when she felt somebody pulling
her sleeve. The jailer’s wife said to her,—
“My dear young lady, this would be a good time for you to slip away.
Perhaps they will wonder to see you alone in the street; but they will think
you are coming home from seven o’clock mass.”
Without saying a word, Dionysia jumped down, and in a moment she had
arranged her hair and her dress. Then Blangin came, rather troubled at not
seeing her leave the house; and she said to him, giving him one of the
thousand-franc rolls that were still in her bag,—
219
“This is for you: I want you to remember me, if I should need you again.”
And, dropping her veil over her face, she went away.
220
CHAPTER 11
Baron Chandore had had one terrible night in his life, every minute of which
he had counted by the ebbing pulse of his only son.
Well, the old gentleman had hardly suffered more during that fatal night
than he did this night, during which Dionysia was away from the house. He
knew very well that Blangin and his wife were honest people, in spite of
their avarice and their covetousness; he knew that Jacques de Boiscoran
was an honourable man.
But still, during the whole night, his old servant heard him walk up and down
his room; and at seven o’clock in the morning he was at the door, looking
anxiously up and down the street. Towards half-past seven, M. Folgat came
up; but he hardly wished him good-morning, and he certainly did not hear a
word of what the lawyer told him to reassure him. At last, however, the old
man cried,—
He was not mistaken. Dionysia was coming round the corner. She came up
to the house in feverish haste, as if she had known that her strength was at
an end, and would barely suffice to carry her to the door.
Grandpapa Chandore met her with a kind of fierce joy, pressed her in his
arms, and said over and over again,—
“O Dionysia! Oh, my darling child, how I have suffered! How long you have
been! But it is all over now. Come, come, come!”
And he almost carried her into the parlor, and put her down tenderly into a
large easy-chair. He knelt down by her, smiling with happiness; but, when he
had taken her hands in his, he said,—
221
“You are pale as death!” he went on. “Your eyes are red and swollen!”
“Cried! Why?”
“By God’s holy name the like has not been heard since the world was made!
What! you went, you Dionysia de Chandore, to him in his prison; you begged
him”—
“And he remained inflexible. Yes, dear papa. He will say nothing till after the
preliminary investigation is over.”
“Ah, dear papa! Do not blame him, do not accuse him! he is so unhappy!”
“He says the facts are so very improbable that he should certainly not be
believed; and that he should ruin himself if he were to speak as long as he is
kept in close confinement, and has no advocate. He says his position is the
result of a wicked conspiracy. He says he thinks he knows the guilty one, and
that he will denounce the person, since he is forced to do so in self-
defence.”
M. Folgat, who had until now remained a silent witness of the scene, came
up, and asked,—
“Are you quite sure, madam, that that was what M. de Boiscoran said?”
“Oh, quite sure, sir! And, if I lived a thousand years, I should never forget the
look of his eyes, or the tone of his voice.”
222
“No.”
“You did not ask him even what those improbable facts were?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Well?”
“He said that I was the very last person who could be told.”
“And you do not think all this very strange, very extraordinary?”
“I think, dear papa, that he cannot act otherwise, or he would not do it.
Jacques is too intelligent and too courageous to deceive himself easily. As
he alone knows every thing, he alone can judge. I, of course, am bound to
respect his will more than anybody else.”
But the old gentleman did not think himself bound to respect it; and,
exasperated as he was by this resignation of his grandchild, he was on the
point of telling her his mind fully, when she got up with some effort, and
said, in an almost inaudible voice,—
“They are going to kill me, sir!” he cried, with an explosion of wrath and
despair which was almost frightful in a man of his age. “She had in her eyes
the same look that her mother had when she told me, after her husband’s
223
death, ‘I shall not survive him.’ And she did not survive my poor son. And
then I, old man, was left alone with that child; and who knows but she may
have in her the germ of the same disease which killed her mother? Alone!
And for these twenty years I have held my breath to listen if she is still
breathing as naturally and regularly”—
“No, no. I fear my child has been hurt in her heart’s heart. Did you not see
how white she looked, and how faint her voice was? Great God! wilt thou
leave me all alone here upon earth? O God! for which of my sins dost thou
punish me in my children? For mercy’s sake, call me home before she also
leaves me, who is the joy of my life. And I can do nothing to turn aside this
fatality—stupid inane old man that I am! And this Jacques de Boiscoran—if
he were guilty, after all? Ah the wretch! I would hang him with my own
hands!”
Deeply moved, M. Folgat had watched the old gentleman’s grief. Now he
said,—
“Do not blame M. de Boiscoran, sir, now that every thing is against him! Of
all of us, he suffers, after all, most; for he is innocent.”
“More than ever. Little as he has said, he has told Miss Dionysia enough to
confirm me in my conjecture, and to prove to me that I have guessed right.”
“When?”
“Don’t you remember,” said the lawyer, “that you left us, so as to permit
Anthony to answer my questions more freely?”
“To be sure!” cried M. de Chandore, “to be sure! And then you thought”—
224
“I thought I had guessed right, yes, sir; but I am not going to do any thing
now. M. de Boiscoran tells us that the facts are improbable. I should,
therefore, in all probability, soon be astray; but, since we are now bound to
be passive till the investigation is completed, I shall employ the time in
examining the country people, who will, probably, tell me more than
Anthony did. You have, no doubt, among your friends, some who must be
well informed,—M. Seneschal, Dr. Seignebos.”
The latter did not keep M. Folgat waiting long; for his name had hardly been
mentioned, when he himself repeated it in the passage, telling a servant,—
He fell like a bombshell into the room. It was four days now since he had last
presented himself there; for he had not come himself for his report and the
shot he had left in M. Folgat’s hands. He had sent for them, excusing himself
on the score of his many engagements. The fact was, however, that he had
spent nearly the whole of these four days at the hospital, in company with
one of his brother-practitioners, who had been sent for by the court to
proceed, “jointly with Dr. Seignebos,” to an examination of Cocoleu’s
mental condition.
“And this is what brings me here,” he cried, still in the door; “for this
opinion, if it is not put into proper order, will deprive M. de Boiscoran of his
best and surest chance of escape.”
After what Dionysia had told them, neither M. de Chandore nor M. Folgat
attached much importance to the state of Cocoleu’s mind: still this word
“escape” attracted their attention. There is nothing unimportant in a
criminal trial.
The doctor first went to close the doors carefully, and then, putting his cane
and broad-brimmed hat upon the table, he said,—
“No, there is nothing new. They still insist, as before, upon ruining M. de
Boiscoran; and, in order to do that, they shrink from nothing.”
“Are you really in doubt, sir?” he replied. “And yet the facts speak clearly
enough. In this department, there is a certain number of physicians who are
not very keenly alive to the honor of their profession, and who are, to tell
the truth, consummate apes.”
Grave as the situation was, M. Folgat could hardly suppress a smile, the
doctor’s manner was so very extraordinary.
“But there is one of these apes,” he went on, “who, in length of ears and
thickness of skin, surpasses all the others. Well, he is the very one whom the
court has chosen and associated with me.”
Upon this subject it was desirable to put a check upon the doctor. M. de
Chandore therefore interrupted him, saying,—
“In fine”—
“In fine, my learned brother is fully persuaded that his mission as a physician
employed by a court of justice is to say ‘Amen’ to all the stories of the
prosecution. ‘Cocoleu is an idiot,’ says M. Galpin peremptorily. ‘He is an idiot,
or ought to be one,’ reechoes my learned brother. ‘He spoke on the
occasion of the crime by an inspiration from on high,’ the magistrate goes
on to say. ‘Evidently,’ adds the brother, ‘there was an inspiration from on
high.’ For this is the conclusion at which my learned brother arrives in his
report: ‘Cocoleu is an idiot who had been providentially inspired by a flash of
reason.’ He does not say it in these words; but it amounts to the same
thing.”
He had taken off his spectacles, and was wiping them industriously.
Dr. Seignebos solemnly put on again his spectacles, and replied coldly,—
“My opinion, which I have fully developed in my report, is, that Cocoleu is
not idiotic at all.”
Sauveterre during the eighteen months which the poor creature had spent
under the doctor’s treatment.
“No!” Dr. Seignebos declared peremptorily; “and you have only to look at
him to be convinced. Has he a large flat face, disproportionate mouth, a
yellow, tanned complexion, thick lips, defective teeth, and squinting eyes?
Does his deformed head sway from side to side, being too heavy to be
supported by his neck? Is his body deformed, and his spine crooked? Do you
find that his stomach is big and pendent, that his hands drop upon his
thighs, that his legs are awkward, and the joints unusually large? These are
the symptoms of idiocy, gentleman, and you do not find them in Cocoleu. I,
for my part, see in him a scamp, who has an iron constitution, who uses his
hands very cleverly, climbs trees like a monkey, and leaps ditches ten feet
wide. To be sure, I do not pretend that his intellect is normal; but I maintain
that he is one of those imbeciles who have certain faculties very fully
developed, while others, more essential, are missing.”
“Very well said,” repeated M. Folgat, who found here some elements of a
plea,—“very well said.”
“Such a creature is Cocoleu. Does it follow that I hold him responsible for his
actions? By no means! But it follows that I look upon him as a false witness
brought forth to ruin an honest man.”
“No, I even said the contrary,” replied Dr. Seignebos, not without dignity. “I
had not studied Cocoleu sufficiently, and I was taken in by him: I confess it
openly. But this avowal of mine is an evidence of the cunning and the astute
obstinacy of these wretched creatures, and of their capacity to carry out a
design. After a year’s experience, I sent Cocoleu away, declaring, and
certainly believing, that he was incurable. The fact is, he did not want to be
cured. The country-people, who observe carefully and shrewdly, were not
taken in; they will tell you, almost to a man, that Cocoleu is bad, but not an
idiot. That is the truth. He has found out, that, by exaggerating his
imbecility, he could live without work; and he has done it. When he was
taken in by Count Claudieuse, he was clever enough to show just so much
intelligence as was necessary to make him endurable, without being
compelled to do any work.”
“Great enough to have deceived me,” replied the doctor: “yes, sir.”
“All this I had told my learned brother, before taking him to the hospital.
There we found Cocoleu more obstinate than ever in his silence, which even
M. Galpin had not induced him to break. All our efforts to obtain a word
from him were fruitless, although it was very evident to me that he
understood very well. I proposed to resort to quite legitimate means, which
are employed to discover feigned defects and diseases; but my learned
brother refused and was encouraged in his resistance by M. Galpin: I do not
228
know upon what ground. Then I asked that the Countess Claudieuse should
be sent for, as she has a talent of making him talk. M. Galpin would not
permit it—and there we are.”
“I undertake,” he said, “to prove to really enlightened men, that this poor
creature is partly pretending to be imbecile, and that his obstinate
speechlessness is only adopted in order to avoid answers which would
compromise him.”
“Mind,” said the doctor again, shocked at their silence, “mind, I pray, that if
my view is adopted, as I have every reason to hope, a new turn will be given
to the whole case.”
Why yes! The ground of the accusation might be taken from under the
prosecution; and that was what kept M. Folgat thinking.
“Nothing can be more simple,” replied the advocate. “Cocoleu’s idiocy is,
perhaps the most serious difficulty in the way of the prosecution, and the
most powerful argument for the defence. What can M. Galpin say, if M. de
Boiscoran charges him with basing a capital charge upon the incoherent
words of a creature void of intelligence, and, consequently, irresponsible.”
“Let it be, on the contrary, established that Cocoleu really knows what he
says, and all is changed. The prosecution is justified, by an opinion of the
faculty, in saying to M. de Boiscoran, ‘You need not deny any longer. You
have been seen; here is a witness.’”
These arguments must have struck Dr. Seignebos very forcibly; for he
remained silent for at least ten long seconds, wiping his gold spectacles with
a pensive air. Had he really done harm to Jacques de Boiscoran, while he
meant to help him? But he was not the man to be long in doubt. He replied
in a dry tone,—
“I will not discuss that, gentlemen. I will ask you, only one question: ‘Yes or
no, do you believe in M. de Boiscoran’s innocence?’”
“To prove that Cocoleu knows what he says,” he replied, “would be fatal,
unless we can prove at the same time that he has told a falsehood, and that
his evidence has been prompted by others. Can we prove that? Have we any
means to prove that his obstinacy in not replying to any questions arises
from his fear that his answers might convict him of perjury?”
“Yes, sir, always,” replied the physician,—“always, and at all hazards, and
whatever may happen. I am M. de Boiscoran’s friend; but I am still more the
friend of truth. If Cocoleu is a wretched impostor, as I am firmly convinced,
our duty is to unmask him.”
Dr. Seignebos did not say—and he probably did not confess it to himself—
that it was a personal matter between Cocoleu and himself. He thought
Cocoleu had taken him in, and been the cause of a host of small witticisms,
under which he had suffered cruelly, though he had allowed no one to see it.
To unmask Cocoleu would have given him his revenge, and return upon his
enemies the ridicule with which they had overwhelmed him.
“I have made up my mind,” he said, “and, whatever you may resolve, I mean
to go to work at once, and try to obtain the appointment of a commission.”
“It might be prudent,” M. Folgat said, “to consider before doing any thing,
to consult with M. Magloire.”
Thereupon, taking his hat and cane, he bowed and left, as dissatisfied as
possible, without stopping even to answer M. de Chandore, who asked him
231
how Count Claudieuse was, who was, according to reports in town, getting
worse and worse.
“Hang the old original!” cried M. de Chandore before the doctor had left the
passage.
“I must, however, confess that you received the great news which he
brought rather coldly.”
“The very fact of the news being so very grave,” replied the advocate,
“made me wish for time to consider. If Cocoleu pretends to be imbecile, or,
at least, exaggerates his incapacity, then we have a confirmation of what M.
de Boiscoran last night told Miss Dionysia. It would be the proof of an
odious trap of a long-premeditated vengeance. Here is the turning-point of
the affair evidently.”
“What!” he said, “you think so, and you refuse to support Dr. Seignebos,
who is certainly an honest man?”
She hastened to write them in cipher; and about four o’clock the letter was
sent to Mechinet, the clerk.
The letter was read in the family circle; and the poor mother uttered a cry of
despair as she heard those words of resignation.
“Are we going to obey him,” she said, “when we all know that he is ruining
himself by his obstinacy?”
“Jacques alone can judge his situation, and he alone, therefore, has the right
to command. Our duty is to obey. I appeal to M. Folgat.”
“Every thing has been done that could be done,” he said. “Now we can only
wait.”
233
CHAPTER 12
The famous night of the fire at Valpinson had been a godsend to the good
people of Sauveterre. They had henceforth an inexhaustible topic of
discussion, ever new and ever rich in unexpected conjectures,—the
Boiscoran case. When people met in the streets, they simply asked,—
“You will see poor M. Galpin will catch the jaundice from it.”
“Whose fault is it? But you want to rise in the world; and increasing fortune
is always followed by increasing care.
“Ah!” said the magistrate. “I have only done my duty, and, if I had to begin
again, I would do just the same.”
Still every day he saw more clearly that he was in a false position. Public
opinion, strongly arrayed against M. de Boiscoran, was not, on that account,
very favorable to him. Everybody believed Jacques guilty, and wanted him
to be punished with all the rigor of the law; but, on the other hand,
everybody was astonished that M. Galpin should choose to act as magistrate
in such a case. There was a touch of treachery in this proceeding against a
234
former friend, in looking everywhere for evidence against him, in driving him
into court, that is to say, towards the galleys or the scaffold; and this
revolted people’s consciences.
The very way in which people returned his greeting, or avoided him
altogether, made the magistrate aware of the feelings they entertained for
him. This only increased his wrath against Jacques, and, with it his trouble.
He had been congratulated, it is true, by the attorney-general; but there is
no certainty in a trial, as long as the accused refuses to confess. The charges
against Jacques, to be sure, were so overwhelming, that his being sent
before the court was out of question. But by the side of the court there is
still the jury.
“And in fine, my dear,” said the commonwealth attorney, “you have not a
single eye-witness. And from time immemorial an eye-witness has been
looked upon as worth a hundred hearsays.”
“I have Cocoleu,” said M. Galpin, who was rather impatient of all these
objections.
“No.”
Yes, M. Galpin understood it but too well, and hence his anxiety. The more
he studied his accused, the more he found him in an enigmatic and
threatening position, which was ominous of evil.
“Can he have an alibi?” he thought. “Or does he hold in reserve one of those
unforeseen revelations, which at the last moment destroy the whole edifice
of the prosecution, and cover the prosecuting attorney with ridicule?”
than ever, since this case had begun, many a report reached him from the
Chandore family.
To be sure, he was a thousand miles from imagining that they had actually
opened communications with the prisoner, and, what is more, that this
intercourse was carried on by Mechinet, his own clerk. He would have
laughed if one had come and told him that Dionysia had spent a night in
prison, and paid Jacques a visit. But he heard continually of the hopes and
the plans of the friends and relations of his prisoner; and he remembered,
not without secret fear and trembling that they were rich and powerful,
supported by relations in high places, beloved and esteemed by everybody.
He knew that Dionysia was surrounded by devoted and intelligent men, by
M. de Chandore, M. Seneschal, Dr. Seignebos, M. Magloire, and, finally, that
advocate whom the Marchioness de Boiscoran had brought down with her
from Paris, M. Folgat.
“And Heaven knows what they would not try,” he thought, “to rescue the
guilty man from the hands of justice!”
It may well be said, therefore, that never was prosecution carried on with as
much passionate zeal or as much minute assiduity. Every one of the points
upon which the prosecution relied became, for M. Galpin, a subject of
special study. In less than a fortnight he examined sixty-seven witnesses in
his office. He summoned the fourth part of the population of Brechy. He
would have summoned the whole country, if he had dared.
But all his efforts were fruitless. After weeks of furious investigations, the
inquiry was still at the same point, the mystery was still impenetrable. The
prisoner had not refuted any of the charges made against him; but the
magistrate had, also, not obtained a single additional piece of evidence after
those he had secured on the first day.
One warm afternoon in July, the good ladies in National Street thought they
noticed that M. Galpin looked even more anxious than usual. They were
right. After a long conference with the commonwealth attorney and the
presiding judge, the magistrate had made up his mind. When he reached the
236
“My painful duty draws to an end, sir: the inquiry with which I have been
charged will be closed. To-morrow the papers, with a list of the objects to be
used as evidence, will be sent to the attorney-general, to be submitted to
the court.”
“Well, then, prove it. Refute the charges which have been brought against
you, which overwhelm you, which induce me, the court, and everybody else,
to consider you guilty. Speak, and explain your conduct.”
“Your resolution is fixed,” said the magistrate once more, “you refuse to say
any thing?”
“I am innocent.”
“From this moment,” he said, “you are no longer in close confinement. You
can receive the visits of your family in the prison parlor. The advocate whom
you will choose will be admitted to your cell to consult with you.”
“At last!” exclaimed Jacques with explosive delight; and then he added,—
“Yes,” replied M. Galpin, “and, if you choose to write at once, my clerk will
be happy to carry your letter this evening to its destination.”
237
“J.”
Ever since the day on which they had come to the conclusion that a false
step might have the most fatal consequences, Jacques de Boiscoran’s
friends had abstained from doing anything. Besides, what would have been
the use of any efforts? Dr. Seignebos’s request, though unsupported, had
been at least partially granted; and the court had summoned a physician
from Paris, a great authority on insanity, to determine Cocoleu’s mental
condition. It was on a Saturday that Dr. Seignebos came triumphantly to
announce the good news. It was the following Tuesday that he had to
report his discomfiture. In a furious passion he said,—
“There are asses in Paris as well as elsewhere! Or, rather, in these days of
trembling egotism and eager servility, an independent man is as difficult to
find in Paris as in the provinces. I was looking for a savant who would be
inaccessible to petty considerations; and they send me a trifling fellow, who
does not dare to be disagreeable to the gentlemen of the bar. Ah, it was a
cruel disappointment!”
‘That man is simply the most complete idiot I have ever seen in my life!’ I was
a little taken aback, and tried to explain the matter to him; but he refuses to
listen to me. I beseech him to see Cocoleu once more: he laughs at me. I feel
hurt, and ask him how he explains the evidence which this idiot gave on the
night of the fire. He laughs again, and replies that he does not explain it. I
begin to discuss the question; and he marches off to court. And do you
know where he dined that day? At the hotel with my other learned brother
of the commission; and there they drew up a report which makes of Cocoleu
the most perfect imbecile that was ever dreamed of.”
He was walking up and down in the room with long strides, and, unwilling to
listen, he went on,—
“But Master Galpin need not think of crowing over us yet. The end is not
yet; they will not get rid of Dr. Seignebos so easily. I have said that Cocoleu
was a wretched cheat, a miserable impostor, a false witness, and I shall
prove it. Boiscoran can count upon me.”
“And I say M. de Boiscoran may count upon me, because I have my reasons.
I have formed very singular suspicions, sir,—very singular.”
And he left again, vowing that he was overworked, that he had forsaken his
patients for forty-eight hours, and that the Countess Claudieuse was waiting
for him, as her husband was getting worse and worse.
“What can the old man suspect?” Grandpapa Chandore asked again, an hour
after the doctor had left.
M. Folgat might have replied that these probable suspicions were no doubt
his own suspicions, only better founded, and more fully developed. But why
should he say so, since all inquiry was prohibited, and a single imprudent
word might ruin every thing? Why, also, should he excite new hopes, when
239
they must needs wait patiently till it should seem good to M. Galpin to make
an end to this melancholy suspense?
“This is intolerable agony,” repeated the marchioness over and over again.
Dionysia was alone one afternoon in the sitting-room, when she thought she
heard the clerk’s voice in the hall. She went out at once and found him
there.
“Ah!” she cried, “the investigation is ended!” For she knew very well that
nothing less would have emboldened Mechinet to show himself openly at
their house.
“Yes, indeed, madam!” replied the good man; “and upon M. Galpin’s own
order I bring you this letter from M. de Boiscoran.”
She took it, read it at a single glance, and forgetting every thing, half
delirious with joy, she ran to her grandfather and M. Folgat, calling upon a
servant at the same time to run and fetch M. Magloire.
In less than an hour, the eminent advocate of Sauveterre arrived; and when
Jacques’s letter had been handed to him, he said with some
embarrassment,—
He would say nothing more. It was very evident that he did not believe in
the innocence of his client, and, as soon as he had left, M. de Chandore
exclaimed,—
He could not sleep for it that night; and noticed his anxious air as he crossed
the street next morning on his way to the jail. Blangin the keeper was on the
lookout for him, and cried,—
Slowly, and his heart beating furiously, the famous advocate went up the
narrow stairs. He crossed the long passage; Blangin opened a door; he was
in Jacques de Boiscoran’s cell.
“At last you are coming,” exclaimed the unhappy young man, throwing
himself on the lawyer’s neck. “At last I see an honest face, and hold a trusty
hand. Ah! I have suffered cruelly, so cruelly, that I am surprised my mind has
not given way. But now you are here, you are by my side, I am safe.”
The lawyer could not speak. He was terrified by the havoc which grief had
made of the noble and intelligent face of his friend. He was shocked at the
distortion of his features, the unnatural brilliancy of his eyes, and the
convulsive laugh on his lips.
“To be sure,” he went on with his terrible convulsive laughter, “the charges
must be overwhelming indeed, if they have convinced my best friends. Alas!
why did I refuse to speak that first day? My honor!—what a phantom! And
241
“One word will explain the whole thing to you: I was the lover of the
Countess Claudieuse!”
242
CHAPTER 13
If he had been less distressed, Jacques de Boiscoran would have seen how
wisely he had acted in choosing for his defender the great advocate of
Sauveterre. A stranger, M. Folgat, for instance, would have heard him
silently, and would have seen in the revelation nothing but the fact without
giving it a personal value. In M. Magloire, on the contrary, he saw what the
whole country would feel. And M. Magloire, when he heard him declare that
the Countess Claudieuse had been his mistress, looked indignant, and
exclaimed,—
“That is impossible.”
At least Jacques was not surprised. He had been the first to say that they
would refuse to believe him when he should speak; and this conviction had
largely influenced him in keeping silence so long.
“I have no proofs.”
“There are things,” he said, “which it is rash to affirm when one is not able
to support them with proof. Consider”—
“By whom?”
“Yes; but every year the countess came and spent the month of September
in Paris; and I came occasionally to Boiscoran.”
“It is very singular that such an intrigue should never have been suspected
even.”
“No one.”
“Why do you ask all these questions?” he said. “You do not believe me. Well,
be it so! Let me at least try to convince you. Will you listen to me?”
M. Magloire drew up a chair, and sitting down, not as usually, but across the
chair, and resting his arms on the back, he said,—
“I listen.”
Jacques de Boiscoran, who had been almost livid, became crimson with
anger. His eyes flashed wrath. That he, he should be treated thus! Never had
all the haughtiness of M. Galpin offended him half as much as this cool,
disdainful condescension on the part of M. Magloire. It occurred to him to
order him out of his room. But what then? He was condemned to drain the
244
bitter cup to the very dregs: for he must save himself; he must get out of
this abyss.
He walked up and down a few times in his cell, passing his hand repeatedly
over his brow, as if to recall his memory. Then he began, in a calmer tone of
voice,—
“It was in the first days of the month of August, in 1866, and at Boiscoran,
where I was on a visit to my uncle, that I saw the Countess Claudieuse for
the first time. Count Claudieuse and my uncle were, at that time, on very bad
terms with each other, thanks to that unlucky little stream which crosses
our estates; and a common friend, M. de Besson, had undertaken to
reconcile them at a dinner to which he had invited both. My uncle had taken
me with him. The countess had come with her husband. I was just twenty
years old; she was twenty-six. When I saw her, I was overcome. It seemed to
me that I had never in all my life met a woman so perfectly beautiful and
graceful; that I had never seen so charming a face, such beautiful eyes, and
such a sweet smile.
“She did not seem to notice me. I did not speak to her; and still I felt within
me a kind of presentiment that this woman would play a great, a fatal part
in my life.
“This impression was so strong, that, as we left the house, I could not keep
from mentioning it to my uncle. He only laughed, and said that I was a fool,
and that, if my existence should ever be troubled by a woman, it would
certainly not be by the Countess Claudieuse.
“He was apparently right. It was hard to imagine that any thing should ever
again bring me in contact with the countess. M. de Besson’s attempt at
reconciliation had utterly failed; the countess lived at Valpinson; and I went
back to Paris.
“Still I was unable to shake off the impression; and the memory of the
dinner at M. de Besson’s house was still in my mind, when a month later, at
245
“She told me then that she had come up to Paris for a month, as she did
every year, and that she was staying at her father’s, the Marquis de Tassar.
She had come to this party much against her inclination, as she disliked
going out. She did not dance; and thus I talked to her till the moment when
she left.
“I was madly in love when we parted; and still I made no effort to see her
again. It was mere chance again which brought us together.
“One day I had business at Melun, and, reaching the station rather late, I had
but just time to jump into the nearest car. In the compartment was the
countess. She told me—and that is all I ever recollected of the
conversation—that she was on her way to Fontainebleau to see a friend,
with whom she spent every Tuesday and Saturday. Usually she took the nine
o’clock train.
“This was on a Tuesday; and during the next three days a great struggle
went on in my heart. I was desperately in love with the countess, and still I
was afraid of her. But my evil star conquered; and the next Saturday, at nine
o’clock, I was at the station again.
“The countess has since confessed to me that she expected me. When she
saw me, she made a sign; and, when they opened the doors, I managed to
find a place by her side.”
M. Magloire had for some minutes given signs of great impatience; now he
broke forth,—
At first Jacques de Boiscoran made no reply. It was no easy task for a man,
tried as he had been of late, to stir up thus the ashes of the past; and it
made him shudder. He was amazed at seeing on his lips this secret which he
had so long buried in his innermost heart. Besides, he had loved, loved in
good earnest; and his love had been returned. And there are certain
246
sensations which come to us only once in life, and which can never again be
effaced. He was moved to tears. But as the eminent advocate of Sauveterre
repeated his words, and even added,—
“I do not ask you to believe me,” he said gently: “I only ask you to hear me.”
And, overcoming with all his energy the kind of torpor which was mastering
him, he continued,—
“This trip to Fontainebleau decided our fate. Other trips followed. The
countess spent her days with her friend, and I passed the long hours in
roaming through the woods. But in the evening we met again at the station.
We took a coupe, which I had engaged beforehand, and I accompanied her
in a carriage to her father’s house.
“Finally, one evening, she left her friend’s house at the usual hour; but she
did not return to her father’s house till the day after.”
“Oh!” he said, “I know you must think it strange. You fancy that there is no
excuse for the man who betrays the confidence of a woman who has once
given herself to him. Wait, before you judge me.”
“At that time I thought I was the happiest man on earth; and my heart was
full of the most absurd vanity at the thought that she was mine, this
beautiful woman, whose purity was high above all calumny. I had tied
around my neck one of those fatal ropes which death alone can sever, and,
fool that I was, I considered myself happy.
“Perhaps she really loved me at that time. At least she did not hesitate, and,
overcome by the only real great passion of her life, she told me all that was
in her innermost heart. At that time she did not think yet of protecting
herself against me, and of making me her slave. She told me the secret of
247
her marriage, which had at one time created such a sensation in the whole
country.
“When her father, the Marquis de Brissac, had given up his place, he had
soon begun to feel his inactivity weigh upon him, and at the same time he
had become impatient at the narrowness of his means. He had ventured
upon hazardous speculations. He had lost every thing he had; and even his
honor was at stake. In his despair he was thinking of suicide, when chance
brought to his house a former comrade, Count Claudieuse. In a moment of
confidence, the marquis confessed every thing; and the other had promised
to rescue him, and save him from disgrace. That was noble and grand. It
must have cost an immense sum. And the friends of our youth who are
capable of rendering us such services are rare in our day. Unfortunately,
Count Claudieuse could not all the time be the hero he had been at first. He
saw Genevieve de Tassar. He was struck with her beauty; and overcome by a
sudden passion—forgetting that she was twenty, while he was nearly
fifty—he made his friend aware that he was still willing to render him all the
services in his power, but that he desired to obtain Genevieve’s hand in
return.
“That very evening the ruined nobleman entered his daughter’s room, and,
with tears in his eyes, explained to her his terrible situation. She did not
hesitate a moment.
“‘Above all,’ she said to her father, ‘let us save our honor, which even your
death would not restore. Count Claudieuse is cruel to forget that he is thirty
years older than I am. From this moment I hate and despise him. Tell him I
am willing to be his wife.’
“And when her father, overcome with grief, told her that the count would
never accept her hand in this form, she replied,—
“‘Oh, do not trouble yourself about that! I shall do the thing handsomely,
and your friend shall have no right to complain. But I know what I am worth;
and you must remember hereafter, that, whatever service he may render
you, you owe him nothing.’
248
“Less than a fortnight after this scene, Genevieve had allowed the count to
perceive that he was not indifferent to her and a month later she became his
wife.
“The count, on his side, had acted with the utmost delicacy and tact; so that
no one suspected the cruel position of the Marquis de Tassar. He had placed
two hundred thousand francs in his hands to settle his most pressing debts.
In his marriage-contract he had acknowledged having received with his wife
a dower of the same amount; and finally, he had bound himself to pay to his
father-in-law and his wife an annual income of ten thousand francs. This had
absorbed more than half of all he possessed.”
“This is, at least, what the countess told me in her first hours of enthusiasm.
But she told it to me calmly, coldly, like a thing that was perfectly natural.
‘Certainly,’ she said, ‘Count Claudieuse has never had to regret the bargain
he made. If he has been generous, I have been faithful. My father owes his
life to him; but I have given him years of happiness to which he was not
entitled. If he has received no love, he has had all the appearance of it, and
an appearance far more pleasant than the reality.’
“That was the way she spoke at that time, Magloire; and a man of more
experience would have been frightened. But I was a child; I loved her with
all my heart. I admired her genius; I was overcome by her sophisms.
249
“The countess had committed the only and the last imprudence of her
whole life: she had remained three weeks longer in Paris than was agreed
upon; and her impatient husband threatened to come for her.
“‘I must go back to Valpinson,’ she said; ‘for there is nothing I would not do
to keep up the reputation I have managed to make for myself. My life, your
life, my daughter’s life—I would give them all, without hesitation, to protect
my reputation.”
“‘I cannot remain longer than a month,’ she said to me, ‘without seeing you.
A month from to-day, that is to say, on 12th November, at three o’clock
precisely, you must be in the forest of Rochepommier, at the Red Men’s
Cross-roads. I will be there.’
“And she left Paris. I was in such a state of depression, that I scarcely felt the
pain of parting. The thought of being loved by such a woman filled me with
extreme pride, and, no doubt, saved me from many an excess. Ambition was
rising within me whenever I thought of her. I wanted to work, to distinguish
myself, to become eminent in some way.
“‘I want her to be proud of me,’ I said to myself, ashamed at being nothing
at my age but the son of a rich father.”
Ten times, at least, M. Magloire had risen from his chair, and moved his lips,
as if about to make some objection. But he had pledged himself, in his own
mind, not to interrupt Jacques, and he did his best to keep his pledge.
“In the meantime,” Jacques went on, “the day fixed by the countess was
drawing near. I went down to Boiscoran; and on the appointed day, at the
precise hour, I was in the forest at the Red Men’s Cross-roads. I was
somewhat behind time, and I was extremely sorry for it: but I did not know
the forest very well, and the place chosen by the countess for the
rendezvous is in the very thickest part of the old wood. The weather was
unusually severe for the season. The night before, a heavy snow had fallen:
250
the paths were all white; and a sharp wind blew the flakes from the heavily-
loaded branches. From afar off, I distinguished the countess, as she was
walking, up and down in a kind of feverish excitement, confining herself to a
narrow space, where the ground was dry, and where she was sheltered
from the wind by enormous masses of stone. She wore a dress of dark-red
silk, very long, a cloak trimmed with fur, and a velvet hat to match her dress.
In three minutes I was by her side. But she did not draw her hand from her
muff to offer it to me; and, without giving me time to apologize for the
delay, she said in a dry tone,—
“‘Last night.’
“‘How childish you are!’ she exclaimed, stamping her foot. ‘Last night! And
on what pretext?’
“‘And was he not surprised to see you drop from the clouds at this time of
the year?’
“‘And how did you get here?’ she commenced again. ‘Did you know this
cross-road?’
“‘From whom?’
“‘And all that, you think, is very simple,’ she broke in. ‘Do you really imagine
people will think it very natural that you should thus fall like a bombshell
upon Boiscoran, and immediately set out for the Red Men’s Cross-roads in
251
the forest? Who knows but you have been followed? Who knows but behind
one of these trees there may be eyes even now watching us?’
“And as she looked around with all the signs of genuine fear, I answered,—
“I think I can even now see the look in her eyes as she said,—
“‘I fear nothing in the world—do you hear me? nothing in the world, except
being suspected; for I cannot be compromised. I like to do as I do; I like to
have a lover. But I do not want it to be known; because, if it became known,
there would be mischief. Between my reputation and my life I have no
choice. If I were to be surprised here by any one, I would rather it should be
my husband than a stranger. I have no love for the count, and I shall never
forgive him for having married me; but he has saved my father’s honor, and I
owe it to him to keep his honor unimpaired. He is my husband, besides, and
the father of my child: I bear his name, and I want it to be respected. I
should die with grief and shame and rage, if I had to give my arm to a man at
whom people might look and smile. Wives are absurdly stupid when they do
not feel that all the scorn with which their unfortunate husbands are
received in the great world falls back upon them. No. I do not love the
count, Jacques, and I love you. But remember, that, between him and you, I
should not hesitate a moment, and that I should sacrifice your life and your
honor, with a smile on my lips, even though my heart should break, if I
could, by doing so, spare him the shadow of a suspicion.’
“‘No more! Every minute we stay here increases the danger. What pretext
will you plead for your sudden appearance at Boiscoran?’
“‘You must borrow some money from your uncle, a considerable sum, to
pay your debts. He will be angry, perhaps; but that will explain your sudden
fancy for travelling in the month of November. Good-by, good-by!’
“‘What! You will not let me see you again, at least from afar?’
“‘During this visit that would be the height of imprudence. But, stop! Stay at
Boiscoran till Sunday. Your uncle never stays away from high mass: go with
him to church. But be careful, control yourself. A single imprudence, one
blunder, and I should despise you. Now we must part. You will find in Paris a
letter from me.’”
“I have entered into all these details, Magloire, because I want you to know
what kind of a woman the countess is, so that you may understand her
conduct. You see that she did not treat me like a traitor: she had given me
fair warning, and shown me the abyss into which I was going to fall. Alas! so
far from being terrified, these dark sides of her character only attracted me
the more. I admired her imperious air, her courage, and her prudence, even
her total lack of principle, which contrasted so strangely with her fear of
public opinion. I said to myself with foolish pride,—
“She must have been pleased with my obedience at church; for I managed
to check even a slight trembling which seized me when I saw her and bowed
to her as she passed so close to me that my hand touched her dress. I
obeyed her in other ways also. I asked my uncle for six thousand francs, and
he gave them to me, laughing; for he was the most generous man on earth:
but he said at the same time,—
“‘I thought you had not come to Boiscoran merely for the purpose of
exploring the forest of Rochepommier.’
“Yes, indeed she had a genius for it, and a genius for calculation also, as I
soon found out. When I reached Paris, I found a letter from her waiting for
me; but it was nothing more than a repetition of all she had told me at our
meeting. This letter was followed by several others, which she begged me
to keep for her sake, and which all had a number in the upper corner.
“‘My dear Jacques,’ she replied, ‘a woman ought always to know how many
letters she has written to her lover. Up to now, you must have had nine.’
“Every wish of hers was an order for me. My uncle’s liberality knew no end. I
bought a house.”
“Yes.”
“Here, again, fate is against me. There is quite a tale connected with that
house.”
The features of the Sauveterre lawyer grew dark again, much quicker than
they had brightened up just now.
“But then”—
“Oh! wait a moment. I did not take these papers to my rooms in my father’s
house. I put them into a drawer of a bureau in my house at Passy. When the
war broke out, I forgot them. I had left Paris before the siege began, you
know, being in command of a company of volunteers from this department.
During the two sieges, my house was successively occupied by the National
Guards, the soldiers of the Commune, and the regular troops. When I got
back there, I found the four walls pierced with holes by the shells; but all the
furniture had disappeared, and with it the papers.”
“He left France at the beginning of the invasion; and I do not know what has
become of him. Two friends of his in England, to whom I wrote, replied,—
the one that he was probably in Australia; the other that he was dead.”
“And you have taken no other steps to secure your rights to a piece of
property which legally belongs to you?”
“You mean to say virtually that there is in Paris a house which has no owner,
is forgotten by everybody, and unknown even to the tax-gatherer?”
255
“I beg your pardon! The taxes have always been regularly paid; and the
whole neighborhood knows that I am the owner. But the individuality is not
the same. I have unceremoniously assumed the identity of my friend. In the
eyes of the neighbors, the small dealers near by, the workmen and
contractors whom I have employed, for the servants and the gardener, I am
Sir Francis Burnett. Ask them about Jacques de Boiscoran, and they will tell
you, ‘Don’t know.’ Ask them about Sir Francis Burnett, and they will answer,
‘Oh, very well!’ and they will give you my portrait.”
“Then,” he asked again, “you declare that the Countess Claudieuse has been
at this house?”
“No.”
“But”—
“Paris is not like Sauveterre, my dear friend; and people are not solely
occupied with their neighbors’ doings. Vine Street is quite a deserted street;
and the countess took the greatest precautions in coming and going.”
“Well, granted, as far as the outside world is concerned. But within? You
must have had somebody to stay in the house and keep it in order when you
were away, and to wait upon you when you were there?”
“Oh!”
“When the countess was coming down, or when she was going away, or
when we wanted to walk in the garden, I sent the girl on some errand. I
have sent her as far as Orleans to get rid of her for twenty-four hours. The
rest of the time we staid up stairs, and waited upon ourselves.”
256
“You must be under a mistake. Servants are curious, and to hide from them
is only to make them mad with curiosity. That girl has watched you. That girl
has found means to see the countess when she came there. She must be
examined. Is she still in your service?”
“Why?”
“I believe not.”
“We must give it up, then. But your man-servant? Old Anthony was in your
confidence. Did you never tell him any thing about it?”
“Never. Only once I sent for him to come to Vine Street when I had sprained
my foot in coming down stairs.”
“So that it is impossible for you to prove that the Countess Claudieuse ever
came to your house in Passy? You have no evidence of it, and no eye-
witness?”
“I used to have evidence. She had brought a number of small articles for her
private use; but they have disappeared during the war.”
“Ah, yes!” said M. Magloire, “always the war! It has to answer for every
thing.”
“Did I not tell you, Magloire,” he resumed, “that the countess had a genius
for prudence? You can easily conceal yourself when you can spend money
without counting it. Would you blame me for not having any proofs to
furnish? Is it not the duty of every man of honor to do all he can to keep
even a shadow of suspicion from her who has confided herself to his hands?
257
I have done my duty, and whatever may come of it, I shall not regret it.
Could I foresee such unheard-of emergencies? Could I foresee that a day
might come when I, Jacques de Boiscoran, should have to denounce the
Countess Claudieuse, and should be compelled to look for evidence and
witnesses against her?”
“It was on the 2d September, 1867, that the Countess Claudieuse for the
first time entered this house in Passy, which I had purchased and furnished
for her; and during the five weeks which she spent in Paris, she came almost
every day, and spent several hours there.
“At her father’s house she enjoyed absolute and almost uncontrolled
independence. She left her daughter—for she had at that time but one
child—with her mother, the Marchioness de Tassar; and she was free to go
and to come as she liked.
“When she wanted still greater freedom, she went to see her friend in
Fontainebleau; and every time she did this she secured twenty-four or forty-
eight hours over and above the time for the journey. I, for my part, was as
perfectly free from all control. Ostensibly, I had gone to Ireland; in reality, I
lived in Vine Street.
“These five weeks passed like a dream; and yet I must confess, the parting
was not as painful as might have been supposed. Not that the bright prism
was broken; but I always felt humiliated by the necessity of being concealed.
I began to be tired of these incessant precautions; and I was quite ready to
give up being Sir Francis Burnett, and to resume my identity.
“We had, besides, promised each other never to remain a month without
seeing each other, at least for a few hours; and she had invented a number
of expedients by which we could meet without danger.
258
CHAPTER 14
Jacques de Boiscoran was evidently anxious to have done with his recital, to
come to that night of the fire at Valpinson, and to learn at last from the
eminent advocate of Sauveterre what he had to fear or to hope. After a
moment’s silence, for his breath was giving out, and after a few steps across
his cell, he went on in a bitter tone of voice,—
“But why trouble you with all these details, Magloire? Would you believe me
any more than you do now, if I were to enumerate to you all my meetings
with the Countess Claudieuse, or if I were to repeat all her most trifling
words?
“We had gradually learnt to calculate all our movements, and made our
preparations so accurately, that we met constantly, and feared no danger.
We said to each other at parting, or she wrote to me, ‘On such a day, at such
an hour, at such a place;’ and however distant the day, or the hour, or the
place, we were sure to meet. I had soon learned to know the country as well
as the cleverest of poachers; and nothing was so useful to us as this
familiarity with all the unknown hiding-places. The countess, on her side,
never let three months pass by without discovering some urgent motive
which carried her to Rochelle, to Angouleme, or to Paris; and I was there to
meet her. Nothing kept her from these excursions; even when indisposed,
she braved the fatigues of the journey. It is true, my life was well-nigh spent
in travelling; and at any moment, when least expected, I disappeared for
whole weeks. This will explain to you that restlessness at which my father
sneered, and for which you, yourself, Magloire, used to blame me.”
“I should not tell the truth if I were to say that this kind of life was
unpleasant to me. Mystery and danger always add to the charms of love.
The difficulties only increased my passion. I saw something sublime in this
success with which two superior beings devoted all their intelligence and
cleverness to the carrying-on of a secret intrigue. The more fully I became
260
aware of the veneration with which the countess was looked up to by the
whole country, the more I learned to appreciate her ability in dissembling
and her profound perversity; and I was all the more proud of her. I felt the
pride setting my cheeks aglow when I saw her at Brechy; for I came there
every Sunday for her sake alone, to see her pass calm and serene in the
imposing security of her lofty reputation. I laughed at the simplicity of all
these honest, good people, who bowed so low to her, thinking they saluted
a saint; and I congratulated myself with idiotic delight at being the only one
who knew the true Countess Claudieuse,—she who took her revenge so
bravely in our house in Passy!
“It had not taken me long to find out that I had given myself a master, and
the most imperious and exacting master that ever lived. I had almost ceased
to belong to myself. I had become her property; and I lived and breathed
and thought and acted for her alone. She did not mind my tastes and my
dislikes. She wished a thing, and that was enough. She wrote to me, ‘Come!’
and I had to be instantly on the spot: she said to me, ‘Go!’ an I had to leave
at once. At first I accepted these evidences of her despotism with joy; but
gradually I became tired of this perpetual abdication of my own will. I
disliked to have no control over myself, to be unable to dispose of twenty-
four hours in advance. I began to feel the pressure of the halter around my
neck. I thought of flight. One of my friends was to set out on a voyage
around the world, which was to last eighteen months or two years, and I
had an idea of accompanying him. There was nothing to retain me. I was, by
fortune and position, perfectly independent. Why should I not carry out my
plan?
“Ah, why? The prism was not broken yet. I cursed the tyranny of the
countess; but I still trembled when I heard her name mentioned. I thought
of escaping from her; but a single glance moved me to the bottom of my
heart. I was bound to her by the thousand tender threads of habit and of
complicity,—those threads which seem to be more delicate than gossamer,
but which are harder to break than a ship’s cable.
261
“Still, this idea which had occurred to me brought it about that I uttered for
the first time the word ‘separation’ in her presence, asking her what she
would do if I should leave her. She looked at me with a strange air and asked
me, after a moment’s hesitation,—
“I dared not carry matters any farther, and, making an effort to smile, I
said,—
“‘Then,’ she said, ‘let us not say any thing more about it. If you should ever
come to that, you would soon see what I would do.’
“I did not insist; but that look remained long in my memory, and made me
feel that I was far more closely bound than I had thought. From that day it
became my fixed idea to break with her.”
“That is easily said,” he replied. “I tried it; but I could not do it. Ten times I
went to her, determined to say, ‘Let us part;’ and ten times, at the last
moment, my courage failed me. She irritated me. I almost began to hate her;
but I could not forget how much I had loved her, and how much she had
risked for my sake. Then—why should I not confess it?—I was afraid of her.
“This inflexible character, which I had so much admired, terrified me; and I
shuddered, seized with vague and sombre apprehensions, when I thought
what she was capable of doing. I was thus in the utmost perplexity, when
my mother spoke to me of a match which she had long hoped for. This
might be the pretext which I had so far failed to find. At all events, I asked
for time to consider; and, the first time I saw the countess again, I gathered
all my courage, and said to her,—
“‘I,’ I replied with a forced laugh,—‘I want nothing just now. But the thing
will have to be done sooner or later. A man must have a home, affections
which the world acknowledges’—
“‘You,’ I exclaimed, ‘you, Genevieve! I love you with all the strength of my
heart. But we are separated by a gulf: you are married.’
“‘In other words,’ she said, ‘you have loved me as a pastime. I have been the
amusement of your youth, the poetry of twenty years, that love-romance
which every man wants to have. But you are becoming serious; you want
sober affections, and you leave me. Well, be it so. But what is to become of
me when you are married?’
“‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I shall go back go live at Valpinson, in that country full of
associations, where every place recalls a rendezvous. I shall live with my
husband, whom I have betrayed; with daughters, one of whom—That
cannot be, Jacques.’
“‘Oh! very little,’ she replied. ‘I should hand all your letters to Count
Claudieuse.’”
During the thirty years which he had spent at the bar, M. Magloire had heard
many a strange confession; but never in his life had all his ideas been
overthrown as in this case.
“Was this threat of the countess meant in earnest? I did not doubt it; but
affecting great composure, I said,—
“‘By all that I hold dear and sacred in this world,’ she replied, ‘I would do it.’
“Many months have passed by since that scene, Magloire, many events have
happened; and still I feel as if it had taken place yesterday. I see the
countess still, whiter than a ghost. I still hear her trembling voice; and I can
repeat to you her words almost literally,—
“‘You belong to me; you are mine; and I shall defend you against all and
every one, with such arms as I possess. I told you that I valued my reputation
more than my life; but I never told you that I valued life. On the eve of your
wedding-day, my husband shall know all. I shall not survive the loss of my
honor; but at least I shall have my revenge. If you escape the hatred of
264
Count Claudieuse, your name will be bound up with such a tragic affair that
your life will be ruined forever.’
“That was the way she spoke, Magloire, and with a passion of which I can
give you no idea. It was absurd, it was insane, I admit. But is not all passion
absurd and insane? Besides, it was by no means a sudden inspiration of her
pride, which made her threaten me with such vengeance. The precision of
her phrases, the accuracy of her words, all made me feel that she had long
meditated such a blow, and carefully calculated the effect of every word.
“I was thunderstruck.
“‘Well?’
“‘Well, I believe you. But now you are warned: let us think no more of such
horrors.’
“She had evidently settled it all. I had for lifetime this halter around my neck,
which held me tighter day by day and, at the slightest effort to free myself, I
must be prepared for a terrible scandal; for one of those overwhelming
adventures which destroy a man’s whole life. Could I ever hope to make her
listen to reason? No, I was quite sure I could not.
“I knew but too well that I should lose my time, if I were to recall to her that
I was not quite as guilty as she would make me out; if I were to show her
265
that her vengeance would fall less upon myself than upon her husband and
her children; and that, although she might blame the count for the
conditions of their marriage, her daughters, at least, were innocent.
“The thought that the countess should use her husband for the purpose of
keeping me bound shocked me. It seemed to me ridiculous and ignoble that
she should make her husband the guardian of her love. Did she think I was
afraid of her?
“In the meantime, my mother had asked me what was the result of my
reflections on the subject of marriage; and I blushed with shame as I told her
that I was not disposed to marry as yet, as I felt too young to accept the
responsibility of a family. It was so; but, under other circumstances, I should
hardly have put in that plea. I was thus hesitating, and thinking how and
when I should be able to make an end of it, when the war broke out. I felt
naturally bound to offer my services. I hastened to Boiscoran. They had just
organized the volunteers of the district; and they made me their captain.
With them I joined the army of the Loire. In my state of mind, war had
nothing fearful for me: every excitement was welcome that made me forget
the past. There was, consequently, no merit in my courage. Nevertheless, as
the weeks passed, and then the months, without my hearing a word about
the Countess Claudieuse, I began secretly to hope that she had forgotten
me; and that, time and absence doing their work, she was giving me up.
“When peace was made, I returned to Boiscoran; and the countess gave no
more signs of life now than before. I began to feel reassured, and to recover
possession of myself, when one day M. de Chandore invited me to dinner. I
went. I saw Miss Dionysia.
“I had known her already for some time; and the recollection of her had,
perhaps, had its influence upon my desire to quit the countess. Still I had
266
always had self-control enough to avoid her lest I should draw some fatal
vengeance upon her. When I was brought in contact with her by her
grandfather, I had no longer the heart to avoid her; and, on the day on
which I thought I read in her eyes that she loved me I made up my mind, and
I resolved to risk every thing.
“But how shall I tell you what I suffered, Magloire, and with what anxiety I
asked every evening when I returned to Boiscoran,—
“None came; and still it was impossible that the Countess Claudieuse should
not have heard of my marriage. My father had called on M. de Chandore,
and asked him for the hand of his grand-daughter for me. I had been publicly
acknowledged as her betrothed; and nothing was now to be done but to fix
the wedding-day.
“Yes, this calm frightened me more than a storm would have done. To win
Dionysia’s love was too great happiness. I expected a catastrophe,
something terrible. I expected it with such absolute certainty, that I had
actually made up my mind to confess every thing to M. de Chandore. You
know him, Magloire. The old gentleman is the purest and brightest type of
honor itself. I could intrust my secrets to him with as perfect safety as I
formerly intrusted Genevieve’s name to the night winds.
“One word might have saved me; and I should not be here, charged with an
atrocious crime, innocent, and yet condemned to see how you doubt the
truth of my words.
“After having for a week postponed my confession every day to the next,
one evening, after Dionysia and I had been talking of presentiments, I said to
myself, ‘To-morrow it shall be done.’
“The next morning, I went to Boiscoran much earlier than usual, and on
foot, because I wanted to give some orders to a dozen workmen whom I
employed in my vineyards. I took a short cut through the fields. Alas! not a
single detail has escaped from my memory. When I had given my orders, I
returned to the high road, and there met the priest from Brechy, who is a
friend of mine.
“‘You must,’ he said, ‘keep me company for a little distance. As you are on
your way to Sauveterre, it will not delay you much to take the cross-road
which passes by Valpinson and the forest of Rochepommier.’
“I accompanied the priest, and only left him at the point where the high-
road and the cross-road intersect. As soon as I was alone, I hastened on; and
I was almost through the wood, when, all of a sudden, some twenty yards
before me, I saw the Countess Claudieuse coming towards me. In spite of
my emotion, I kept on my way, determined to bow to her, but to pass her
without speaking. I did so, and had gone on a little distance, when I heard
her call me,—
“‘Jacques!’
“I stopped; or, rather, I was nailed to the spot by that voice which for a long
time had held such entire control over my heart. She came up to me, looking
even more excited than I was. Her lips trembled, and her eyes wandered to
and fro.
“‘Well,’ she said, ‘it is no longer a fancy: this time you marry Miss Chandore.’
268
“‘Yes,’ I replied.
“‘Then it is really true,’ she said again. ‘It is all over now. I suppose it would
be in vain to remind you of those vows of eternal love which you used to
repeat over and over again. Look down there under that old oak. They are
the same trees, this is the same landscape, and I am still the same woman;
but your heart has changed.’
“I made no reply.
“‘I understand,’ she said, ‘I understand you but too well. And Dionysia? She
loves you so much she cannot keep it to herself. She stops her friends to tell
them all about her marriage, and to assure them of her happiness. Oh, yes,
indeed, very happy! That love which was my disgrace is her honor. I was
forced to conceal it like a crime: she can display it as a virtue. Social forms
are, after all, very absurd and unjust; but a fool is he who tries to defy them.’
“Tears, the very first tears I had ever seen her shed, glittered in her long silky
eyelashes.
“‘I cannot be completely happy as long as I know that you are unhappy. But
there is no sorrow which time does not heal. You will forget’—
269
“‘Can I forget you? Alas! my crime is fearful; but the punishment is still more
so.’
“She made an effort to control her emotion. The people passed us, saluting
politely. And after a moment she said again,—
“‘No day has as yet been fixed,’ I replied. ‘Had I not to see you first? You
uttered once grave threats.’
“‘No: I was sure I knew you too well to fear that you would punish me for
having loved you, as if that had been a crime. So many things have
happened since the day when you made those threats!’
“‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘many things indeed! My poor father is incorrigible. Once
more he has committed himself fearfully; and once more my husband has
been compelled to sacrifice a large sum to save him. Ah, Count Claudieuse
has a noble heart; and it is a great pity I should be the only one towards
whom he has failed to show generosity. Every kindness which he shows me
is a new grievance for me; but, having accepted them all, I have forfeited the
right to strike him, as I had intended to do. You may marry Dionysia,
Jacques; you have nothing to fear from me.’
“Ah! I had not hoped for so much, Magloire. Overcome with joy, I seized her
hand, and raising it to my lips, I said,—
“But promptly, as if my lips had burnt her hand, she drew it back, and said,
turning very pale,—
“‘But we must meet once more. You have my letters, I dare say.’
“‘Well, you must bring them to me. But where? And how? I can hardly
absent myself at this time. My youngest daughter—our daughter,
Jacques—is very ill. Still, an end must be made. Let us see, on Thursday—are
you free then? Yes. Very well, then come on Thursday evening, towards nine
o’clock, to Valpinson. You will find me at the edge of the wood, near the
towers of the old castle, which my husband has repaired.’
“‘Have I ever left any thing to chance?’ she replied, ‘and would I be apt, at
this time, to be imprudent? Rely on me. Come, we must part, Jacques.
Thursday, and be punctual!’
“Was I really free? Was the chain really broken? And had I become once
more my own master?
“I thought so, and in my almost delirious joy I forgave the countess all the
anxieties of the last year. What do I say? I began to accuse myself of injustice
and cruelty. I admired her for sacrificing herself to my happiness. I felt, in the
fulness of my gratitude, like kneeling down, and kissing the hem of her
dress.
“Oh, yes, very pleasant! For the first time, I breathed freely as I sat by her
side. I could love her now, without fearing that my love might be fatal to
her.
“This security did not last long. As I considered the matter, I thought it very
singular that the countess should have chosen such a place for our meeting.
“All day long on Thursday I had the most painful presentiments. If I had
known how to let the countess know, I should certainly not have gone. But I
had no means to send her word; and I knew her well enough to be sure that
breaking my word would expose me to her full vengeance. I dined at the
usual hour; and, when I had finished, I went up to my room, where I wrote
to Dionysia not to expect me that evening, as I should be detained by a
matter of the utmost importance.
“I handed the note to Michael, the son of one of my tenants, and told him to
carry it to town without losing a minute. Then I tied up all of the countess’s
letters in a parcel, put it in my pocket, took my gun, and went out. It might
have been eight o’clock; but it was still broad daylight.”
Whether M. Magloire accepted every thing that the prisoner said as truth, or
not, he was evidently deeply interested. He had drawn up his chair, and at
every statement he uttered half-loud exclamations.
“Under any other circumstances,” said Jacques, “I should have taken one of
the two public roads in going to Valpinson. But troubled, as I was, by vague
suspicions, I thought only of concealing myself and cut across the marshes.
They were partly overflowed; but I counted upon my intimate familiarity
with the ground, and my agility. I thought, moreover, that here I should
certainly not be seen, and should meet no one. In this I was mistaken. When
I reached the Seille Canal, and was just about to cross it, I found myself face
to face with young Ribot, the son of a farmer at Brechy. He looked so very
much surprised at seeing me in such a place, that I thought to give him some
explanation; and, rendered stupid by my troubles, I told him I had business
at Brechy, and was crossing the marshes to shoot some birds.
272
“‘If that is so,’ he replied, laughing, ‘we are not after the same kind of
game.’
“He went his way; but this accident annoyed me seriously. I continued on
my way, swearing, I fear, at young Ribot, and found that the path became
more and more dangerous. It was long past nine when I reached Valpinson
at last. But the night was clear, and I became more cautious than ever.
“The place which the countess had chosen for our meeting was about two
hundred yards from the house and the farm buildings, sheltered by other
buildings, and quite close to the wood. I approached it through this wood.
“Hid among the trees, I was examining the ground, when I noticed the
countess standing near one of the old towers: she wore a simple costume of
light muslin, which could be seen at a distance. Finding every thing quiet, I
went up to her; and, as soon as she saw me, she said,—
“I explained to her the difficulties I had met with on my way there; and then
I asked her,—
“And, without thinking of the insult, she went to work counting them.
273
“‘They are all here,’ she said when she had finished.
“‘You cannot think of it,’ I cried, ‘here, and at this hour. The fire would
certainly be seen.’
“‘What? Are you afraid? However, we can go into the wood. Come, give me
some matches.’
“‘Oh, come!—you who smoke all day long,—you who, even in my presence,
could never give up your cigars.’
“This would have delayed us, and thus would have been an additional
imprudence. I saw that I must do what she wanted, and so I said,—
“All sportsmen know that there is a way to replace matches. I employed the
usual means. I took a cartridge out of my gun, emptied it and its shot, and
put in, instead a piece of paper. Then, resting my gun on the ground, so as to
prevent a loud explosion, I made the powder flash up.
“A few minutes later, and nothing was left of them but a few blackened
fragments, which I crumbled in my hands, and scattered to the winds.
Immovable, like a statue, the Countess Claudieuse had watched my
operations.
“‘And that is all,’ she said, ‘that remains of five years of our life, of our love,
and of your vows,—ashes.’
“‘Happiness awaits you, and a new life full of intoxicating hopes: it is quite
natural that you should tremble. I, whose life is ended, and who have
nothing to look for,—I, in whom you have killed every hope,—I am not
afraid.’
“I saw her anger rising within her, and said very quietly,—
“‘Perhaps I do,’ she replied, in an accent which made me tremble. ‘How you
must laugh at me! What a wretched thing a woman is who is abandoned,
who resigns, and sheds tears!’
“She raised her arms to heaven, like a drowning person; and, in a voice
which I thought they could hear at the house, she cried,—
“‘His wife! If I were a widow, I would be his wife! O God! Luckily, that
thought, that terrible thought, never occurred to me before.’”
“And then?”
Jacques had to summon all the energy that was left him to be able to
continue with a semblance of calmness, at least,—
“Then I tried every thing in the world to quiet the countess, to move her,
and bring her back to the generous feelings of former days. I was so
completely upset that I hardly knew what I was saying. I hated her bitterly,
and still I could not help pitying her. I am a man; and there is no man living
who would not feel deeply moved at seeing himself the object of such bitter
regrets and such terrible despair. Besides, my happiness and Dionysia’s
honor were at stake. How do I know what I said? I am not a hero of
romance. No doubt I was mean. I humbled myself, I besought her, I told
falsehoods, I vowed to her that it was my family, mainly, who made me
marry. I hoped I should be able, by great kindness and caressing words, to
soften the bitterness of the parting. She listened to me, remaining as
impassive as a block of ice; and, when I paused, she said with a sinister
laugh,—
“‘And you tell me all that! Your Dionysia! Ah! if I were a woman like other
women, I would say nothing to-day, and, before the year was over, you
would again be at my feet.’
276
“She must have been thinking of our meeting at the cross-roads. Or was this
the last outburst of passion at the moment when the last ties were broken
off? I was going to speak again; but she interrupted me bruskly, saying,—
“‘Oh, that is enough! Spare me, at least, the insult of your pity! I’ll see. I
promise nothing. Good-by!’
“And she escaped toward the house, while I remained rooted to the spot,
almost stupefied, and asking myself if she was not, perhaps at that moment,
telling Count Claudieuse every thing. It was at that moment that I drew from
my gun, almost mechanically, the burnt cartridge and put in a fresh one.
Then, as nothing stirred, I went off with rapid strides.”
“I could not tell you precisely. My state of mind was such, that I had lost all
idea of time. I went back through the forest of Rochepommier.”
“No.”
“Heard nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Still, from your statement, you could not have been far from Valpinson
when the fire broke out.”
“That is true, and, in the open country, I should certainly have seen the fire;
but I was in a dense wood: the trees cut off all view.”
“And these same trees prevented the sound of the two shots fired at Count
Claudieuse from reaching your ear?”
“They might have helped to prevent it; but there was no need for that. I was
walking against the wind, which was very high; and it is an established fact,
that, under such circumstances, the sound of a gun is not heard beyond fifty
yards.”
M. Magloire once more could hardly restrain his impatience; and, utterly
unconscious that he was even harsher than the magistrate, he said,—
277
“I believe that my statement, which is founded upon the most exact truth,
explains the charges brought against me by M. Galpin. It explains how I tried
to keep my visit to Valpinson secret; how I was met in going and in coming
back, and at hours which correspond with the time of the fire. It explains,
finally, how I came at first to deny. It explains how one of my cartridge-cases
was found near the ruins, and why I had to wash my hands when I reached
home.”
“And the day after, when they came to arrest you, what was your first
impression?”
“And when you were told that a crime had been committed?”
“Unhappy man! How can you dare accuse the Countess Claudieuse of such a
crime?”
“Whom else should I accuse? A crime has been committed, and under such
circumstances that it cannot have been committed by any one except by her
or by myself. I am innocent: consequently she is guilty.”
“How many times, and in how many ways, do you want me to give you my
reasons? I kept silent the first day, because I did not then know the
circumstances of the crime, and because I was reluctant to accuse a woman
who had given me her love, and who had become criminal from passion;
because, in fine, I did not think at that time that I was in danger. After that I
kept silent because I hoped justice would be able to discover the truth, or
278
the countess would be unable to bear the idea that I, the innocent one,
should be accused. Still later, when I saw my danger, I was afraid.”
“You do not tell the truth, Jacques; and I will tell you why you kept silent. It
is very difficult to make up a story which is to account for every thing. But
you are a clever man: you thought it over, and you made out a story. There is
nothing lacking in it, except probability. You might tell me that the Countess
Claudieuse has unfairly enjoyed the reputation of a saint, and that she has
given you her love; perhaps I might be willing to believe it. But when you say
she has set her own house on fire, and taken up a gun to shoot her husband,
that I can never, never admit.”
“No; for the evidence of Count Claudieuse is precise. He has seen his
murderer; it was a man who fired at him.”
“And who tells you that Count Claudieuse does not know all, and wants to
save his wife, and ruin me? There would be a vengeance for him.”
The objection took the advocate by surprise; but he rejected it at once, and
said,—
“When one has been a woman’s lover for five years, there are always
proofs.”
“Unhappy man! Do you not feel, that, in order to escape from one crime,
you are committing another which is a thousand times worse?”
And he went toward the door. He was on the point of leaving, when
Jacques cried out, almost in agony,—
“No,” replied the advocate; “but I cannot discuss matters with you in the
state of excitement in which you now are. You will think it over, and I will
come again to-morrow.”
He left; and Jacques de Boiscoran fell, utterly undone, on one of the prison
chairs.
CHAPTER 15
During all this time, they were suffering intense anxiety at M. de Chandore’s
house. Ever since eight o’clock in the morning the two aunts, the old
gentleman, the marchioness, and M. Folgat had been assembled in the
dining-room, and were there waiting for the result of the interview. Dionysia
had only come down later; and her grandfather could not help noticing that
she had dressed more carefully than usual.
“Are we not going to see Jacques again?” she replied with a smile full of
confidence and joy.
She had actually persuaded herself that one word from Jacques would
suffice to convince the celebrated lawyer, and that he would reappear
triumphant on M. Magloire’s arm. The others did not share these
expectations. The two aunts, looking as yellow as their old laces, sat
immovable in a corner. The marchioness was trying to hide her tears; and M.
Folgat endeavored to look absorbed in a volume of engravings. M. de
Chandore, who possessed less self-control, walked up and down in the
room, repeating every ten minutes,—
“It is wonderful how long time seems when you are waiting!”
Eleven o’clock, and no news. The marchioness got up, and said,—
But such a proceeding was hardly suitable. M. de Chandore opposed it, and
was supported by M. Folgat, as well as by M. Seneschal.
“We might at least send somebody,” suggested the two aunts timidly.
He rang the bell; and old Anthony came in. He had established himself the
evening before in Sauveterre, having heard that the preliminary
investigation was finished.
As soon as he had been told what they wanted him to do, he said,—
He nearly ran down the steep street, hastened along National Street, and
then climbed up more slowly Castle Street. When M. Blangin, the keeper,
saw him appear, he turned very pale; for M. Blangin had not slept since
Dionysia had given him the seventeen thousand francs. He, once upon a
time the special friend of all gendarmes, now trembled when one of them
entered the jail. Not that he felt any remorse about having betrayed his
duty; oh, no! but he feared discovery.
More than ten times he had changed the hiding-place of his precious
stocking; but, wherever he put it, he always fancied that the eyes of his
visitors were riveted upon that very spot. He recovered, however, from his
fright when Anthony told him his errand, and replied in the most civil
manner,—
“M. Magloire came here at nine o’clock precisely. I took him immediately to
M. de Boiscoran’s cell; and ever since they have been talking, talking.”
“Of course I am. Must I not know every thing that happens in my jail? I went
and listened. You can hear nothing from the passage: they have shut the
wicket, and the door is massive.”
“Yes, and a bad sign,” declared the keeper with a knowing air. “I have
noticed that the prisoners who take so long to state their case to their
advocate always catch the maximum of punishment.”
Anthony, of course, did not report to his masters the jailer’s mournful
anticipations; but what he told them about the length of the interview did
not tend to relieve their anxiety.
Gradually the color had faded from Dionysia’s cheeks; and the clear ring of
her voice was half drowned in tears, when she said, that it would have been
better, perhaps, if she had put on mourning, and that seeing the whole
family assembled thus reminded her of a funeral.
The sudden arrival of Dr. Seignebos cut short her remarks. He was in a great
passion, as usual; and as soon as he entered, he cried,—
“What a stupid town Sauveterre is! Nothing but gossip and idle reports! The
people are all of them old women. I feel like running away, and hiding
myself. On my way here, twenty curious people have stopped me to ask me
what M. de Boiscoran is going to do now. For the town is full of rumors.
They know that Magloire is at the jail now; and everybody wants to be the
first to hear Jacques’s story.”
He had put his immense broad brimmed hat on the table, and, looking
around the room at all the sad faces he asked,—
Then taking down his spectacles, and wiping them diligently, he said,—
“Did you think, my dear young lady, that Jacques de Boiscoran’s affair could
be settled in five minutes? If they let you believe that, they did wrong. I, who
despise all concealment, I will tell you the truth. At the bottom of all these
occurrences at Valpinson, there lies, I am perfectly sure, some dark intrigue.
283
Most assuredly we shall put Jacques out of his trouble; but I fear it will be
hard work.”
“Jacques is lost!”
“I believe he is in danger.”
The lawyer was evidently very much embarrassed; and he looked with
unmistakable distress, first at Dionysia, and then at the two old aunts. But
nobody noticed this, and so he said,—
In the most docile manner the Misses Lavarande rose, and took their niece
and Jacques’s mother with them: the latter was evidently near fainting. As
soon as the door was shut, Grandpapa Chandore, half mad with grief,
exclaimed,—
“Stop,” said the advocate: “I have said nothing of the kind. M. de Boiscoran
still protests energetically that he is innocent; but he states in his defence a
fact which is so entirely improbable, so utterly inadmissible”—
“He says that the Countess Claudieuse has been his mistress.”
But the doctor was not the man to be surprised at what public opinion said,
much less to fear it. He exclaimed,—
“Don’t you hear what I say? Don’t you understand me? The proof that the
thing is neither so incredible nor so impossible is, that I had suspected it.
And there were signs of it, I should think. Why on earth should a man like
Jacques, young, rich, well made, in love with a charming girl, and beloved by
her, why should he amuse himself with setting houses on fire, and killing
people? You tell me he did not like Count Claudieuse. Upon my word! If
everybody who does not like Dr. Seignebos were to come and fire at him
forthwith, do you know my body would look like a sieve! Among you all, M.
Folgat is the only one who has not been struck with blindness.”
“Sir”—
“Yes, sir, you saw it all; and the proof of it is, that you at once went to work
in search of the real motive, the heart,—in fine, the woman at the bottom of
the riddle. The proof of it is, that you went and asked everybody,—Anthony,
M. de Chandore, M. Seneschal, and myself,—if M. de Boiscoran had not
now, or had not had, some love-affair in the country. They all said No, being
far from suspecting the truth. I alone, without giving you a positive answer,
told you that I thought as you did, and told you so in M. de Chandore’s
presence.”
Never before, in their life, had the mayor of Sauveterre and Dr. Seignebos
been able to agree on any subject. This question was not likely to produce
such an effect all of a sudden: hence M. Seneschal said,—
“Certainly she said, ‘Ah!’ But that is no proof. I, also, could very easily say,
‘Ah!’ if anybody should come and tell me that the mayor of Sauveterre was
in the wrong; and still I should not be surprised.”
But Dr. Seignebos had already turned to M. Magloire, whom he was anxious
to convert, and went on,—
“Yes, the face of the Countess Claudieuse, expressed amazement; but her
eyes spoke of bitter, fierce hatred, of joy, and of vengeance. And that is not
all. Will you please tell me, Mr. Mayor, when Count Claudieuse was roused
by the fire, was the countess by him? No, she was nursing her youngest
daughter, who had the measles. Hm! What do you think of measles which
make sitting up at night necessary? And when the two shots were fired,
where was the countess then? Still with her daughter, and on the other side
of the house from where the fire was.”
The mayor of Sauveterre was no less obstinate than the doctor. He at once
objected,—
“I beg you will notice, doctor, that Count Claudieuse himself deposed how,
when he ran to the fire, he found the door shut from within, just as he had
left it a few hours before.”
“And the children! Does Mr. Mayor think it natural that the Countess
Claudieuse, this incomparable mother in his estimation, should forget her
children in the height of the fire?”
“What! The poor woman is called out by the discharge of fire-arms; she sees
her house on fire; she stumbles over the lifeless body of her husband: and
you blame her for not having preserved all her presence of mind.”
287
“That is one view of it; but it is not the one I take. I rather think that the
countess, having been delayed out of doors, was prevented by the fire from
getting in again. I think, also, that Cocoleu came very opportunely; and that
it was very lucky Providence should inspire his mind with that sublime idea
of saving the children at the risk of his life.”
He paused for a few seconds; but, without giving anybody time to reply, he
went on,—
“Now, let us go back to our point of departure, and draw our conclusions.
Why do you think it so improbable and impossible that the countess
Claudieuse should have betrayed her duties? Because she has a world-wide
reputation for purity and prudence. Well. But was not Jacques de
Boiscoran’s reputation as a man of honor also above all doubt? According to
your views, it is absurd to suspect the countess of having had a lover.
According to my notions, it is absurd that Jacques should, overnight, have
become a scoundrel.”
“Certainly not!” replied the doctor; “and there you are right, for once. If M.
de Boiscoran had committed this crime, it would be one of those absurd
crimes which are revolting to us; but, if committed by the countess, it is only
the catastrophe prepared by Count Claudieuse on the day when he married
a woman thirty years younger than he was.”
The great wrath of Dr. Seignebos was not always as formidable as it looked.
Even when he appeared to be almost beside himself, he never said more
than he intended to say, possessed as he was of that admirable southern
quality, which enabled him to pour forth fire and flames, and to remain as
cold as ice within, But in this case he showed what he thought fully. He had
said quite enough, too, and had presented the whole affair under such a
new aspect, that his friends became very thoughtful.
“You would have converted me, doctor,” said M. Folgat, “if I had not been
of your opinion before.”
“Well,” said he, “I had rather admit one hour of utter insanity even than five
years of such monstrous hypocrisy. Jacques may have committed the crime,
and be nothing but a madman; but, if the countess is guilty, one might
despair of mankind, and renounce all faith in this world. I have seen her,
gentlemen, with her husband and her children. No one can feign such looks
of tenderness and affection.”
And touching his friend on the shoulder,—for M. Magloire had been his
friend for many years, and they were quite intimate,—he said,—
“Ah! There I recognize my friend, the strange lawyer, who judges others by
himself, and refuses to believe any thing bad. Oh, do not protest! For we
love and honor you for that very faith, and are proud to see you among us
Republicans. But I must confess you are not the man to bring light into such
289
a dark intrigue. At twenty-eight you married a girl whom you loved dearly:
you lost her, and ever since you have remained faithful to her memory, and
lived so far from all passions that you no longer believe in their existence.
Happy man! Your heart is still at twenty; and with your grey hair you still
believe in the smiles and looks of woman.”
There was much truth in this; but there are certain truths which we are not
overfond of hearing.
“Well, there you are mistaken, master,” said the physician, arranging his
spectacles with an air of self-conceit, which, under other circumstances,
would have been irresistibly ludicrous.
And M. Magloire was evidently right in this estimate of his duty. He went
and leaned against the mantelpiece; and, when the others had taken their
seats around him, he began,—
“In the first place, I will admit the allegations made by M. de Boiscoran. He is
innocent. He has been the lover of Countess Claudieuse; but he has no
290
proof. This being granted, what is to be done? Shall I advise him to send for
the magistrate, and to confess it all?”
No one replied at first. It was only after a long silence that Dr. Seignebos
said,—
“Very serious, indeed,” repeated the famous lawyer. “Our own feelings give
us the measure of what M. Galpin will think. First of all, he, also, will ask for
proof, the evidence of a witness, any thing, in fact. And, when Jacques tells
him that he has nothing to give but his word, M. Galpin will tell him that he
does not speak the truth.”
“He would certainly summon her. But, then, would she confess? It would be
madness to expect that. If she is guilty, she is far too strong-minded to let
the truth escape her. She would deny every thing, haughtily, magnificently,
and in such a manner as not to leave a shadow of doubt.”
“That is only too probable,” growled the doctor. “That poor Galpin is not
the strongest of men.”
“Well, here we are now before the court at Sauveterre, before a jury
composed of people from this district, incapable of prevarication, I am sure,
but, unfortunately, under the influence of that public opinion which has long
since condemned M. de Boiscoran. The proceedings begin; the judge
questions the accused. Will he say what he told me,—that, after having
been the lover of the Countess Claudieuse, he had gone to Valpinson to
carry her back her letters, and to get his own, and that they are all burnt?
Suppose he says so. Immediately then there will arise a storm of indignation;
and he will be overwhelmed with curses and with contempt. Well,
thereupon, the president of the court uses his discretionary powers,
suspends the trial, and sends for the Countess Claudieuse. Since we look
upon her as guilty, we must needs endow her with supernatural energy. She
had foreseen what is coming, and has read over her part. When summoned,
she appears, pale, dressed in black; and a murmur of respectful sympathy
greets her at her entrance. You see her before you, don’t you? The president
explains to her why she has been sent for, and she does not comprehend.
She cannot possibly comprehend such an abominable calumny. But when
she has comprehended it? Do you see the lofty look by which she crushes
Jacques, and the grandeur with which she replies, ‘When this man had failed
in trying to murder my husband, he tried to disgrace his wife. I intrust to you
my honor as a mother and a wife, gentlemen. I shall not answer the
infamous charges of this abject calumniator.’”
“But that means the galleys for Jacques,” exclaimed M. de Chandore, “or
even the scaffold!”
“Well, I know you would not,” exclaimed M. Magloire; “and you would be
right, for you would risk your reputation without the slightest chance of
saving Jacques. Yes, no chance whatever! For after all, let us suppose, what
can hardly be even supposed, you should prove that Jacques has told the
truth, that he has been the lover of the countess. What would happen then?
They arrest the countess. Do they release M. de Boiscoran on that account?
Certainly not! They keep him in prison, and say to him. ‘This woman has
attempted her husband’s life; but she had been your mistress, and you are
her accomplice.’
“And that is,” continued the old gentleman, “what you call justice!”
“Alas!” sighed M. Seneschal, “it is useless to deny it: trials by jury are a
lottery.”
“In other words, Jacques’s honor and life depend at this hour on a
chance,—on the weather on the day of the trial, or the health of a juror. And
if Jacques was the only one! But there is Dionysia’s life, gentlemen, my
child’s life, also at stake. If you strike Jacques, you strike Dionysia!”
M. Folgat could hardly restrain a tear. M. Seneschal, and even the doctor,
shuddered at such grief in an old man, who was threatened in all that was
dearest to him,—in his one great love upon earth. He had taken the hand of
293
“You will save him, Magloire, won’t you? What does it matter whether he be
innocent or guilty, since Dionysia loves him? You have saved so many in your
life! It is well known the judges cannot resist the weight of your words. You
will find means to save a poor, unhappy man who once was your friend.”
“What do you mean, friend Magloire? Are you no longer the man whose
marvellous eloquence is the pride of our country? Hold your head up: for
shame! Never was a nobler cause intrusted to you.”
“I have no faith in it; and I cannot plead when my conscience does not
furnish the arguments.”
“Seignebos was right in saying just now, I am not the man for such a cause.
Here all my experience would be of no use. It will be better to intrust it to
my young brother here.”
For the first time in his life, M. Folgat came here upon a case such as enables
a man to rise to eminence, and to open a great future before him. For the
first time, he came upon a case in which were united all the elements of
supreme interest,—greatness of crime, eminence of victim, character of the
accused, mystery, variety of opinions, difficulty of defence, and uncertainty
of issue,—one of those causes for which an advocate is filled with
enthusiasm, which he seizes upon with all his energies, and in which he
shares all the anxiety and all the hopes with his client.
“You will be more useful to him than I can be,” was the reply.
“Oh!”
“What would the public think if they heard all of a sudden that you had
withdrawn? ‘This affair of M. de Boiscoran must be a very bad one indeed,’
they would say, ‘that M. Magloire should refuse to plead in it.’ And that
would be an additional burden laid upon the unfortunate man.”
“Have you any plan? Any idea? What would you do?”
may be. But mistrust challenges suspicion; and, when you take the greatest
precautions, you are most likely to be watched. You want to hide, and you
are discovered. You see nobody; but they see you.
“I should, at the same time, have sent detectives after that English maid-
servant who attended to the house in Vine Street. M. de Boiscoran declares
that she has never even caught a glimpse of the countess. I do not believe it.
It is out of question that a servant should not wish for the means, and find
them, of seeing the face of the woman who comes to see her master.
“And that is not all. There were other people who came to the house in Vine
Street. I should examine them one by one,—the gardener and his help, the
water-carrier, the upholsterer, the errand-boys of all the merchants. Who
can say whether one of them is not in possession of this truth which we are
seeking?
The others trembled with excitement. They felt that the struggle was
commencing. But, unmindful of the impression he had produced, M. Folgat
went on,—
“Is that all, gentlemen?” he continued. “By no means! Thanks to his great
experience, Dr. Seignebos had, on the very first day, instinctively guessed
who was the most important personage of this mysterious drama.”
“Cocoleu!”
Dr. Seignebos was quivering with excitement. He heard all his own ideas
repeated in a concise, energetic manner.
“Yes,” he cried, “that is the way to do it! Let me have full power, and in less
than a fortnight Cocoleu is unmasked.”
The young lawyer made no effort to protest. When he began to speak, his
determination was already formed.
“Whatever can humanly be done,” he replied, “I will do. If I accept the task, I
shall devote myself body and soul to it. But I insist upon it, it is understood,
and must be publicly announced, that M. Magloire does not withdraw from
the case, and that I act only as his junior.”
“To-morrow morning.”
“That is provoking.”
“No, since we have our work all cut out for to-day. We have to go over all
the papers of the proceedings, which the magistrate has placed in my
hands.”
“Oh, what words! Go to work, Mr. Advocate, to work, I say. Come, shall we
go?”
They were leaving the room when M. de Chandore called them back by a
gesture. He said,—
“What? How can I tell her that Jacques has been the lover of the Countess
Claudieuse?”
“M. de Chandore ought not to say any thing,” said M. Magloire decisively.
“It is too much already, to have to intrust the marchioness with the secret;
for you must not forget, gentlemen, that the slightest indiscretion would
certainly ruin all of M. Folgat’s delicate plans.”
Thereupon all went out; and M. de Chandore, left alone, said to himself,—
He was thinking it over almost painfully, when a maid came in, and told him
that Miss Dionysia wanted to see him.
“I am coming,” he said.
And he followed her with heavy steps, and trying to compose his features so
as to efface all traces of the terrible emotions through which he had passed.
The two aunts had taken Dionysia and the marchioness to the parlor in the
upper story. Here M. de Chandore found them all assembled,—the
marchioness, pale and overcome, extended in an easy-chair; but Dionysia,
walking up and down with burning cheeks and blazing eyes. As soon as he
entered, she asked him in a sharp, sad voice,—
“What! Jacques before the assizes? My son? A Boiscoran?” And she fell back
into her chair. Not a muscle in Dionysia’s face had moved. She said in a
strange tone of voice,—
“I was prepared for something worse. One may avoid the court.”
300
With these words she left the room, shutting the door so violently, that both
the Misses Lavarande hastened after her. Now M. de Chandore thought he
might speak freely. He stood up before the marchioness, and gave vent to
that fearful wrath which had been rising within him for a long time.
“Your son,” he cried, “your Jacques, I wish he were dead a thousand times!
The wretch who is killing my child, for you see he is killing her.”
And, without pity, he told her the whole story of Jacques and the Countess
Claudieuse. The marchioness was overcome. She had even ceased to sob,
and had not strength enough left to ask him to have pity on her. And, when
he had ended, she whispered to herself with an expression of unspeakable
suffering,—
CHAPTER 16
“M. Galpin must fancy himself wonderfully safe in his position, that he
should grant the defence permission to see all the papers of the
prosecution.”
Ordinarily such leave is given only after the court has begun proceedings
against the accused, and the presiding judge has questioned him. This looks
like crying injustice to the prisoner; and hence arrangements can be made by
which the rigor of the law is somewhat mitigated. With the consent of the
commonwealth attorney, and upon his responsibility, the magistrate who
had carried on the preliminary investigation may inform the accused, or his
counsel, by word of mouth, or by a copy of all or of part, of what has
happened during the first inquiry. That is what M. Galpin had done.
And on the part of a man who was ever ready to interpret the law in its
strictest meaning, and who no more dared proceed without authority for
every step than a blind man without his staff,—or on the part of such a man,
an enemy, too, of M. de Boiscoran, this permission granted to the defence
was full of meaning. But did it really mean what M. Folgat thought it did?
“I am almost sure you are mistaken,” said M. Magloire. “I know the good
man, having practiced with him for many years. If he were sure of himself,
he would be pitiless. If he is kind, he is afraid. This concession is a door which
he keeps open, in case of defeat.”
The eminent counsel was right. However well convinced M. Galpin might be
of Jacques’s guilt, he was still very much troubled about his means of
defence. Twenty examinations had elicited nothing from his prisoner but
protestations of innocence. When he was driven to the wall, he would
reply,—
This is often the reply of the most stupid scamp, who only wants to gain
time. But M. Galpin knew his former friend, and had too high an opinion of
his mind, not to fear that there was something serious beneath his obstinate
silence.
M. Galpin would have given much to know. And it was for the purpose of
finding it out sooner, that he had given the permission. Before he granted it,
however, he had conferred with the commonwealth attorney. Excellent M.
Daubigeon, whom he found, as usual, admiring the beautiful gilt edging of
his beloved books, had treated him badly.
“Do you come for any more signatures?” he had exclaimed. “You shall have
them. If you want any thing else, your servant.
“‘When the blunder is made, It is too late, I tell thee, to come for advice.’”
However discouraging such a welcome might be, M. Galpin did not give up
his purpose. He said in his bitterest tone,—
“You still insist that it is a blunder to do one’s duty. Has not a crime been
committed? Is it not my duty to find out the author, and to have him
punished? Well? Is it my fault if the author of this crime is an old friend of
mine, and if I was once upon a time on the point of marrying a relation of
his? There is no one in court who doubts M. de Boiscoran’s guilt; there is no
one who dares blame me: and yet they are all as cold as ice towards me.”
“Such is the world,” said M. Daubigeon with a face full of irony. “They praise
virtue; but they hate it.”
“Well, yes! that is so,” cried M. Galpin in his turn. “Yes, they blame people
who have done what they had not the courage to do. The attorney general
has congratulated me, because he judges things from on high and
impartially. Here cliques are all-powerful. Even those who ought to
encourage and support me, cry out against me. My natural ally, the
commonwealth attorney, forsakes me and laughs at me. The president of
the court, my immediate superior, said to me this morning with intolerable
303
irony, ‘I hardly know any magistrate who would be able as you are to
sacrifice his relations and his friends to the interests of truth and justice. You
are one of the ancients: you will rise high.’”
“Let us break off there: we shall never understand each other. Is Jacques de
Boiscoran innocent, or guilty? I do not know. But I do know that he was the
pleasantest man in the world, an admirable host, a good talker, a scholar,
and that he owned the finest editions of Horace and Juvenal that I have ever
seen. I liked him. I like him still; and it distresses me to think of him in prison.
I know that we had the most pleasant relations with each other, and that
now they are broken off. And you, you complain! Am I the ambitious man?
Do I want to have my name connected with a world-famous trial? M. de
Boiscoran will in all probability be condemned. You ought to be delighted.
And still you complain? Why, one cannot have everything. Who ever
undertook a great enterprise, and never repented of it?”
After that there was nothing left for M. Galpin but to go away. He did go in a
fury, but at the same time determined to profit by the rude truths which M.
Daubigeon had told him; for he knew very well that his friend represented in
his views nearly the whole community. He was fully prepared to carry out his
plan. Immediately after his return, he communicated the papers of the
prosecution to the defence, and directed his clerk to show himself as
obliging as he could. M. Mechinet was not a little surprised at these orders.
He knew his master thoroughly,—this magistrate, whose shadow he had
been now for so many years.
And as M. Galpin repeated the injunction, adding that the honor of justice
required the utmost courtesy when rigor was not to be employed, the old
clerk replied very gravely,—
But, as soon as the magistrate turned his back, Mechinet laughed aloud.
304
For he had done all this four times more than enough to be dismissed from
his place, and even to become, at least for some months, one of Blangin’s
boarders. He shivered all down his back when he thought of this; and he had
been furiously angry, when, one evening, his sisters, the devout
seamstresses, had taken it into their heads to say to him,—
“Certainly, Mechinet, you are a different man ever since that visit of Miss
Chandore.”
But, if he had these attacks of rage, he felt not a moment’s remorse. Miss
Dionysia had completely bewitched him; and he judged M. Galpin’s conduct
as severely as she did.
To be sure, M. Galpin had done nothing contrary to law; but he had violated
the spirit of the law. Having once summoned courage to begin proceedings
against his friend, he had not been able to remain impartial. Afraid of being
charged with timidity, he had exaggerated his severity. And, above all, he
had carried on the inquiry solely in the interests of a conviction, as if the
crime had been proved, and the prisoner had not protested his innocence.
Now, Mechinet firmly believed in this innocence; and he was fully persuaded
that the day on which Jacques de Boiscoran saw his counsel would be the
day of his justification. This will show with what eagerness he went to the
court-house to wait for M. Magloire.
But at noon the great lawyer had not yet come. He was still consulting with
M. de Chandore.
And his restlessness was so great, that, instead of going home to breakfast
with his sisters, he sent an office-boy for a roll and a glass of water. At last,
as three o’clock struck, M. Magloire and M. Folgat arrived; and Mechinet
saw at once in their faces, that he had been mistaken, and that Jacques had
not explained. Still, before M. Magloire, he did not dare inquire.
“Here are the papers,” he said simply, putting upon the table an immense
box.
The clerk had certainly acted so well, that they could have no secret from
him; and he so was fully committed, that there was no danger in relying
upon his discretion. Still M. Folgat did not dare to mention the name of the
Countess Claudieuse; and he replied evasively,—
“This is the matter: M. de Boiscoran explains fully; but he had no proofs for
his statement, and we are busy collecting proofs.”
Then he went and sat down by M. Magloire, who was already deep in the
papers. With the help of those documents, it was easy to follow step by step
M. Galpin’s work, to see the efforts he had made, and to comprehend his
strategy.
First of all, the two lawyers looked for the papers concerning Cocoleu. They
found none. Of the statement of the idiot on the night of the fire, of the
efforts made since to obtain from him a repetition of this evidence, of the
report of the experts,—of all this there was not a trace to be found.
It was really very well done. M. Galpin deprived by this step the defence of
one of their surest means, of one of those incidents in a trial which are apt
to affect the mind of the jury so powerfully.
306
They might do so, it is true; but what a difference it would make! If Cocoleu
appeared for M. Galpin, he was a witness for the prosecution, and the
defence could exclaim with indignation,—
“What! You suspect the prisoner upon the evidence of such a creature?”
“What do you hope for from a poor idiot, whose mental condition is such,
that we refused his evidence when it might have been most useful to us?”
Oh! in the simplest possible manner. He started from the fact that Count
Claudieuse was able to give the precise hour at which the crime was
committed. Thence he passed on immediately to the deposition of young
Ribot, who had met M. de Boiscoran on his way to Valpinson, crossing the
marshes, before the crime, and to that of Gaudry, who had seen him come
back from Valpinson through the woods, after the crime. Three other
witnesses who had turned up during the investigation confirmed this
evidence; and by these means alone, and by comparing the hours, M. Galpin
succeeded in proving, almost beyond doubt, that the accused had gone to
Valpinson, and nowhere else, and that he had been there at the time the
crime was committed.
To this question the prosecution replied by the evidence taken on the first
day of the inquiry, by the water in which Jacques had washed his hands, the
cartridge-case found near the house, and the identity of the shot extracted
from the count’s wounds with those seized with the gun at Boiscoran.
Nevertheless, they spent a part of the night in going over all the papers
carefully, and in studying every point made by the prosecution.
Next morning, about nine o’clock, having had only a few hours’ sleep, they
went together to the prison.
308
CHAPTER 17
The night before, the jailer of Sauveterre had said to his wife, at supper,—
“I am tired of the life I am leading here. They have paid me for my place,
have not they? Well, I mean to go.”
“You are a fool!” his wife had replied. “As long as M. de Boiscoran is a
prisoner there is a chance of profit. You don’t know how rich those
Chandores are. You ought to stay.”
Like many other husbands, Blangin fancied he was master in his own house.
But, notwithstanding all this, Mrs. Blangin having decided that he should
stay, he did stay. Sitting in front of his jail, and given up to the most dismal
presentiments, he was smoking his pipe, when M. Magloire and M. Folgat
appeared at the prison, and handed him M. Galpin’s permit. He rose as they
came in. He was afraid of them, not knowing whether they were in Miss
Dionysia’s secret or not. He therefore politely doffed his worsted cap, took
his pipe from his mouth, and said,—
“Ah! You come to see M. de Boiscoran, gentlemen? I will show you in: just
give me time to go for my keys.”
“Why, what is the matter with all prisoners when they see that things are
likely to turn out badly for them?”
It was clear that Blangin thought Jacques guilty, and that was a bad omen.
The persons who stand guard over prisoners have generally a very keen
scent; and not unfrequently lawyers consult them, very much as an author
consults the actors of the theatre on which his piece is to appear.
“But you know we have our experience. When a prisoner has been with his
counsel, I almost always go up to see him, and to offer him something,—a
little trifle to set him up again. So yesterday, after M. Magloire had been
here, I climbed up”—
He paused a moment to take a whiff at his pipe; but it had gone out: he put
it in his pocket, and went on,—
“I might have told him that I had a right to come into the cells whenever I
liked, and to stay there as long as it pleases me. But prisoners are like
children: you must not worry them. But I opened the wicket, and I remained
there, watching him. Ah, gentlemen, I have been here twenty years, and I
have seen many desperate men; but I never saw any despair like this young
man’s. He had jumped up as soon as I turned my back, and he was walking
310
up and down, sobbing aloud. He looked as pale as death; and the big tears
were running down his cheeks in torrents.”
M. Magloire felt each one of these details like a stab at his heart. His opinion
had not materially changed since the day before; but he had had time to
reflect, and to reproach himself for his harshness.
“I was at my post for an hour at least,” continued the jailer, “when all of a
sudden M. de Boiscoran throws himself upon the door, and begins to knock
at it with his feet, and to call as loud as he can. I keep him waiting a little
while, so he should not know I was so near by, and then I open, pretending
to have hurried up ever so fast. As soon as I show myself he says, ‘I have the
right to receive visitors, have I not? And nobody has been to see me?’—‘No
one.’—‘Are you sure?’—‘Quite sure.’ I thought I had killed him. He put his
hands to his forehead this way; and then he said, ‘No one!—no mother, no
betrothed, no friend! Well, it is all over. I am no longer in existence. I am
forgotten, abandoned, disowned.’ He said this in a voice that would have
drawn tears from stones; and I, I suggested to him to write a letter, which I
would send to M. de Chandore. But he became furious at once, and cried,
‘No, never! Leave me. There is nothing left for me but death.’”
M. Folgat had not uttered a word; but his pallor betrayed his emotions.
“You will understand, gentlemen,” Blangin went on, “that I did not feel
quite reassured. It is a bad cell that in which M. de Boiscoran is staying. Since
I have been at Sauveterre, one man has killed himself in it, and one man has
tried to commit suicide. So I called Trumence, a poor vagrant who assists me
in the jail; and we arranged it that one of us would always be on guard,
never losing the prisoner out of sight for a moment. But it was a useless
precaution. At night, when they carried M. de Boiscoran his supper, he was
perfectly calm; and he even said he would try to eat something to keep his
strength. Poor man! If he has no other strength than what his meal would
give him, he won’t go far. He had not swallowed four mouthfuls, when he
was almost smothered; and Trumence and I at one time thought he would
die on our hands: I almost thought it might be fortunate. However, about
nine o’clock he was a little better; and he remained all night long at his
window.”
311
They went up. But, as they entered the passage, they noticed Trumence,
who was making signs to them to step lightly.
“I believe he is asleep,” replied the prisoner. “Poor man! Who knows but he
dreams he is free, and in his beautiful chateau?”
M. Folgat went on tiptoe to the wicket. But Jacques had waked up. He had
heard steps and voices, and he had just risen. Blangin, therefore, opened the
door; and at once M. Magloire said the prisoner,—
“I see you are angry with me,” continued M. Magloire. “I was too quick
yesterday, much too quick.”
“I was angry; but I have reflected since, and now I thank you for your
candor. At least, I know my fate. Innocent though I be, if I go into court, I
shall be condemned as an incendiary and a murderer. I shall prefer not going
into court at all.”
“Yes. Who would believe me, if you, my friend, cannot believe me?”
“I would,” said M. Folgat promptly, “I, who, without knowing you, from the
beginning believed in your innocence,—I who, now that I have seen you,
adhere to my conviction.”
“Thanks, oh, thanks for that word alone! I bless you, sir, for the faith you
have in me!”
This was the first time that the unfortunate man, since his arrest, felt a ray of
hope. Alas! it passed in a second. His eye became dim again; his brow
clouded over; and he said in a hoarse voice,—
What was his desperate purpose that he should have come to such a
decision?
“Why not?”
“Because you are not alone in your trouble, sir. Because you have relations,
friends, and”—
“What do I owe to them, if they have not even the courage to wait for the
sentence to be pronounced before they condemn me? Their merciless
verdict has actually anticipated that of the jury. It was to an unknown
person, to you, M. Folgat, that I had to be indebted for the first expression
of sympathy.”
“Ah, that is not so,” exclaimed M. Magloire, “you know very well.”
Once more the eminent advocate of Sauveterre tried to protest; but it was
in vain.
“My father stays quietly in Paris, devoted to his pursuits and usual pleasures.
My mother has come down to Sauveterre. She is here now; and she has
been told that I am at liberty to receive visitors: but in vain. I was hoping for
her yesterday; but the wretch who is accused of a crime is no longer her son!
She never came. No one came. Henceforth I stand alone in the world; and
now you see why I have a right to dispose of myself.”
M. Folgat did not think for a moment of discussing the point. It would have
been useless. Despair never reasons. He only said,—
Jacques turned crimson all over, and he murmured, trembling in all his
limbs,—
“Dionysia!”
“Yes, Dionysia,” said the young advocate. “You forget her courage, her
devotion, and all she has done for you. Can you say that she abandons and
denies you,—she who set aside all her reserve and her timidity for your
sake, and came and spent a whole night in this prison? She was risking
314
nothing less than her maidenly honor; for she might have been discovered
or betrayed. She knew that very well, nevertheless she did not hesitate.”
“And do you not understand that her memory kills me, and that my misery is
all the greater as I know but too well what bliss I am losing? Do you not see
that I love Dionysia as woman never was loved before? Ah, if my life alone
was at stake! I, at least, I have to make amends for a great wrong; but she—
Great God, why did I ever come across her path?”
“And yet she, also, did not come yesterday. Why? Oh! no doubt they have
told her all. They have told her how I came to be at Valpinson the night of
the crime.”
“Is it possible?”
“M. Magloire did not speak in her presence,” added M. Folgat; “and we
have bound over M. de Chandore to secrecy. I insisted upon it that you
alone had the right to tell the truth to Miss Dionysia.”
“Then how does she explain it to herself that I am not set free?”
“If you were to tell her so yourself, she would not believe you.”
“She could not. Although they told her nothing, your mother had to be told.
The marchioness was literally thunderstruck. She remained for more than an
hour unconscious in Miss Dionysia’s arms. When she recovered her
315
consciousness, her first words were for you; but it was then too late to be
admitted here.”
When M. Folgat mentioned Miss Dionysia’s name, he had found the surest,
and perhaps the only means to break Jacques’s purpose.
“How can I ever sufficiently thank you, sir?” asked the latter.
“By promising me that you will forever abandon that fatal resolve which you
had formed,” replied the young advocate. “If you were guilty, I should be
the first to say, ‘Be it so!’ and I would furnish you with the means. Suicide
would be an expiation. But, as you are innocent, you have no right to kill
yourself: suicide would be a confession.”
“What am I to do?”
“Without hope?”
“Yes, even without hope. When you faced the Prussians, did you ever think
of blowing out your brains? No! and yet you knew that they were superior in
numbers, and would conquer, in all probability. Well, you are once more in
face of the enemy; and even if you were certain of being conquered, that is
to say, of being condemned, and it was the day before you should have to
mount the scaffold, I should still say, ‘Fight. You must live on; for up to that
hour something may happen which will enable us to discover the guilty one.’
And, if no such event should happen, I should repeat, nevertheless, ‘You
must wait for the executioner in order to protest from the scaffold against
the judicial murder, and once more to affirm your innocence.’”
“Upon my honor, sir, I promise you I will hold out to the bitter end.”
“First of all,” replied M. Folgat, “I mean to recommence, for our benefit the
investigation which M. Galpin has left incomplete. To-night your mother and
I will leave for Paris. I have come to ask you for the necessary information,
316
and for the means to explore your house in Vine Street, to discover the
friend whose name you assumed, and the servant who waited upon you.”
The bolts were drawn as he said this; and at the open wicket appeared
Blangin’s rubicund face.
“The Marchioness de Boiscoran,” he said, “is in the parlor, and begs you will
come down as soon as you have done with these gentlemen.”
His agitation was too great: he could not master it. He said to the two
lawyers,—
But M. Folgat had declared he would leave for Paris that very night; and he
was determined to do so. He said, therefore,—
“Our success depends on the rapidity of our movements. I beg you will let
me insist upon your giving me at once the few items of information which I
need for my purposes.”
but he knew he had important business-relations with India, and had, once
upon a time, been cashier in the great house of Gilmour and Benson.
As to the English servant-girl who had for three years attended to his house
in Vine Street, Jacques had taken her blindly, upon the recommendation of
an agency in the suburbs; and he had had nothing to do with her, except to
pay her her wages, and, occasionally, some little gratuity besides. All he
could say, and even that he had learned by mere chance, was, that the girl’s
name was Suky Wood; that she was a native of Folkstone, where her
parents kept a sailor’s tavern; and that, before coming to France, she had
been a chambermaid at the Adelphi in Liverpool.
“This is more than enough to begin the campaign. Now you must give me
the name and address of your tradesmen in Passy.”
“You will find a list in a small pocket-book which is in the same drawer with
the keys. In the same drawer are also all the deeds and other papers
concerning the house. Finally, you might take Anthony with you: he is
devoted to me.”
“I shall certainly take him, if you permit me,” replied the lawyer. Then
putting up his notes, he added,—
“I shall not be absent more than three or four days; and, as soon as I return,
we will draw up our plan of defence. Till then, my dear client, keep up your
courage.”
They called Blangin to open the door for them; and, after having shaken
hands with Jacques de Boiscoran, M. Folgat and M. Magloire went away.
He had most ardently hoped for his mother’s visit; and now, when he was
about to see her, he felt assailed by all kinds of vague and sombre
apprehensions. The last time he had kissed her was in Paris, in the beautiful
parlor of their family mansion. He had left her, his heart swelling with hopes
318
and joy, to go to his Dionysia; and his mother, he remembered distinctly, had
said to him, “I shall not see you again till the day before the wedding.”
And now she was to see him again, in the parlor of a jail, accused of an
abominable crime. And perhaps she was doubtful of his innocence.
“Sir, the marchioness is waiting for you,” said the jailer once more. At the
man’s voice, Jacques trembled.
“For,” he said, “She must not become aware of it, how horrible my position
is.”
“That is the parlor. When the marchioness wants to go, please call me.”
When Jacques saw her, he could hardly suppress a cry of horror and grief.
Was that really his mother,—that thin old lady with the sallow complexion,
the red eyes, and trembling hands?
She heard him, for she raised her head; and, when she recognized him, she
wanted to rise; but her strength forsook her, and she sank back upon the
bench, crying,—
“O Jacques, my child!”
319
She, also, was terrified when she saw what two months of anguish and
sleeplessness had done for Jacques. But he was kneeling at her feet upon
the muddy pavement, and said in a barely intelligible voice,—
She looked at him for a moment with a bewildered air; and then, all of a
sudden, she took his head in her two hands, kissed him with passionate
vehemence, and said,—
“Will I pardon you? Alas, what have I to pardon? If you were guilty, I should
love you still; and you are innocent.”
Jacques breathed more freely. In his mother’s voice he felt that she, at least,
was sure of him.
“I shall see him to-morrow,” she replied; “for I leave to-night with M.
Folgat.”
“I must.”
“Could not father leave his collections for a few days? Why did he not come
down? Does he think I am guilty?”
“Because I would not have it. She knows nothing. It has been agreed upon
that the name of the Countess Claudieuse is not to be mentioned in her
320
He made no reply.
“I thought I did.”
“And she?”
“Oh, she! God alone knows the secret of that strange heart.”
“Nothing. I have given her up. She has had her revenge. She had forewarned
me.”
“I thought so,” she said. “Last Sunday, when I knew as yet of nothing, I
happened to be close to her at church, and unconsciously admired her
profound devotion, the purity of her eye, and the nobility of her manner.
Yesterday, when I heard the truth, I shuddered. I felt how formidable a
woman must be who can affect such calmness at a time when her lover lies
in prison accused of the crime which she has committed.”
“Still she ought to tremble; for she must know that you have told us every
thing. How can we unmask her?”
But time was passing; and Blangin came to tell the marchioness that she had
to withdraw. She went, after having kissed her son once more.
That same evening, according to their arrangement, she left for Paris,
accompanied by M. Folgat and old Anthony.
321
CHAPTER 18
Once only he had received, through Dionysia’s agency, a letter from Jacques
himself; and then he ordered his servant to get ready his trunks for the same
evening. But at the last moment he had given counter-orders, saying that he
had reconsidered, and would not go.
The fact is, he spent his days, and a part of his nights, in his cabinet, half-
buried in an arm-chair, resting little, and sleeping still less, insensible to all
that went on around him. On his table he had arranged all his letters from
Sauveterre in order; and he read and re-read them incessantly, examining
the phrases, and trying, ever in vain, to disengage the truth from this mass
of details and statements. He was no longer as sure of his son as at first: far
from it! Every day had brought him a new doubt; every letter, additional
uncertainty. Hence he was all the time a prey to most harassing
apprehensions. He put them aside; but they returned, stronger and more
irresistible than before like the waves of the rising tide.
322
He was thus one morning in his cabinet. It was very early yet; but he was
more than ever suffering from anxiety, for M. Folgat had written, “To-
morrow all uncertainty will end. To-morrow the close confinement will be
raised, and M. Jacques will see M. Magloire, the counsel whom he has
chosen. We will write immediately.”
It was for this news the marquis was waiting now. Twice already he had
rung to inquire if the mail had not come yet, when all of a sudden his valet
appeared and with a frightened air said,—
“The marchioness. She has just come with Anthony, M. Jacques’s own
man.”
He hardly said so, when the marchioness herself entered, looking even
worse than she had done in the prison parlor; for she was overcome by the
fatigue of a night spent on the road.
The marquis had started up suddenly. As soon as the servant had left the
room, and shut the door again, he said with trembling voice, as if wishing for
an answer, and still fearing to hear it,—
“Yes.”
“Good or bad?”
“Sad.”
“As far as I am concerned, and M. Folgat, Dr. Seignebos, and all who know
him and love him, yes, but not for the public, for his enemies, or the law. He
has explained every thing; but he has no proof.”
The mournful features of the marquis settled into still deeper gloom.
“Well, for the jury he will find proof. M. Folgat, who has come in the same
train with me, and whom you will see to-day, hopes to discover proof.”
“Proof of what?”
Perhaps the marchioness was not unprepared for such a reception. She
expected it, and still she was disconcerted.
“Jacques,” she began, “has been the lover of the Countess Claudieuse.”
The Marquis de Boiscoran interrupted his wife with a formidable oath. Then
he cried,—
“And that is all Jacques could invent! And to come to such an abortive
story—was that the reason of his obstinate silence?”
judgment. As if justice could err in these days of ours, after all these
preliminary examinations, long inquiries, and careful investigations.”
“You will see M. Folgat. He will tell you what hope there is.”
“All would not be lost yet. But then we should have to endure the pain of
seeing our son brought up in court.”
The tall figure of the old gentleman had once more risen to its full height; his
face grew red; and the most appalling wrath flashed from his eyes.
Crushed as the marchioness had seemed to be till now, she rose under this
atrocious insult.
“And you come and tell me this to-day, after thirty years, and God knows
under what circumstances!”
“Yes, after thirty years. Eternity might pass over these recollections, and it
would not efface them. And, but for these circumstances to which you refer,
I should never have said any thing. At the time to which I allude, I had to
choose between two evils,—either to be ridiculous, or to be hated. I
preferred to keep silence, and not to inquire too far. My happiness was
gone; but I wished to save my peace. We have lived together on excellent
terms; but there has always been between us this high wall, this suspicion.
As long as I was doubtful, I kept silent. But now, when the facts confirm my
doubts, I say again, ‘Jacques is no son of mine!’”
“Well then yes! One day I was imprudent and indiscreet. I was young; I knew
nothing of life; the world worshipped me; and you, my husband, my guide,
gave yourself up to your ambition, and left me to myself. I could not foresee
the consequences of a very inoffensive piece of coquetry.”
“You see, then, now these consequences. After thirty years, I disown the
child that bears my name; and I say, that, if he is innocent, he suffers for his
mother’s sins. Fate would have it that your son should covet his neighbor’s
wife, and, having taken her, it is but justice that he should die the death of
the adulterer.”
“But you know very well that I have never forgotten my duty.”
“I know nothing.”
“You have acknowledged it, because you refused to hear the explanation
which would have justified me.”
326
“True, I did shrink from an explanation, which, with your unbearable pride,
would necessarily have led to a rupture, and thus to a fearful scandal.”
The marchioness might have told her husband, that, by refusing to hear her
explanation, he had forfeited all right to utter a reproach; but she felt it
would be useless, and thus he went on,—
“All I do know is, that there is somewhere in this world a man whom I
wanted to kill. Gossiping people betrayed his name to me. I went to him, and
told him that I demanded satisfaction, and that I hoped he would conceal
the real reason for our encounter even from our seconds. He refused to give
me satisfaction, on the ground that he did not owe me any, that you had
been calumniated, and that he would meet me only if I should insult him
publicly.”
“Well?”
“What could I do after that? Investigate the matter? You had no doubt taken
your precautions, and it would have amounted to nothing. Watch you? I
should only have demeaned myself uselessly; for you were no doubt on your
guard. Should I ask for a divorce? The law afforded me that remedy. I might
have dragged you into court, held you up to the sarcasms of my counsel,
and exposed you to the jests of your own. I had a right to humble you, to
dishonor my name, to proclaim your disgrace, to publish it in the
newspapers. Ah, I would have died rather!”
“Yes, that was my reason for giving up public life, ambitious as I was. That
was the reason why I withdrew from the world; for I thought everybody
smiled as I passed. That is why I gave up to you the management of our
house and the education of your son, why I became a passionate collector, a
half-mad original. And you find out only to-day that you have ruined my
life?”
There was more compassion than resentment in the manner in which the
marchioness looked at her husband.
327
“You had mentioned to me your unjust suspicions,” she replied; “but I felt
strong in my innocence, and I was in hope that time and my conduct would
efface them.”
“The fearful idea that you could doubt of your paternity had never even
occurred to me.”
“Still it was so,” he replied. “I have suffered terribly. I loved Jacques. Yes, in
spite of all, in spite of myself, I loved him. Had he not all the qualities which
are the pride and the joy of a family? Was he not generous and noble-
hearted, open to all lofty sentiments, affectionate, and always anxious to
please me? I never had to complain of him. And even lately, during this
abominable war, has he not again shown his courage, and valiantly earned
the cross which they gave him? At all times, and from all sides, I have been
congratulated on his account. They praised his talents and his assiduity. Alas!
at the very moment when they told me what a happy father I was, I was the
most wretched of men. How many times would I have drawn him to my
heart! But immediately that terrible doubt rose within me, if he should not
be my son; and I pushed him back, and looked in his features for a trace of
another man’s features.”
He felt a certain tenderness in his heart, and sinking into his chair, and hiding
his face in his hands, he murmured,—
M. de Boiscoran was right when he said that his wife’s pride was
unmanageable. And still, as cruelly wounded as woman well could be, she
now suppressed her pride, and, thinking only of her son, remained quite
328
humble. Drawing from her bosom the letter which Jacques had sent to her
the day before she left Sauveterre, she handed it to her husband, saying,—
The marquis’s hand trembled as he took the letter; and, when he had torn it
open, he read,—
“Do you forsake me too, father, when everybody forsakes me? And yet I
have never needed your love as much as now. The peril is imminent. Every
thing is against me. Never has such a combination of fatal circumstances
been seen before. I may not be able to prove my innocence; but you,—you
surely cannot think your son guilty of such an absurd and heinous crime! Oh,
no! surely not. My mind is made up. I shall fight to the bitter end. To my last
breath I shall defend, not my life, but my honor. Ah, if you but knew! But
there are things which cannot be written, and which only a father can be
told. I beseech you come to me, let me see you, let me hold your hand in
mine. Do not refuse this last and greatest comfort to your unhappy son.”
“That was the reason why Jacques was so very angry when you spoke of
inviting the Countess Claudieuse, and why he told you, that, if he saw her
329
enter at one door, he would walk out of the other. We did not understand
his aversion.”
“Alas! it was not aversion. Jacques only obeyed at that time the cunning
lessons given him by the countess.”
In less than one minute the most contradictory resolutions seemed to flit
across the marquis’s face. He hesitated, and at last he said,—
The eyes of the marchioness filled with tears, hot tears, the first she had
shed since the beginning of this scene.
“Do you not see,” she asked, “that what you wish me to do is now
impossible? Every thing, yes, every thing in the world but that. But Jacques
and I—we are innocent. God will have pity on us. M. Folgat will save us.”
330
CHAPTER 19
And, above all this, there was a mysterious and indefinable sentiment with
which Dionysia had inspired him; for he had succumbed to her charms, like
everybody else. It was not love, for he who says love says hope; and he
knew perfectly well that altogether and forever Dionysia belonged to
Jacques. It was a sweet and all-powerful sentiment, which made him wish to
devote himself to her, and to count for something in her life and in her
happiness.
It was for her sake that he had sacrificed all his business, and forgotten his
clients, in order to stay at Sauveterre. It was for her sake, above all, that he
wished to save Jacques.
This was a certain Goudar, who was connected with the police department
in some capacity or other, and at all events received an income large enough
to make him very comfortable. He was one of those agents for every thing
whom the police keep employed for specially delicate operations, which
require both tact and keen scent, an intrepidity beyond all doubt, and
imperturbable self-possession. M. Folgat had had opportunities of knowing
and appreciating him in the famous case of the Mutual Discount Society.
He was instructed to track the cashier who had fled, having a deficit of
several millions. Goudar had caught him in Canada, after pursuing him for
331
three months all over America; but, on the day of his arrest, this cashier had
in his pocket-book and his trunk only some forty thousand francs.
The story is well known; but what is not known is the genius, the fertility of
resources, and the ingenuity of expedients, which Goudar displayed in
obtaining such a success. M. Folgat, however, was fully aware of it; for he
had been the counsel of the stockholders of the Mutual Discount Society;
and he had vowed, that, if ever the opportunity should come, he would
employ this marvellously able man.
Goudar, who was married, and had a child, lived out of the world on the
road to Versailles, not far from the fortifications. He occupied with his family
a small house which he owned,—a veritable philosopher’s home, with a
little garden in front, and a vast garden behind, in which he raised
vegetables and admirable fruit, and where he kept all kinds of animals.
When M. Folgat stepped out of his carriage before this pleasant home, a
young woman of twenty-five or twenty-six, of surpassing beauty, young and
fresh, was playing in the front garden with a little girl of three or four years,
all milk and roses.
The young woman blushed slightly, and answered modestly, but without
embarrassment, and in a most pleasing voice,—
“My husband is in the garden; and you will find him, if you will walk down
this path around the house.”
332
The young man followed the direction, and soon saw his man at a distance.
His head covered with an old straw hat, without a coat, and in slippers, with
a huge blue apron such as gardeners wear, Goudar had climbed up a ladder,
and was busy dropping into a horsehair bag the magnificent Chasselas
grapes of his trellises. When he heard the sand grate under the footsteps of
the newcomer, he turned his head, and at once said,—
The young advocate was not a little surprised to see himself recognized so
instantaneously. He should certainly never have recognized the detective. It
was more than three years since they had seen each other; and how often
had they seen each other then? Twice, and not an hour each time.
It is true that Goudar was one of those men whom nobody remembers. Of
middle height, he was neither stout nor thin, neither dark nor light haired,
neither young nor old. A clerk in a passport office would certainly have
written him down thus: Forehead, ordinary; nose, ordinary; mouth, ordinary,
eyes, neutral color; special marks, none.
It could not be said that he looked stupid; but neither did he look intelligent.
Every thing in him was ordinary, indifferent, and undecided. Not one marked
feature. He would necessarily pass unobserved, and be forgotten as soon as
he had passed.
“You find me busy securing my crops for the winter,” he said to M. Folgat.
“A pleasant job. However, I am at your service. Let me put these three
bunches into their three bags, and I’ll come down.”
This was the work of an instant; and, as soon as he had reached the ground,
he turned round, and asked,—
And at once he begged M. Folgat to visit his domain, and, with all the
enthusiasm of the land-owner, he praised the flavor of his duchess pears,
the bright colors of his dahlias, the new arrangements in his poultry-yard,
which was full of rabbit-houses, and the beauty of his pond, with its ducks of
all colors and all possible varieties.
333
In his heart, M. Folgat swore at this enthusiasm. What time he was losing!
But, when you expect a service from a man, you must, at least, flatter his
weak side. He did not spare praise, therefore. He even pulled out his cigar-
case, and, still with a view to win the great man’s good graces, he offered it
to him, saying,—
Positively, if M. Folgat had not known the man, he would have taken him for
some good and simple retired grocer, inoffensive, and any thing but bright,
and, bowing to him politely, he would have taken his leave. But he had seen
him at work; and so he followed him obediently to his greenhouse, his
melon-house, and his marvellous asparagus-beds.
At last Goudar took his guest to the end of the garden, to a bower in which
were some chairs and a table, saying,—
“Now let us sit down, and tell me your business; for I know you did not
come solely for the pleasure of seeing my domain.”
Goudar was one of those men who have heard in their lives more
confessions than ten priests, ten lawyers, and ten doctors all together. You
could tell him every thing. Without a moment’s hesitation, therefore, and
without a break, M. Folgat told him the whole story of Jacques and the
Countess Claudieuse. He listened, without saying a word, without moving a
muscle in his face. When the lawyer had finished, he simply said,—
“Well?”
“First of all,” replied M. Folgat, “I should like to hear your opinion. Do you
believe the statement made by M. de Boiscoran?”
“Then you think, that, in spite of the charges brought against him, we must
believe in his innocence?”
“Pardon me, I think nothing at all. Why, you must study a matter before you
can have an opinion.”
“Exactly.”
“Precisely.”
The young advocate knew too well how such things work not to be
prepared for a certain amount of resistance; and he had thought of means
to overcome it.
“Pardon me. I am not my own master. I have my duty to fulfil, and my daily
occupation.”
“Oh!”
335
“There is no ‘oh!’ about it. They would do what I tell you, and they would be
right; for, after all, what would become of us, and what would become of
the safety and liberty of us all, if any one could come and use the agents of
the police for his private purposes? And what would become of me if I
should lose my place?”
“M. de Boiscoran’s family is very rich, and they would prove their gratitude
magnificently to the man who would save him.”
“And if I did not save him? And if, instead of gathering proof of his
innocence, I should only meet with more evidence of his guilt?”
The objection was so well founded, that M. Folgat preferred not to discuss
it.
“A year’s income.”
“Well, I confess,” he said, “I do not work for glory, nor from love of my art. I
know very well that vanity is the great motive-power with some of my
colleagues; but I am more practical. I have never liked my profession; and, if
I continue to practise it, it is because I have not the money to go into any
other. It drives my wife to despair, besides: she is only half alive as long as I
am away; and she trembles every morning for fear I may be brought home
with a knife between my shoulders.”
M. Folgat had listened attentively; but at the same time he had pulled out a
pocket-book, which looked decidedly plethoric, and placed it on the table.
“That is true. There is a piece of land for sale adjoining my garden, which
would suit me exactly. Flowers bring a good price in Paris, and that business
would please my wife. Fruit, also yields a good profit.”
“To any one but to you,” he went on, “I should hesitate to pay such a sum in
advance. Another man might take the money, and never trouble himself
about the affair. But I know your uprightness; and, if you give me your word
in return for the notes, I shall be satisfied. Come, shall it be so?”
He did so; for the next moment they appeared at the other end of the walk,
engaged in a lively discussion. However, the discussion did not last long.
Goudar came back to the bower, and said,—
“Well, then let us go there at once; for I must, first of all, reconnoitre the
ground. And you shall see if it takes me long to dress.”
After having bowed to Mrs. Goudar, who accompanied them with a radiant
smile, they got into the carriage, calling out to the driver,—
This Vine Street is a curious street, leading nowhere, little known, and so
deserted, that the grass grows everywhere. It stretches out long and dreary,
is hilly, muddy, scarcely paved, and full of holes, and looks much more like a
wretched village lane than like a street belonging to Paris. No shops, only a
338
few homes, but on the right and the left interminable walls, overtopped by
lofty trees.
The carriage stopped before a small door, in a thick wall, which bore the
traces of the two sieges in a number of places.
It could not be seen from the street; but, when they got in, Mr. Folgat and
Goudar saw it, rising in the centre of an immense garden, simple and pretty,
with a double porch, a slate roof, and newly-painted blinds.
And M. Folgat felt so keenly the man’s ill-concealed desire, that he at once
said,—
“Let us go in,” cried the detective, in a voice which revealed all his intense
desire to succeed.
Unfortunately, Jacques de Boiscoran had spoken but too truly, when he said
that no trace was left of former days. Furniture, carpets, all was new; and
Goudar and M. Folgat in vain explored the four rooms down stairs, and the
four rooms up stairs, the basement, where the kitchen was, and finally the
garret.
“We shall find nothing here,” declared the detective. “To satisfy my
conscience, I shall come and spend an afternoon here; but now we have
more important business. Let us go and see the neighbors!”
“We shall soon make the rounds,” said Goudar, after having ordered the
coachman to wait for them at the end of the street.
Neither the head master nor his assistants knew any thing. The nurseryman
had heard it said that No. 23 belonged to an Englishman; but he had never
seen him, and did not even know his name.
The locksmith knew that he was called Francis Burnett. He had done some
work for him, for which he had been well paid, and thus he had frequently
seen him; but it was so long since, that he did not think he would recognize
him.
The memory of the liveryman was more trustworthy. He said he knew the
Englishman of No. 23 very well, having driven him three or four times; and
the description he gave of him answered fully to Jacques de Boiscoran. He
also remembered that one evening, when the weather was wretched, Sir
Burnett had come himself to order a carriage. It was for a lady, who had got
in alone, and who had been driven to the Place de la Madeleine. But it was a
dark night; the lady wore a thick veil; he had not been able to distinguish her
features, and all he could say was that she looked above medium height.
“It is always the same story,” said Goudar. “But the wine-merchant ought to
be best informed. If I were alone I would breakfast there.”
The wine-merchant did not know much; but his waiter, who had been with
him five or six years, knew Sir Burnett, as everybody called the Englishman,
by sight, and was quite well acquainted with the servant-girl, Suky Wood.
While he was bringing in breakfast, he told them all he knew.
Suky, he said, was a tall, strapping girl, with hair red enough to set her
bonnets on fire, and graceful enough to be mistaken for a heavy dragoon in
female disguise. He had often had long talks with her when she came to
fetch some ready-made dish, or to buy some beer, of which she was very
fond. She told him she was very pleased with her place, as she got plenty of
340
money, and had, so to say, nothing to do, being left alone in the house for
nine months in the year. From her the waiter had also learned that Sir
Burnett must have another house, and that he came to Vine Street only to
receive visits from a lady.
This lady troubled Suky very much. She declared she had never been able to
see the end of her nose even, so very cautious was she in all her
movements; but she intended to see her in spite of all.
“And you may be sure she managed to do it some time or other,” Goudar
whispered into M. Folgat’s ear.
Finally they learned from this waiter, that Suky had been very intimate with
the servant of an old gentleman who lived quite alone in No. 27.
Luckily the girl’s master had just gone out, and she was alone in the house.
At first she was a little frightened at being called upon and questioned by
two unknown men; but the detective knew how to reassure her very
quickly, and, as she was a great talker, she confirmed all the waiter at the
restaurant had told them, and added some details.
Suky had been very intimate with her; she had never hesitated to tell her
that Burnett was not an Englishman; that his name was not Burnett, and
that he was concealing himself in Vine Street under a false name, for the
purpose of meeting there his lady-love, who was a grand, fine lady, and
marvellously beautiful. Finally, at the outbreak of the war, Suky had told her
that she was going back to England to her relations. When they left the old
bachelor’s house, Goudar said to the young advocate,—
“We have obtained but little information, and the jurymen would pay little
attention to it; but there is enough of it to confirm, at least in part, M. de
Boiscoran’s statement. We can prove that he met a lady here who had the
greatest interest in remaining unknown. Was this, as he says, the Countess
Claudieuse? We might find this out from Suky; for she has seen her, beyond
all doubt. Hence we must hunt up Suky. And now, let us take our carriage,
and go to headquarters. You can wait for me at the café near the Palais de
Justice. I shall not be away more than a quarter of an hour.”
341
It took him, however, a good hour and a half; M. Folgat was beginning to be
troubled, when he at last reappeared, looking very well pleased.
“I stayed away rather long; but I did not lose any time. In the first place, I
procured a month’s leave of absence; then I put my hand upon the very man
whom I wanted to send after Sir Burnett and Miss Suky. He is a good fellow,
called Barousse, fine like a needle, and speaks English like a native. He
demands twenty-five francs a day, his travelling-expenses, and a gratuity of
fifteen hundred francs if he succeeds. I have agreed to meet him at six to
give him a definite answer. If you accept the conditions, he will leave for
England to-night, well drilled by me.”
“Well, then, I must leave you. I am going to hang abut M. de Tassar’s house,
and make my inquiries. Perhaps I may pick up something there. To-morrow I
shall spend my day in searching the house in Vine Street and in questioning
all the tradesmen on your list. The day after to-morrow I shall probably have
finished here. So that in four or five days there will arrive in Sauveterre a
somebody, who will be myself.” And as he got up, he added,—
“For I must save M. de Boiscoran. I will and I must do it. He has too nice a
house. Well, we shall see each other at Sauveterre.”
It struck four o’clock. M. Folgat left the café immediately after Goudar, and
went down the river to University Street. He was anxious to see the marquis
and the marchioness.
“The marchioness is resting,” said the valet; “but the marquis is in his
cabinet.”
342
M. Folgat was shown in, and found him still under the effects of the terrible
scene he had undergone in the morning. He had said nothing to his wife that
he did not really think; but he was distressed at having said it under such
circumstances. And yet he felt a kind of relief; for, to tell the truth, he felt as
if the horrible doubts which he had kept secret so many years had vanished
as soon as they were spoken out. When he saw M. Folgat, he asked in a
sadly-changed voice,—
“Well?”
“The unhappy man!” he cried. “And I accused him of—He thought of killing
himself!”
A big tear rolled down the furrowed cheek of the old gentleman; and he
murmured,—
“Nothing keeps me here in Paris. I have done all that could be done, and I
might return this evening. But I am really too tired. I think I shall to-morrow
take the train at 10.45.”
“If you do so, we shall travel in company; you understand? To-morrow at ten
o’clock at the Orleans station. We shall reach Sauveterre by midnight.”
343
CHAPTER 20
When the Marchioness de Boiscoran, on the day of her departure for Paris,
had gone to see her son, Dionysia had asked her to let her go with her. She
resisted, and the young girl did not insist.
“I see they are trying to conceal something from me,” she said simply; “but
it does not matter.”
And she had taken refuge in the sitting-room; and there, taking her usual
seat, as in the happy days when Jacques spent all his evenings by her side,
she had remained long hours immovable, looking as if, with her mind’s eye,
she was following invisible scenes far away.
Grandpapa Chandore and the two aunts were indescribably anxious. They
knew their Dionysia, their darling child, better than she knew herself, having
nursed and watched her for twenty years. They knew every expression of
her face, every gesture, every intonation of voice, and could almost read her
thoughts in her features.
“Alas! How do I know? Does anybody know why one day we have sunshine
in our hearts, and another day dismal clouds?”
But the next day she insisted upon being taken to her seamstresses, and
finding Mechinet, the clerk, there, she remained a full half-hour in
conference with him. Then, in the evening, when Dr. Seignebos, after a short
visit, was leaving the room, she lay in wait for him, and kept him talking a
long time at the door. Finally, the day after, she asked once more to be
344
allowed to go and see Jacques. They could no longer refuse her this sad
satisfaction; and it was agreed that the older of the two Misses Lavarande,
Miss Adelaide, should accompany her.
About two o’clock on that day they knocked at the prison-door, and asked
the jailer, who had come to open the door, to let them see Jacques.
“I’ll go for him at once, madam,” replied Blangin. “In the meantime pray
step in here: the parlor is rather damp, and the less you stay in it, the better
it will be.”
Dionysia did so, or rather, she did a great deal more; for, leaving her aunt
down stairs, she drew Mrs. Blangin to the upper room, having something to
say to her, as she pretended.
When they came down again, Blangin told them that M. de Boiscoran was
waiting for them.
But she had not taken ten steps in the long narrow passage which led to the
parlor, when she stopped. The damp which fell from the vaulted ceiling like
a pall upon her, and the emotions which were agitating her heart, combined
to overwhelm her. She tottered, and had to lean against the wall, reeking as
it was with wet and with saltpetre.
And gathering up all her strength, and putting her little hand upon the old
lady’s shoulder, she said,—
“My darling aunty, you must render us an immense service. It is all important
that I should speak to Jacques alone. It would be very dangerous for us to
be overheard. I know they often set spies to listen to prisoners’ talk. Do
please, dear aunt, remain here in the passage, and give us warning, if
anybody should come.”
345
“Was it proper when I came and spent a night here? Alas! in our position,
every thing is proper that may be useful.”
And, as Aunt Lavarande made no reply, she felt sure of her perfect
submission, and went on towards the parlor.
He was standing in the centre of this mournful hall, looking whiter than the
whitewash on the wall, but apparently calm, and almost smiling. The
violence with which he controlled himself was horrible. But how could he
allow his betrothed to see his despair? Ought he not, on the contrary, do
every thing to reassure her?
“Ah, it is so kind in you to come! and yet I have looked for you ever since the
morning. I have been watching and waiting, and trembling at every noise.
But will you ever forgive me for having made you come to a place like this,
untidy and ugly, without the fatal poetry of horror even?”
She looked at him with such obstinate fixedness, that the words expired on
his lips.
“Yes. Why do you affect this gayety and tranquillity, which are so far from
your heart? Have you no longer confidence in me? Do you think I am a child,
from whom the truth must be concealed, or so feeble and good for nothing,
that I cannot bear my share of your troubles? Do not smile, Jacques; for I
know you have no hope.”
“No, Jacques. They are concealing something from me, I know, and I do not
ask you to tell me what it is. I know quite enough. You will have to appear in
court.”
“I beg your pardon. That question has not yet been decided.”
Jacques knew very well it would be so, and dreaded it; but he still insisted
upon playing his part.
“There is one, however, against you,” cried the young girl. And seizing
Jacques’s hands, and pressing them with a force of which he would never
have suspected her, she added,—
Jacques trembled in all his limbs. Was it possible? Did he understand her? Did
Dionysia herself come and suggest to him that act of supreme despair, from
which his counsel had so strongly dissuaded him?
“Escape?”
“Did you think I would be mean enough to forsake the friend who is
betrayed by everybody else? No, no! Grandpapa and my aunts will
accompany me, and we will meet you in England. You will change your
name, and go across to America; and we will look out, far in the West, for
some new country where we can establish ourselves. It won’t be France, to
be sure. But our country, Jacques, is the country where we are free, where
we are beloved, where we are happy.”
Jacques de Boiscoran was moved to the last fibre of his innermost heart,
and in a kind of ecstasy which did not allow him to keep up any longer his
mask of impassive indifference. Was there a man upon earth who could
receive a more glorious proof of love and devotion? And from what a
woman! From a young girl, who united in herself all the qualities of which a
single one makes others proud,—intelligence and grace, high rank and
fortune, beauty and angelic purity.
Ah! she did not hesitate like that other one; she did not think of asking for
securities before she granted the first favor; she did not make a science of
duplicity, nor hypocrisy her only virtue. She gave herself up entirely, and
without the slightest reserve.
And all this at the moment when Jacques saw every thing else around him
crumbled to pieces, when he was on the very brink of utter despair, just
then this happiness came to him, this great and unexpected happiness,
which well-nigh broke his heart.
Then all of a sudden, drawing his betrothed to him, pressing her convulsively
to his bosom, and covering her hair with a thousand kisses, he cried,—
“I bless you, oh, my darling! I bless you, my well beloved! I shall mourn no
longer. Whatever may happen, I have had my share of heavenly bliss.”
She thought he consented. Palpitating like the bird in the hand of a child,
she drew back, and looking at Jacques with ineffable love and tenderness,
she said,—
“What day?”
This word alone recalled Jacques to a sense of his fearful position. He was
soaring in the supreme heights of the ether, and he was plunged down into
the vile mud of reality. His face, radiant with celestial joy, grew dark in an
instant, and he said hoarsely,—
He made no reply.
“You refuse me, when I swear to you that I will join you, and share your
exile? Do you doubt my word? Do you fear that my grandfather or my aunts
might keep me here in spite of myself?”
As this suppliant voice fell upon his ears, Jacques felt as if all his energy
abandoned him, and his will was shaken.
She was evidently suffering agonies. Her eyes shone with unbearable fire.
Her dry lips were trembling.
349
“Yes!”
In her despair she was wringing her hands; and then the words escaped
from her lips, almost unconsciously,—
“Great God,” she said, “inspire me! How can I bend him? What must I say?
Jacques, do you love me no longer? For my sake, if not for your own, I
beseech you, let us flee! You escape disgrace; you secure liberty. Can
nothing touch you? What do you want? Must I throw myself at your feet?”
Like all truly energetic men, Jacques recovered in the very excess of his
emotion all his self-possession. Gathering his bewildered thoughts by a great
effort of mind, he raised Dionysia, and carried her, almost fainting, to the
rough prison bench; then, kneeling down by her side, and taking her hands
he said,—
“Dionysia, for pity’s sake, come to yourself and listen to me. I am innocent;
and to flee would be to confess that I am guilty.”
“Do you think that my escape would stop the trial? No. Although absent, I
should still be tried, and found guilty without any opposition: I should be
condemned, disgraced, irrevocably dishonored.”
Then he felt that such arguments would never bring her back to reason. He
rose, therefore, and said in a firm voice,—
350
“Let me tell you what you do not know. To flee would be easy, I agree. I
think, as you do, we could reach England readily enough, and we might even
take ship there without trouble. But what then? The cable is faster than the
fastest steamer; and, upon landing on American soil, I should, no doubt, be
met by agents with orders to arrest me. But suppose even I should escape
this first danger. Do you think there is in all this world an asylum for
incendiaries and murderers? There is none. At the extreme confines of
civilization I should still meet with police-agents and soldiers, who, an
extradition treaty in hand, would give me up to the government of my
country. If I were alone, I might possibly escape all these dangers. But I
should never succeed if I had you near me, and Grandpapa Chandore, and
your two aunts.”
Dionysia was forcibly struck by these objections, of which she had had no
idea. She said nothing.
“Still, suppose we might possibly escape all such dangers. What would our
life be! Do you know what it would mean to have to hide and to run
incessantly, to have to avoid the looks of every stranger, and to tremble, day
by day, at the thought of discovery? With me, Dionysia, your existence
would be that of the wife of one of those banditti whom the police are
hunting down in his dens. And you ought to know that such a life is so
intolerable, that hardened criminals have been unable to endure it, and have
given up their life for the boon of a night’s quiet sleep.”
Big tears were silently rolling down the poor girl’s cheeks. She murmured,—
“Perhaps you are right, Jacques. But, O Jacques, if they should condemn
you!”
“Well, I should at least have done my duty. I should have met fate, and
defended my honor. And, whatever the sentence may be, it will not
overthrow me; for, as long as my heart beats within me, I mean to defend
myself. And, if I die before I succeed in proving my innocence, I shall leave it
to you, Dionysia, to your kindred, and to my friends, to continue the
struggle, and to restore my honor.”
“I was wrong, Jacques,” she said, offering him her hand: “you must forgive
me.”
She had risen, and, after a few moments’ hesitation, was about to leave the
room, when Jacques retained her, saying,—
“I do not mean to escape; but would not the people who have agreed to
favor my evasion be willing to furnish me the means for passing a few hours
outside of my prison?”
“I think they would,” replied the young girl; “And, if you wish it, I will make
sure of it.”
With these words they parted, exhorting each other to keep up their
courage, and promising each other to meet again during the next days.
Dionysia found her poor aunt Lavarande very tired of the long watch; and
they hastened home.
“How pale you are!” exclaimed M. de Chandore, when he saw his grand-
daughter; “and how red your eyes are! What has happened?”
She told him every thing; and the old gentleman felt chilled to the marrow
of his bones, when he found that it had depended on Jacques alone to carry
off his grandchild. But he had not done so.
CHAPTER 21
“Is it possible?”
“Yes, indeed! Twenty people have seen her come back from there, leaning
on the arm of the older Miss Lavarande. She went in at ten minutes past ten,
and she did not come out till a quarter-past three.”
“And M. de Chandore?”
“He must have lost his senses to allow such a scandal. But you know very
well, grandfather and aunts never had any will but Dionysia’s.”
“A nice training!”
“And nice fruits of such an education! After such a scandal, no man will be
bold enough to marry her.”
Such were the comments on Dionysia’s visit to Jacques, when the news
became known. It flew at once all over town. The ladies “in society” could
not recover from it; for people are exceedingly virtuous at Sauveterre, and
hence they claim the right of being exceedingly strict in their judgment.
There is no trifling permitted on the score of propriety.
The person who defies public opinion is lost. Now, public opinion was
decidedly against Jacques de Boiscoran. He was down, and everybody was
ready to kick him.
This problem, which was day by day discussed at the “Literary Club,” had
called forth torrents of eloquence, terrible discussions, and even one or two
serious quarrels, one of which had ended in a duel. But nobody asked any
longer,—
“Is he innocent?”
“Ah, what an interesting trial it will be!” said many people, who were all
eagerness to know who would be the presiding judge, in order to ask him
for tickets of admission. Day by day the interest in the trial became deeper;
and all who were in any way connected with it were watched with great
curiosity. Everybody wanted to know what they were doing, what they
thought, and what they had said.
“He must have hardly any thing to do in Paris, that he can spend so many
months in Sauveterre.”
“Amid all these cruel trials, the Countess C. is admirable in her devotion, her
courage, and her resignation. Whenever she leaves the bedside of her dear
patients to pray at church for them, she is received with the most touching
sympathy and the most sincere admiration by the whole population.”
“Ah, that wretch Boiscoran!” cried the good people of Sauveterre when
they read such an article.
“We have sent to the hospital to inquire from the lady superior how the
poor idiot is, who has taken such a prominent part in the bloody drama at
Valpinson. His mental condition remains unchanged since he has been
examined by experts. The spark of intelligence which the crime had elicited
seems to be extinguished entirely and forever. It is impossible to obtain a
word from him. He is, however, not locked up. Inoffensive and gentle, like a
poor animal that has lost its master, he wanders mournfully through the
courts and gardens of the hospital. Dr. S., who used to take a lively interest
in him, hardly ever sees him now.
“It was thought at one time, that C. would be summoned to give evidence in
the approaching trial. We are informed by high authority, that such a
dramatic scene must not be expected to take place. C. will not appear
before the jury.”
“M. G., the eminent magistrate, is very unwell just now, and very naturally
so after an investigation of such length and importance as that which
preceded the Boiscoran trial. We are told that he only awaits the decree of
355
the court, to ask for a furlough and to go to one of the rural stations of the
Pyrenees.”
Or,—
“M. de B. had this morning an interview with his counsel, M. M., the most
eminent member of our bar, and M. F., a young but distinguished advocate
from Paris. The conference lasted several hours. We abstain from giving
details; but our readers will understand the reserve required in the case of
an accused who insists upon protesting energetically that he is innocent.”
And, again,—
Or, finally,—
“We hear at the last moment that the Marchioness de B. and M. Folgat have
left for Paris. Our correspondent in P. writes us that the decree of the court
will not be delayed much longer.”
Never had “The Sauveterre Independent” been read with so much interest.
And, as everybody endeavored to be better informed than his neighbor,
quite a number of idle men had assumed the duty of watching Jacques’s
friends, and spent their days in trying to find out what was going on at M. de
Chandore’s house. Thus it came about, that, on the evening of Dionysia’s
visit to Jacques, the street was full of curious people. Towards half-past ten,
they saw M. de Chandore’s carriage come out of the courtyard, and draw up
at the door. At eleven o’clock M. de Chandore and Dr. Seignebos got in, the
coachman whipped the horse, and they drove off.
356
They followed the carriage. The two gentlemen drove to the station. They
had received a telegram, and were expecting the return of the marchioness
and M. Folgat, accompanied, this time, by the old marquis.
They reached there much too soon. The local branch railway which goes to
Sauveterre is not famous for regularity, and still reminds its patrons
occasionally of the old habits of stage-coaches, when the driver or the
conductor had, at the last moment, to stop to pick up something they had
forgotten. At a quarter-past midnight the train, which ought to have been
there twenty minutes before, had not yet been signalled. Every thing around
was silent and deserted. Through the windows the station-master might be
seen fast asleep in his huge leather chair. Clerks and porters all were asleep,
stretched out on the benches of the waiting-room. But people are
accustomed to such delays at Sauveterre; they are prepared for being kept
waiting: and the doctor and M. de Chandore were walking up and down the
platform, being neither astonished nor impatient at the irregularity. Nor
would they have been much surprised if they had been told that they were
closely watched all the time: they knew their good town. Still it was so. Two
curious men, more obstinate than the others, had jumped into the omnibus
which runs between the station and the town; and now, standing a little
aside, they said to each other,—
At last towards one o’clock, a bell rang, and the station seemed to start into
life. The station-master opened his door, the porters stretched themselves
and rubbed their eyes, oaths were heard, doors slammed, and the large
hand-barrows came in sight.
Then a low thunder-like noise came nearer and nearer; and almost instantly
a fierce red light at the far end of the track shone out in the dark night like a
ball of fire. M. de Chandore and the doctor hastened to the waiting-room.
The train stopped. A door opened, and the marchioness appeared, leaning
on M. Folgat’s arm. The marquis, a travelling-bag in hand, followed next.
357
“That was it!” said the volunteer spies, who had flattened their noses
against the window-panes.
The hour was unfavorable: everybody was asleep; but they did not give up
the hope of finding somebody yet at the club. People stay up very late at the
club, for there is play going on there, and at times pretty heavy play: you can
lose your five hundred francs quite readily there. Thus the indefatigable
news-hunters had a fair chance of finding open ears for their great piece of
news. And yet, if they had been less eager to spread it, they might have
witnessed, perhaps not entirely unmoved, this first interview between M. de
Chandore and the Marquis de Boiscoran.
By a natural impulse they had both hastened forward, and shook hands in
the most energetic manner. Tears stood in their eyes. They opened their lips
to speak; but they said nothing. Besides, there was no need of words
between them. That close embrace had told Jacques’s father clearly enough
what Dionysia’s grandfather must have suffered. They remained thus
standing motionless, looking at each other, when Dr. Seignebos, who could
not be still for any length of time, came up, and asked,—
They left the station. The night was clear; and on the horizon, above the
dark mass of the sleeping town, there rose against the pale-blue sky the two
towers of the old castle, which now served as prison to Sauveterre.
“We will get him out of it,” said the doctor cheerfully, as he helped the old
gentleman into the carriage.
But in vain did he try, during the drive, to rouse, as he called it, the spirits of
his companions. His hopes found no echo in their distressed hearts.
358
M. Folgat inquired after Dionysia, whom he had been surprised not to see at
the station. M. de Chandore replied that she had staid at home with the
Misses Lavarande, to keep M. Magloire company; and that was all.
There are situations in which it is painful to talk. The marquis had enough to
do to suppress the spasmodic sobs which now and then would rise in his
throat. He was upset by the thought that he was at Sauveterre. Whatever
may be said to the contrary, distance does not weaken our emotions.
Shaking hands with M. de Chandore in person had moved him more deeply
than all the letters he had received for a month. And when he saw Jacques’s
prison from afar, he had the first clear notion of the horrible tortures
endured by his son. The marchioness was utterly exhausted: she felt as if all
the springs in her system were broken.
M. de Chandore trembled when he looked at them, and saw how they all
were on the point of succumbing. If they despaired, what could he hope
for,—he, who knew how indissolubly Dionysia’s fate in life was connected
with Jacques?
At length the carriage stopped before his house. The door opened instantly,
and the marchioness found herself in Dionysia’s arms, and soon after
comfortably seated in an easy-chair. The others had followed her. It was
past two o’clock; but every minute now was valuable. Arranging his
spectacles, Dr. Seignebos said,—
“Before any thing is decided, there is one fact which you all ought to know.
Listen.”
Pale like death, for it cost her a great struggle to reveal thus the secret of
her heart, but with a voice full of energy, and an eye full of fire, she told
them what she had already confessed to her grandfather; viz., the
359
propositions she had made to Jacques, and his obstinate refusal to accede
to them.
“Well done, madame!” said Dr. Seignebos, full of enthusiasm. “Well done!
Jacques is very unfortunate, and still he is to be envied.”
“After that, is there any one yet who could believe that Jacques is a vile
assassin?”
The eminent advocate of Sauveterre was not one of those men who prize
their opinions more highly than truth itself.
“I confess,” he said, “that, if I were to go and see Jacques to-morrow for the
first time, I should not speak to him as I did before.”
“And I,” exclaimed the Marquis de Boiscoran,—“I declare that I answer for
my son as for myself, and I mean to tell him so to-morrow.”
Then turning towards his wife, and speaking so low, that she alone could
hear him, he added,—
“And I hope you will forgive me those suspicions which now fill me with
horror.”
But the marchioness had no strength left: she fainted, and had to be
removed, accompanied by Dionysia and the Misses Lavarande. As soon as
they were out of the room, Dr. Seignebos locked the door, rested his elbow
on the chimney, and, taking off his spectacles to wipe them, said to M.
Folgat,—
CHAPTER 22
It had just struck eleven o’clock, when the jailer, Blangin, entered Jacques’s
cell in great excitement, and said,—
But, before he could utter a single word, he was in his father’s arms. He felt
himself pressed against his heart, and heard him stammer,—
In all his life, long and stormy as it had been, the marquis had not been tried
so severely. Drawing Jacques to one of the parlor-windows, and leaning
back a little, so as to see him better, he was amazed how he could ever have
doubted his son. It seemed to him that he was standing there himself. He
recognized his own feature and carriage, his own frank but rather haughty
expression, his own clear, bright eye.
“But, dear father, why did you give me no sign of life? Why did you stay
away so long?”
The marquis was not unprepared for such a question. But how could he
answer it? Could he ever tell Jacques the true secret of his hesitation?
Turning his eyes aside, he answered,—
“I hoped I should be able to serve you better by remaining in Paris.” But his
embarrassment was too evident to escape Jacques.
“You did not doubt your own child, father?” he asked sadly.
“Never!” cried the marquis, “I never doubted a moment. Ask your mother,
and she will tell you that it was this proud assurance I felt which kept me
from coming down with her. When I heard of what they accused you, I said
‘It is absurd!’”
“The accusation was absurd; and yet you see what it has brought me to.”
Two big tears, which he could no longer retain, burnt in the eyes of the old
gentleman.
There is not a man alive who could see his father shed tears, and not feel his
heart melt within him. All the resolutions Jacques had formed vanished in an
instant. Pressing his father’s hand in his own, he said,—
“No, I do not blame you, father. And still I have no words to tell you how
much your absence has added to my sufferings. I thought I was abandoned,
disowned.”
For the first time since his imprisonment, the unfortunate man found a heart
to whom he could confide all the bitterness that overflowed in his own
heart. With his mother and with Dionysia, honor forbade him to show
despair. The incredulity of M. Magloire had made all confidence impossible;
and M. Folgat, although as sympathetic as man could be was, after all, a
perfect stranger.
362
But now he had near him a friend, the dearest and most precious friend that
a man can ever have,—his father: now he had nothing to fear.
“Is there a human being in this world,” he said, “whose misfortunes equal
mine? To be innocent, and not to be able to prove it! To know the guilty one,
and not to dare mention the name. Ah! at first I did not take in the whole
horror of my situation. I was frightened, to be sure; but I had recovered,
thinking that surely justice would not be slow in discovering the truth.
Justice! It was my friend Galpin who represented it, and he cared little
enough for truth: his only aim was to prove that the man whom he accused
was the guilty man. Read the papers, father, and you will see how I have
been victimized by the most unheard-of combination of circumstances.
Every thing is against me. Never has that mysterious, blind, and absurd
power manifested itself so clearly,—that awful power which we call fate.
“First I was kept by a sense of honor from mentioning the name of the
Countess Claudieuse, and then by prudence. The first time I mentioned it to
M. Magloire, he told me I lied. Then I thought every thing lost. I saw no
other end but the court, and, after the trial, the galleys or the scaffold. I
wanted to kill myself. My friends made me understand that I did not belong
to myself, and that, as long as I had a spark of energy and a ray of
intelligence left me, I had no right to dispose of my life.”
“Poor, poor child!” said the marquis. “No, you have no such right.”
He felt deeply moved, and sank upon the rough bench, hiding his face in his
hands, perhaps to conceal his tears.
Suddenly, however, he was seized with one of those attacks of rage which
had come to him but too often during his imprisonment, and he
exclaimed,—
363
“A crime? Magloire said the same thing. But, father, do you really think so?
Then it is a crime which has nothing appalling about it, to which every thing
invites and encourages, of which everybody boasts, and at which the world
smiles. The law, it is true, gives the husband the right of life and death; but,
if you appeal to the law, it gives the guilty man six months’ imprisonment, or
makes him pay a few thousand francs.”
“Jacques,” said the marquis, “the Countess Claudieuse hints, as you say,
that one of her daughters, the youngest, is your child?”
“That may be so! You say that carelessly, indifferently, madman! Did you
never think of the grief Count Claudieuse would feel if he should learn the
truth? And even if he merely suspected it! Can you not comprehend that
such a suspicion is quite sufficient to embitter a whole life, to ruin the life of
that girl? Have you never told yourself that such a doubt inflicts a more
atrocious punishment than any thing you have yet suffered?”
He paused. A few words more, and he would have betrayed his secret.
Checking his excitement by an heroic effort, he said,—
“But I did not come here to discuss this question; I came to tell you, that,
whatever may happen, your father will stand by you, and that, if you must
undergo the disgrace of appearing in court, I will take a seat by your side.”
364
In spite of his own great trouble, Jacques had not been able to avoid seeing
his father’s unusual excitement and his sudden vehemence. For a second, he
had a vague perception of the truth; but, before the suspicion could assume
any shape, it had vanished before this promise which his father made, to
face by his side the overwhelming humiliation of a judgment in court,—a
promise full of divine self-abnegation and paternal love. His gratitude burst
forth in the words,—
“Ah, father! I ought to ask your pardon for ever having doubted your heart
for a moment.”
“Yes, I love you, my son; and still you must not make me out more of a hero
than I am. I still hope we may be spared the appearance in court.”
“M. Folgat has found some traces which justify legitimate hopes, although,
as yet, no real success has been achieved.”
“Traces?” he asked.
“Be patient. They are feeble traces, I admit, and such as could not be
produced in court; but from day to day they may become decisive. And
already they have had one good effect: they have brought us back M.
Magloire.”
A few minutes later a rapid step approached in the passage; and Trumence
appeared, the prisoner of whom Blangin had made an assistant, and whom
365
Delighted with the operation, Trumence was about to return home, when
his evil star led him to sup at his inn with a countryman, a former
schoolmate, who was now a sailor on board a coal-barge. Of course,
countrymen when they meet must drink. They did drink; and, as the sailor
very soon scented the twelve hundred francs which remained in Trumence’s
pockets, he swore that he was going to have a jolly time, and would not
return on board his barge as long as there remained a cent in his friend’s
pocket. So it happened, that, after a fortnight’s carouse, the sailor was
arrested and put in jail; and Trumence was compelled to borrow five francs
from the stage-driver to enable him to get home.
366
This fortnight was decisive for his life. During these days he had lost all taste
for work, and acquired a real passion for taverns where they played with
greasy cards. After his return he tried to continue this jolly life; and, to do so,
he made more debts. He sold, piece after piece, all he possessed that was
salable, down to his mattress and his tools. This was not the way to repay
the thirty-five hundred francs which he owed. When pay-day came, the
creditor, seeing that his security was diminishing every day, lost no time.
Before Trumence was well aware of what was going on, an execution was in
the house; his lands were sold; and one fine day he found himself in the
street, possessing literally nothing in the world but the wretched clothes on
his back.
He might easily have found employment; for he was a good workman, and
people were fond of him in spite of all. But he was even more afraid of work
than he was fond of drink. Whenever want pressed too hard, he worked a
few days; but, as soon as he had earned ten francs, good-by! Off he went,
lounging by the road-side, talking with the wagoners, or loafing about the
villages, and watching for one of those kind topers, who, rather than drink
alone, invite the first-comer. Trumence boasted of being well known all
along the coast, and even far into the department. And what was most
surprising was that people did not blame him much for his idleness. Good
housewives in the country would, it is true, greet him with a “Well, what do
you want here, good-for-nothing?” But they would rarely refuse him a bowl
of soup or a glass of white wine. His unchanging good-humor, and his
obliging disposition, explained this forbearance. This man, who would
refuse a well-paid job, was ever ready to lend a hand for nothing. And he
was handy at every thing, by land and by water, he called it, so that the
farmer whose business was pressing, and the fisherman in his boat who
wanted help, appealed alike to Trumence.
The mischief, however, is, that this life of rural beggary, if it has its good
days, also has its evil times. On certain days, Trumence could not find either
kind-hearted topers or hospitable housewives. Hunger, however, was ever
on hand; then he had to become a marauder; dig some potatoes, and cook
them in a corner of a wood, or pilfer the orchards. And if he found neither
367
potatoes in the fields, nor apples in the orchards, what could he do but
climb a fence, or scale a wall?
Thus it had come about that he had been arrested twice, and condemned to
several days’ imprisonment; and each time he had vowed solemnly that he
would never be caught at it again, and that he was going to work hard. And
yet he had been caught again.
The poor fellow had told his misfortunes to Jacques; and Jacques, who
owed it to him that he could, when still in close confinement, correspond
with Dionysia, felt very kindly towards him. Hence, when he saw him come
up very respectful, and cap in hand, he asked,—
“Sir,” replied the vagrant, “M. Blangin sends you word that the two
advocates are coming up to your room.”
CHAPTER 23
The Marquis de Boiscoran had not been mistaken about M. Magloire. Much
shaken by Dionysia’s statement, he had been completely overcome by M.
Folgat’s explanations; and, when he now came to the jail, it was with a
determination to prove Jacques’s innocence.
“But I doubt very much whether he will ever forgive me for my incredulity,”
he said to M. Folgat while they were waiting for the prisoner in his cell.
Jacques came in, still deeply moved by the scene with his father. M.
Magloire went up to him, and said,—
The prisoner grasped his hand with a profusion of joy, and cried,—
The melancholy faces of the two advocates told him that he was rejoicing
too soon. His features expressed his grief; but he said with a firm voice,—
“Well, I see that the struggle will be a hard one, and that the result is still
uncertain. Never mind. You may be sure I will not give way.”
In the meantime M. Folgat had spread out on the table all the papers he had
brought with him,—copies furnished by Mechinet, and notes taken during
his rapid journey.
“First of all, my dear client,” he said, “I must inform you of what has been
done.”
369
And when he had stated every thing, down to the minutest details of what
Goudar and he had done, he said,—
“Let us sum up. We are able to prove three things: 1. That the house in Vine
Street belongs to you, and that Sir Francis Burnett, who is known there, and
you are one; 2. That you were visited in this house by a lady, who, from all
the precautions she took, had powerful reasons to remain unknown; 3. That
the visits of this lady took place at certain epochs every year, which
coincided precisely with the journeys which the Countess Claudieuse yearly
made to Paris.”
“Suppositions!” said M. Folgat. “Well, call them so; but they are based upon
positive facts, and supported by a hundred precedents. Why should we not
find this Suky Wood, whose birthplace and family we know, and who has no
reason for concealment? Goudar has found very different people; and
Goudar is on our side. And you may be sure he will not be asleep. I have held
out to him a certain hope which will make him do miracles,—the hope of
receiving as a reward, if he succeeds, the house in Vine Street. The stakes
are too magnificent: he must win the game,—he who has won so many
already. Who knows what he may not have discovered since we left him?
Has he not done wonders already?”
Older than M. Folgat and Jacques, the eminent advocate of Sauveterre was
less ready to feel such enthusiasm.
“Yes,” he said, “it is marvellous; and, if we had time, I would say as you do,
‘We shall carry the day!’ But there is no time for Goudar’s investigations: the
sessions are on hand, and it seems to me it would be very difficult to obtain
a postponement.”
“But”—
“On no account, Magloire, never! What? I should endure three months more
of this anguish which tortures me? I could not do it: my strength is
exhausted. This uncertainty has been too much for me. I could bear no more
suspense.”
“Do not trouble yourself about that: a postponement is out of the question.
On what pretext could we ask for it? The only way would be to introduce an
entirely new element in the case. We should have to summon the Countess
Claudieuse.”
“That depends.”
“It is very simple, however. If Goudar should succeed, before the trial, in
collecting sufficient evidence against her, I should summon her certainly;
and then the case would naturally change entirely; the whole proceeding
would begin anew; and you would probably appear only as a witness. If, on
the contrary, we obtain, before the trial begins, no other proof but what we
have now, I shall not mention her name even; for that would, in my opinion,
and in M. Magloire’s opinion, ruin your cause irrevocably.”
“No.”
“And you think you can defend me, you think you can save me, without
telling the truth?”
“Oh!”
“Do you think the jury would credit allegations which M. Magloire did not
credit? No. Well, then, we had better not speak of them any more, and try to
find some explanation which will meet the charges brought against you. Do
you think we should be the first to act thus? By no means. There are very
few cases in which the prosecution says all it knows, and still fewer in which
the defence calls for every thing it might call for. Out of ten criminal trials,
there are at least three in which side-issues are raised. What will be the
charge in court against you? The substance of the romance which the
magistrate has invented in order to prove your guilt. You must meet him
with another romance which proves your innocence.”
There followed a long silence, so deep a silence, that the step of the sentinel
could be heard, who was walking up and down under the prison-windows.
M. Folgat had said all he thought proper to say: he feared, in saying more, to
assume too great a responsibility. It was, after all, Jacques’s life and
Jacques’s honor which were at stake. He alone, therefore, ought to decide
the nature of his defence. If his judgment was too forcibly controlled by his
counsel, he would have had a right hereafter to say, “Why did you not leave
me free to choose? I should not have been condemned.”
“The advice I give you, my dear client, is, in my eyes, the best; it is the advice
I would give my own brother. But, unfortunately, I cannot say it is infallible.
You must decide yourself. Whatever you may resolve, I am still at your
service.”
Jacques made no reply. His elbows resting on the table, his face in his hands,
he remained motionless, like a statue, absorbed in his thoughts. What
should he do? Should he follow his first impulse, tear the veil aside, and
proclaim the truth? That was a doubtful policy, but also, what a triumph if he
succeeded!
Jacques was in a terrible perplexity. He felt it but too clearly. The decision he
must form now would decide his fate. Suddenly he raised his head, and
said,—
“I have had the honor to place before your mother all that my young
colleague has just told you. M. Folgat has but one fault,—he is too cautious.
The physician must not ask what his patient thinks of his remedies: he must
prescribe them. It may be that our prescriptions do not meet with success;
but, if you do not follow them, you are most assuredly lost.”
“That would still better than to go, by a clear judgment, to the galleys,” said
M. Magloire brutally.
This word, “the galleys,” made Jacques bound. He rose, walked up and
down a few times in his room, and then, placing himself in front of his
counsel, said,—
Jacques had at least this merit, if he once formed a resolution, he was sure
to adhere to it. Calm now, and self-possessed, he sat down, and said, with a
melancholy smile,—
This plan had been for a month now the one great thought of M. Folgat. All
his intelligence, all his sagacity and knowledge of the world, had been
brought to bear upon this case, which he had made his own, so to say, by his
almost passionate interest. He knew the tactics of the prosecution as well as
M. Galpin himself, and he knew its weak and its strong side even better than
M. Galpin.
“We shall go on, therefore,” he began, “as if there was no such person as
the Countess Claudieuse. We know nothing of her. We shall say nothing of
the meeting at Valpinson, nor of the burned letters.”
374
“That is settled.”
“That being so, we must next look, not for the manner in which we spent
our time, but for our purpose in going out the evening of the crime. Ah! If
we could suggest a plausible, a very probable purpose, I should almost
guarantee our success; for we need not hesitate to say there is the turning-
point of the whole case, on which all the discussions will turn.”
“Have you forgotten the letter you wrote to Miss Dionysia the evening of
the crime?” broke in M. Magloire.
Jacques looked first at one, and then at the other of his counsel.
“Overwhelms us, my dear client,” said M. Folgat. “Don’t you remember it?
You told your betrothed in that note, that you would be prevented from
enjoying the evening with her by some business of the greatest importance,
and which could not be delayed? Thus, you see, you had determined
beforehand, and after mature consideration, to spend that evening in doing
a certain thing. What was it? ‘The murder of Count Claudieuse,’ says the
prosecution. What can we say?”
“But, I beg your pardon—that letter. Miss Dionysia surely has not handed it
over to them?”
repeatedly mentioned it to you, and you have confessed all that he could
desire.”
The young advocate looked among his papers; and soon he had found what
he wanted.
ANSWER.—Yes.
Q—For some time you had been spending your evenings with her?
A.—Yes, all.
A.—Unfortunately.
“Do you hear, Jacques?” cried M. Magloire. “Notice that M. Galpin takes
care not to insist. He does not wish to rouse your suspicions. He has got you
to confess, and that is enough for him.”
“‘Q.—You left your house with your gun on your shoulder, without any
definite aim?
Q.—Then you will not tell me where you were between eight and midnight?
A.—I shall answer that question at the same time with the other.
376
Q.—You must have had very strong reasons to keep you out, as you were
expected by your betrothed, Miss Chandore?
“Finally,” said M. Folgat, “here is a passage from your last but one
examination,—
Q.—It was he, I suppose, who, on the evening of the crime, carried the
letter to Miss Chandore, in which you told her not to expect you?
A.—Yes.
Q.—But in your case it was no pretext. Where had you to go? and where did
you go?
He has said it, and there is no denying it; for there it is written, and signed by
himself. How could he ever say so?
377
Ah! that is the point. However clever a man may be, he cannot for many
months keep all his faculties on the stretch, and all his energy up to its full
power. He has his hours of prostration and his hours of hope, his attacks of
despair and his moments of courage; and the impassive magistrate takes
advantage of them all. Innocent or guilty, no prisoner can cope with him.
However powerful his memory may be, how can he recall an answer which
he may have given weeks and weeks before? The magistrate, however,
remembers it; and twenty times, if need be, he brings it up again. And as the
small snowflake may become an irresistible avalanche, so an insignificant
word, uttered at haphazard, forgotten, then recalled, commented upon,
and enlarged may become crushing evidence.
Jacques now experienced this. These questions had been put to him so
skilfully, and at such long intervals of time, that he had totally forgotten
them; and yet now, when he recalled his answers, he had to acknowledge
that he had confessed his purpose to devote that evening to some business
of great importance.
“I told you,” replied M. Folgat, “we must find some plausible explanation.”
“You have been a prisoner while I have been free. For a month now I have
thought this matter over.”
“Ah!”
“Well,” he said, “my explanation is becoming quite plausible. Just hear what
I have positively ascertained to be the fact. In the time from nine to eleven
o’clock, on the night of the crime, there was not a soul at the parsonage in
Brechy. The priest was dining with M. Besson, at his house; and his servant
had gone out to meet him with a lantern.”
“Why should you not have gone to see the priest at Brechy, my dear client?
In the first place, you had to arrange the details of the ceremony with him;
then, as he is your friend, and a man of experience, and a priest, you wanted
to ask him for his advice before taking so grave a step, and, finally, you
intended to fulfil that religious duty of which he spoke, and which you were
rather reluctant to comply with.”
“So, you see, my dear client, it was for the purpose of consulting the priest
at Brechy that you deprived yourself of the pleasure of spending the
evening with your betrothed. Now let us see how that answers the
allegations of the prosecution. They ask you why you took to the marshes.
Why? Because it was the shortest way, and you were afraid of finding the
priest in bed. Nothing more natural; for it is well known that the excellent
man is in the habit of going to bed at nine o’clock. Still you had put yourself
379
out in vain; for, when you knocked at the door of the parsonage, nobody
came to open.”
“So far, all is very well. But now there comes a very great improbability. No
one would think of going through the forest of Rochepommier in order to
return from Brechy to Boiscoran. If you knew the country”—
“I know it; for I have carefully explored it. And the proof of it is, that, having
foreseen the objection, I have found an answer. While M. de Boiscoran
knocked at the door, a little peasant-girl passed by, and told him that she
had just met the priest at a place called the Marshalls’ Cross-roads. As the
parsonage stands quite isolated, at the end of the village, such an incident is
very probable. As for the priest, chance led me to learn this: precisely at the
hour at which M. de Boiscoran would have been at Brechy, a priest passed
the Marshalls’ Cross-roads; and this priest, whom I have seen, belongs to the
next parish. He also dined at M. Besson’s, and had just been sent for to
attend a dying woman. The little girl, therefore, did not tell a story; she only
made a mistake.”
“That is ingenious, I admit; and I confess, in all humility, that I could not have
suggested any thing as good. But—for there is a but—your story sins by its
very simplicity. The prosecution will say, ‘If that is the truth, why did not M.
de Boiscoran say so at once? And what need was there to consult his
counsel?’”
380
M. Folgat showed in his face that he was making a great effort to meet the
objection. After a while, he replied,—
“I know but too well that that is the weak spot in our armor,—a very weak
spot, too; for it is quite clear, that, if M. de Boiscoran had given this
explanation on the day of his arrest, he would have been released instantly.
But what better can be found? What else can be found? However, this is only
a rough sketch of my plan, and I have never put it into words yet till now.
With your assistance, M. Magloire, with the aid of Mechinet, to whom I am
already indebted for very valuable information, with the aid of all our
friends, in fine, I cannot help hoping that I may be able to improve my plan
by adding some mysterious secret which may help to explain M. de
Boiscoran’s reticence. I thought, at one time, of calling in politics, and to
pretend, that, on account of the peculiar views of which he is suspected, M.
de Boiscoran preferred keeping his relations with the priest at Brechy a
secret.”
“Oh, that would have been most unfortunate!” broke in M. Magloire. “We
are not only religious at Sauveterre, we are devout, my good colleague,—
excessively devout.”
Jacques, who had till now kept silent and motionless, now raised himself
suddenly to his full height, and cried, in a voice of concentrated rage,—
de Boiscoran, trying to find an excuse for having been out that night, has
said that he had gone to see his wood-merchant at Brechy. That was a
disastrous imprudence. And here is the real danger. As to the rest, that
amounts to nothing. There is the water in which M. de Boiscoran washed his
hands when he came home, and in which they have found traces of burnt
paper. We have only to modify the facts very slightly to explain that. We
have only to state that M. de Boiscoran is a passionate smoker: that is well
known. He had taken with him a goodly supply of cigarettes when he set out
for Brechy; but he had taken no matches. And that is a fact. We can furnish
proof, we can produce witnesses, we had no matches; for we had forgotten
our match-box, the day before, at M. de Chandore’s,—the box which we
always carry about on our person, which everybody knows, and which is still
lying on the mantelpiece in Miss Dionysia’s little boudoir. Well, having no
matches, we found that we could go no farther without a smoke. We had
gone quite far already; and the question was, Shall we go on without
smoking, or return? No need of either! There was our gun; and we knew very
well what sportsmen do under such circumstances. We took the shot out of
one of our cartridges, and, in setting the powder on fire, we lighted a piece
of paper. This is an operation in which you cannot help blackening your
fingers. As we had to repeat it several times, our hands were very much
soiled and very black, and the nails full of little fragments of burnt paper.”
His young colleague became more and more animated; and always
employing the profession “we,” which his brethren affect, he went on,—
“This water, which you dwell upon so much, is the clearest evidence of our
innocence. If we had been an incendiary, we should certainly have poured it
out as hurriedly as the murderer tries to wash out the blood-stains on his
clothes, which betray him.”
“That is,” he said, “what I have told Galpin over and over again; and he
never had any thing to say in reply. We must insist on that point.”
“Well, I see you appreciate the importance of the fact. Between that
cleaning and the time when you set a cartridge on fire, in order to burn the
letters of the Countess Claudieuse, did you fire your gun? If you did, we must
say nothing more about it. If you did not, one of the barrels of the breech-
loader must be clean, and then you are safe.”
For more than a minute, Jacques remained silent, trying to recall the facts;
at last he replied,—
“It seems to me, I am sure, I fired at a rabbit on the morning of the fatal
day.”
“Oh, wait!” cried Jacques. “I am quite sure, at all events, that I killed that
rabbit at the first shot. Consequently, I can have fouled only one barrel of
the gun. If I have used the same barrel at Valpinson, to get a light, I am safe.
With a double gun, one almost instinctively first uses the right-hand barrel.”
383
“Never mind,” he said, “we cannot possibly make an argument upon such
an uncertain chance,—a chance which, in case of error, would almost fatally
turn against us. But at the trial, when they show you the gun, examine it, so
that you can tell me how that matter stands.”
Thus they had sketched the outlines of their plan of defence. There
remained nothing now but to perfect the details; and to this task the two
lawyers were devoting themselves still, when Blangin, the jailer, called to
them through the wicket, that the doors of the prison were about to be
closed.
And drawing his two friends aside, as far from the wicket as he could, he
said to them in a low and distressed voice,—
“I have told my counsel, M. Folgat, every thing. Save me, and I swear to you
eternal silence. Will you let me perish, Genevieve, when you know I am
innocent?
“JACQUES.” “Is that enough?” he asked, handing the lawyer the note.
384
“Yes; and I promise you I will see the Countess Claudieuse within the next
forty-eight hours.”
Blangin was becoming impatient; and the two advocates had to leave the
prison. As they crossed the New-Market Square, they noticed, not far from
them, a wandering musician, who was followed by a number of boys and
girls.
Instinctively M. Folgat was fumbling in his pocket for a few cents, when the
musician came up to him, held out his hat as if to ask alms, and said,—
“Yes, I myself. I came this morning. I was watching for you; for I must see
you this evening at nine o’clock. Come and open the little garden-gate at M.
de Chandore’s for me.”
And, taking up his fiddle again, he wandered off listlessly, singing with his
clear voice,—
CHAPTER 24
The great lawyer of Sauveterre had been far more astonished at the
unexpected and extraordinary meeting than M. Folgat. As soon as the
wandering minstrel had left them, he asked his young colleague,—
“That individual,” replied M. Folgat, “is none other than the agent whose
services I have engaged, and whom I mentioned to you.”
“Goudar?”
“Yes, Goudar.”
“Not until he spoke,” he replied. “The Goudar whom I know is tall, thin,
beardless, and wears his hair cut like a brush. This street-musician is low,
bearded, and has long, smooth hair falling down his back. How could I
recognize my man in that vagabond costume, with a violin in his hand, and a
provincial song set to music?”
“What are, after all, professional actors in comparison with these men! Here
is one who pretends having reached Sauveterre only this morning, and who
knows the country as well as Trumence himself. He has not been here
twelve hours, and he speaks already of M. de Chandore’s little garden-gate.”
Whilst they were chatting thus, they had reached the upper end of National
Street. Here they stopped; and M. Magloire said,—
387
“One word before we part. Are you quite resolved to see the Countess
Claudieuse?”
“I have promised.”
“As far as I know her, she will, upon looking at the note, merely order you
out.”
“Who knows! At all events, I shall not have to reproach myself for having
shrunk from a step which in my heart I thought it my duty to take.”
“Whatever may happen, be prudent, and do not allow yourself to get angry.
Remember that a scene with her would compel us to change our whole line
of defence, and that that is the only one which promises any success.”
“The worst we had to fear,” replied the Marquis de Boiscoran. “We had all
foreseen it; and still, as you see, it has surprised us all, like a clap of
thunder.”
The marquis only bent his head, as if his voice, had failed him to answer the
question.
388
“It is still a great secret,” said Dionysia; “and we only know it, thanks to the
indiscretion of our kind, our devoted Mechinet. Jacques will have to appear
before the Assizes.”
She was interrupted by a servant, who entered to announce that dinner was
on the table.
They all went into the dining-room; but the last event made it well-nigh
impossible for them to eat. Dionysia alone, deriving from feverish
excitement an amazing energy, aided M. Folgat in keeping up the
conversation. From her the young advocate learned that Count Claudieuse
was decidedly worse, and that he would have received, in the day, the last
sacrament, but for the decided opposition of Dr. Seignebos, who had
declared that the slightest excitement might kill his patient.
“I must beg of you, madam, to trust me with the key to the little garden-
gate.”
“Is he here?”
When Dionysia had handed him the key, M. Folgat hastened to reach the
end of the garden; and, at the third stroke of nine o’clock, the minstrel of
the New-Market Square, Goudar, pushed the little gate, and, his violin under
his arm, slipped into the garden.
“Let me first of all compliment you on your disguise,” he said. But Goudar
did not seem to be open to praise.
“If your ambition is really what you say, my dear, Goudar,” said M. Folgat,
interrupting him, “you may be able to leave your profession very soon—if
you succeed in saving M. de Boiscoran.”
“The house in Vine Street, the paradise of this world. An immense garden, a
soil of marvellous beauty. And what an exposure! There are walls there on
which I could raise finer peaches than they have at Montreuil, and richer
Chasselas than those of Fontainebleau!”
“Nothing at all,” he replied. “Nor did I learn any thing from the tradesmen. I
am no further advanced than I was the first day.”
390
“I hope so; but I need your assistance to commence operations. I must see
Dr. Seignebos, and Mechinet the clerk. Ask them to meet me at the place I
shall assign in a note which I will send them.”
“Wait here for a quarter of an hour, there is a bench,” said M. Folgat, “and
I’ll go at once to the mayor.”
A quarter of an hour later, Goudar had his permit in his pocket, and went to
take lodgings at the Red Lamb, the worst tavern in all Sauveterre.
At eight o’clock, he left the house, dressed more carefully than usual, and
told the servant that he did not wish to be waited for if he should not be
back for breakfast.
He went first to the court-house, hoping to meet the clerk there. He was not
disappointed. The waiting-rooms were quite deserted yet; but Mechinet was
already at work in his office, writing with the feverish haste of a man who
has to pay for a piece of property that he wants to call his own.
“Yes, thanks to your kindness; and I must confess it has not surprised me.
What do they think of it here?”
“But I came for another purpose. The agent whom I expected has come,
and he wishes to see you. He will write to you to make an appointment, and
I hope you will consent.”
“Certainly, with all my heart,” replied the clerk. “And God grant that he may
succeed in extricating M. de Boiscoran from his difficulties, even if it were
only to take the conceit out of my master.”
“Without the slightest reserve. He sees his old friend already at the galleys.
He has received another letter of congratulation from the attorney general,
and came here yesterday, when the court had adjourned, to read it to any
one who would listen. Everybody, of course, complimented him, except the
president, who turned his back upon him, and the commonwealth attorney,
who told him in Latin that he was selling the bear’s skin before he had killed
him.”
In the meantime steps were heard coming down the passages; and M.
Folgat said hurriedly,—
The noise of a door which was opened interrupted him. One of the judges
entered, who, after having bowed very civilly, asked the clerk a number of
questions about a case which was to come on the same day.
And his next visit was to Dr. Seignebos. When he rang the bell, a servant
came to the door, and said,—
“The doctor is gone out; but he will be back directly, and has told me to beg
you to wait for him in his study.”
Such an evidence of perfect trust was unheard of. No one was ever allowed
to remain alone in his sanctuary. It was an immense room, quite full of most
varied objects, which at a glance revealed the opinions, tastes, and
predilections of the owner. The first thing to strike the visitor as he entered
was an admirable bust of Bichat, flanked on either side by smaller busts of
Robespierre and Rousseau. A clock of the time of Louis XIV. stood between
the windows, and marked the seconds with a noise which sounded like the
rattling of old iron. One whole side was filled with books of all kinds,
unbound or bound, in a way which would have set M. Daubigeon laughing
very heartily. A huge cupboard adapted for collections of plants bespoke a
passing fancy for botany; while an electric machine recalled the time when
the doctor believed in cures by electricity.
On the table in the centre of the room vast piles of books betrayed the
doctor’s recent studies. All the authors who have spoken of insanity or
idiocy were there, from Apostolides to Tardien. M. Folgat was still looking
around when Dr. Seignebos entered, always like a bombshell, but far more
cheerful than usual.
“I knew I should find you here!” he cried still in the door. “You come to ask
me to meet Goudar.”
“Goudar himself. I like that man. I am sure no one will suspect me of having
a fancy for any thing that is connected with the police. I have had too much
to do all my life with spies and that ilk. But your man might almost reconcile
me with that department.”
“This morning at seven. He was so prodigiously tired of losing his time in his
garret at the Red Lamb, that it occurred to him to pretend illness, and to
send for me. I went, and found a kind of street-minstrel, who seemed to me
to be perfectly well. But, as soon as we were alone, he told me all about it,
asking me my opinion, and telling me his ideas. M. Folgat, that man Goudar
is very clever: I tell you so; and we understand each other perfectly.”
“Nearly so. But he has not authorized me to speak of it. Have patience; let
him go to work, wait, and you will see if old Seignebos has a keen scent.”
Saying this with an air of sublime conceit, he took off his spectacles, and set
to work wiping them industriously.
“Well, I will wait,” said the young advocate. “And, since that makes an end
to my business here, I beg you will let me speak to you of another matter.
M. de Boiscoran has charged me with a message to the Countess
Claudieuse.”
“The deuce!”
“And to try to obtain from her the means for our discharge.”
“I have accepted the mission,” he said dryly, “and I mean to carry it out.”
“I understand, my dear sir. But you will not see the countess. The count is
very ill. She does not leave his bedside, and does not even receive her most
intimate friends.”
“And still I must see her. I must at any hazard place a note which my client
has confided to me, in her own hands. And look here, doctor, I mean to be
frank with you. It was exactly because I foresaw there would be difficulties,
that I came to you to ask your assistance in overcoming or avoiding them.”
“To me?”
“Ten thousand devils!” cried Dr. Seignebos. “You do not mince matters, you
lawyers!”
And then speaking in a lower tone, and replying apparently to his own
objections rather than to M. Folgat, he said,—
“Certainly, I attend Count Claudieuse, whose illness, by the way, upsets all
my theories, and defies all my experience: but for that very reason I can do
nothing. Our profession has certain rules which cannot be infringed upon
without compromising the whole medical profession.”
“But it is a question of life and death with Jacques, sir, with a friend.”
“And a fellow Republican, to be sure. But I cannot help you without abusing
the confidence of the Countess Claudieuse.”
“Ah, sir! Has not that woman committed a crime for which M. de Boiscoran,
though innocent, will be arraigned in court?”
“In fact, so much the worse for her! There are sacred interests which
override every thing. Come!”
395
CHAPTER 25
Count Claudieuse and his wife had installed themselves, the day after the
fire, in Mautrec Street. The house which the mayor had taken for them had
been for more than a century in the possession of the great Julias family,
and is still considered one of the finest and most magnificent mansions in
Sauveterre.
In less than ten minutes Dr. Seignebos and M. Folgat had reached the house.
From the street, nothing was visible but a tall wall, as old as the castle,
according to the claims of archaeologists, and covered all over with a mass
of wild flowers. In this wall there is a huge entrance-gate with folding-doors.
During the day one-half is opened, and a light, low open-work railing put in,
which rings a bell as soon as it is pushed open.
You then cross a large garden, in which a dozen statues, covered with green
moss, are falling to pieces on their pedestals, overshadowed by magnificent
old linden-trees. The house has only two stories. A large hall extends from
end to end of the lower story; and at the end a wide staircase with stone
steps and a superb iron railing leads up stairs. When they entered the hall,
Dr. Seignebos opened a door on the right hand.
“Step in here and wait,” he said to M. Folgat. “I will go up stairs and see the
count, whose room is in the second story, and I will send you the countess.”
The young advocate did as he was bid, and found himself in a large room,
brilliantly lighted up by three tall windows that went down to the ground,
and looked out upon the garden. This room must have been superb
formerly. The walls were wainscoted with arabesques and lines in gold. The
ceiling was painted, and represented a number of fat little angels sporting in
a sky full of golden stars.
But time had passed its destroying hand over all this splendor of the past
age, had half effaced the paintings, tarnished the gold of the arabesques,
and faded the blue of the ceiling and the rosy little loves. Nor was the
furniture calculated to make compensation for this decay. The windows had
no curtains. On the mantelpiece stood a worn-out clock and half-broken
396
candelabra; then, here and there, pieces of furniture that would not match,
such as had been rescued from the fire at Valpinson,—chairs, sofas, arm-
chairs, and a round table, all battered and blackened by the flames.
But M. Folgat paid little attention to these details. He only thought of the
grave step on which he was venturing, and which he now only looked at in
its full strangeness and extreme boldness. Perhaps he would have fled at
the last moment if he could have done so; and he was only able by a
supreme effort to control his excitement.
At last he heard a rapid, light step in the hall; and almost immediately the
Countess Claudieuse appeared. He recognized her at once, such as Jacques
had described her to him, calm, serious, and serene, as if her soul were
soaring high above all human passions. Far from diminishing her exquisite
beauty, the terrible events of the last months had only surrounded her, as it
were, with a divine halo. She had fallen off a little, however. And the dark
semicircle under her eyes, and the disorder of her hair, betrayed the fatigue
and the anxiety of the long nights which she had spent by her husband’s
bedside.
“Yes, madam.”
With a queenly air, she pointed to a chair, and, sitting down herself, she
said,—
“I hear, sir.”
“You know, madam, that he has been summoned to trial, and that he may
be condemned?”
She shook her head with a painful movement, and said very softly,—
“I know, sir, that Count Claudieuse has been the victim of a most infamous
attempt at murder; that he is still in danger, and that, unless God works a
miracle, I shall soon be without a husband, and my children without a
father.”
Ah! It cost the young advocate no small effort to prevent his lips from
uttering the fatal word, “You,” prompted by his indignant conscience. But
he thought of the success of his mission; and, instead of replying, he said,—
“My client, madam, had a very simple means to prove his innocence. He had
only to tell the truth. He has preferred risking his own honor rather than to
betray the honor of another person.”
“My moments are counted, sir. May I beg you will be more explicit?”
Without saying a word, M. Folgat drew Jacques’s letter from his portfolio,
and handed it to her.
She took it with a perfectly steady hand, and opened it slowly. But, as soon
as she had run her eye over it, she rose, turned crimson in her face, and said
with flaming eyes,—
“Yes.”
The decisive moment had come, and M. Folgat had all his self-possession.
“He certainly said so, madam; and he affirms, that a few moments before
the fire broke out, he was near you, and that, if his hands were blackened, it
was because he had burned your letters and his.”
“And you could believe that,—you? Ah! M. de Boiscoran’s other crimes are
nothing in comparison with this! He is not satisfied with having burnt our
house, and ruined us: he means to dishonor us. He is not satisfied with
having murdered my husband: he must ruin the honor of his wife also.”
She spoke so loud, that her voice must have been distinctly heard in the
vestibule.
She cast upon him a crushing glance; and, raising her voice still higher, she
went on,—
“Yes, I understand very well that you are afraid of being heard. But I—what
have I to fear? I could wish the whole world to hear us, and to judge
between us. Lower, you say? Why should I speak less loud? Do you think that
if Count Claudieuse were not on his death-bed, this letter would not have
long since been in his hands? Ah, he would soon have satisfaction for such
an infamous letter, he! But I, a poor woman! I have never seen so clearly that
the world thinks my husband is lost already, and that I am alone in this
world, without a protector, without friends.”
“Ah, take care, madam,” he said in a hoarse voice: “we have proof,
absolute, overwhelming proof.”
The countess stopped him by an imperious gesture, and with the haughtiest
disdain, grief, and wrath, she said,—
“Well, then, produce your proof. Go, hasten, act as you like. We shall see if
the vile calumnies of an incendiary can stain the pure reputation of an
honest woman. We shall see if a single speck of this mud in which you
wallow can reach up to me.”
And, throwing Jacques’s letter at M. Folgat’s feet, she went to the door.
She did not even condescend to turn round: she disappeared, leaving him
standing in the middle of the room, so overcome with amazement, that he
could not collect his thoughts. Fortunately Dr. Seignebos came in.
the same tone as every day, how I had found her husband, and what was to
be done. I told her”—
But the rest of the sentence remained unspoken: the doctor had become
aware of M. Folgat’s utter consternation.
“This is the matter: I ask myself whether I am awake or dreaming. This is the
matter: that, if this woman is guilty, she possesses an audacity beyond all
belief.”
“How, if? Have you changed your mind about her guilt?”
“Ah!” he said, “I hardly know myself. Do you not see that I have lost my
head, that I do not know what to think, and what to believe?”
“Oh!”
“Yes, indeed! And yet, doctor, I am not a simpleton. I have now been
pleading five years in criminal courts: I have had to dive down into the
lowest depths of society; I have seen strange things, and met with
exceptional specimens, and heard fabulous stories”—
“I might tell you every word,” replied M. Folgat, “and you would be none
the wiser. You ought to have been here, and seen her, and heard her! What
a woman! Not a muscle in her face was moving; her eye remained limpid and
clear; no emotion was felt in her voice. And with what an air she defied me!
But come, doctor, let us be gone!”
They went out, and had already gone about a third down the long avenue in
the garden, when they saw the oldest daughter of the countess coming
towards them, on her way to the house, accompanied by her governess. Dr.
401
Seignebos stopped, and pressing the arm of the young advocate, and
bending over to him, he whispered into his ear,—
By this time the little girl had come up to them. It was a very graceful girl of
eight or nine years, light haired, with large blue eyes, tall for her age, and
displaying all the intelligence of a young girl, without her timidity.
“How are you, little Martha?” said the doctor to her in his gentlest voice,
which was very soft when he chose.
Dr. Seignebos bent down to kiss her rosy cheeks, and them, looking at her,
he said,—
“Yes, because papa and little sister are sick,” she replied with a deep sigh.
“Oh, yes!”
“Still it is very pretty here, and you have a large garden to play in.”
She shook her head, and, lowering her voice, she said,—
“In the evening, when it grows dark, I fancy they are moving. I think I see
people hiding behind the trees, like the man who wanted to kill papa.”
“You ought to drive away those ugly notions, Miss Martha,” said M. Folgat.
402
“What, Martha? I did not know you were so timid. I thought, on the
contrary, you were very brave. Your papa told me the night of the fire you
were not afraid of any thing.”
“And yet, when you were aroused by the flames, it must have been
terrible.”
“I was not asleep at that time, doctor. I had been roused by the slamming of
the door, which mamma had closed very noisily when she came in.”
One and the same presentiment made M. Folgat tremble and the doctor.
“You must be mistaken, Martha,” the doctor went on. “Your mamma had
not come back at the time of the fire.”
The little girl drew herself up with that solemn air which children are apt to
assume when their statements are doubted. She said,—
“I am quite sure of what I say, and I remember every thing perfectly. I had
been put to bed at the usual hour, and, as I was very tired with playing, I had
fallen asleep at once. While I was asleep, mamma had gone out; but her
coming back waked me up. As soon as she came in, she bent over little
sister’s bed, and looked at her for a moment so sadly, that I thought I should
cry. Then she went, and sat down by the window; and from my bed, where I
lay silently watching her, I saw the tears running down her cheeks, when all
of a sudden a shot was fired.”
“Then, my little one,” insisted Dr. Seignebos, “you are quite sure your
mamma was in your room when the first shot was fired?”
“Certainly, doctor. And mamma, when she heard it, rose up straight, and
lowered her head, like one who listens. Almost immediately, the second
shot was fired. Mamma raised her hands to heaven, and cried out, ‘Great
God!’ And then she went out, running fast.”
Never was a smile more false than that which Dr. Seignebos forced himself
to retain on his lips while the little girl was telling her story.
“The young lady has not dreamed it, sir. I, also, heard the shots fired; and I
had just opened the door of my room to hear what was going on, when I
saw madame cross the landing swiftly, and rush down stairs.
“Oh! I do not doubt it,” said the doctor, in the most indifferent tone he
could command: “the circumstance is very trifling.”
“When mamma had left,” she went on, “I became frightened, and raised
myself on my bed to listen. Soon I heard a noise which I did not know,—
cracking and snapping of wood, and then cries at a distance. I got more
frightened, jumped down, and ran to open the door. But I nearly fell down,
there was such a cloud of smoke and sparks. Still I did not lose my head. I
waked my little sister, and tried to get on the staircase, when Cocoleu
rushed in like a madman, and took us both out.”
“Good-by, gentlemen!”
404
Martha had disappeared; and Dr. Seignebos and M. Folgat, still standing on
the same spot, looked at each other in utter distress.
“No, indeed! Let us go back and make haste; for perhaps they are waiting
for me. You must breakfast with me.”
They went away very much disheartened, and so absorbed in their defeat,
that they forgot to return the salutations with which they were greeted in
the street,—a circumstance carefully noticed by several watchful observers.
And, when he had shown the advocate into his study, he asked,—
“Could it be possible that the countess should have tutored the child to say
what she told us?”
“No.”
“Still less. A woman of that character trusts nobody. She struggles; she
triumphs or succumbs alone.”
“Then the child and the governess have told us the truth?”
“I am convinced of that.”
“Alas!”
405
M. Folgat did not notice that his “Alas!” was received by Dr. Seignebos with
an air of triumph. He had taken off his spectacles, and, wiping them
vigorously, he said,—
“If the countess is innocent, Jacques must be guilty, you think? Jacques
must have deceived us all, then?”
“I pray you, doctor, do not press me just now. Give me time to collect my
thoughts. I am bewildered by all these conjectures. No, I am sure M. de
Boiscoran has not told a falsehood, and the countess has been his mistress.
No, he has not deceived us; and on the night of the crime he really had an
interview with the countess. Did not Martha tell us that her mother had
gone out? And where could she have gone, except to meet M. de
Boiscoran?”
He paused a moment.
“Oh, come, come!” said the physician, “you need not be afraid of me.”
“Well, it might possibly be, that, after the countess had left M. de Boiscoran,
Fate might have stepped in. Jacques has told us how the letters which he
was burning had suddenly blazed up, and with such violence that he was
frightened. Who can tell whether some burning fragments may not have set
a straw-rick on fire? You can judge yourself. On the point of leaving the
place, M. de Boiscoran sees this beginning of a fire. He hastens to put it out.
His efforts are unsuccessful. The fire increases step by step: it lights up the
whole front of the chateau. At that moment Count Claudieuse comes out.
Jacques thinks he has been watched and detected; he sees his marriage
broken off, his life ruined, his happiness destroyed; he loses his head, aims,
fires, and flees instantly. And thus you explain his missing the count, and
also this fact which seemed to preclude the idea of premeditated murder,
that the gun was loaded with small-shot.”
“Take care never to repeat that! The suggestion you make is so fearfully
plausible, that, if it becomes known, no one will ever believe you when you
tell the real truth.”
“Most assuredly.”
“I never could admit that the countess should have fired at her husband. I
now see that I was right. She has not committed the crime directly; but she
has done it indirectly.”
“Oh!”
“She would not be the first woman who has done so. What I imagine is this:
the countess had made up her mind, and arranged her plan, before meeting
Jacques. The murderer was already at his post. If she had succeeded in
winning Jacques back, her accomplice would have put away his gun, and
quietly gone to bed. As she could not induce Jacques to give up his
marriage, she made a sign, and the fire was lighted, and the count was
shot.”
“In that case, there would have been premeditation,” he objected; “and
how, then, came the gun to be loaded with small-shot?”
Although he saw very well the doctor’s drift, M. Folgat started up,—
Dr. Seignebos tapped his forehead with the end of his finger, and replied,—
“When an idea has once made its way in there, it remains fixed. Yes, the
countess has an accomplice; and that accomplice is Cocoleu; and, if he has
no sense, you see the wretched idiot at least carries his devotion and his
discretion very far.”
407
“If what you say is true, doctor, we shall never get the key of this affair; for
Cocoleu will never confess.”
“Sir,” said the latter, “there is a gendarme below who brings you a man who
has to be sent to the hospital at once.”
“And, while the servant was gone to do his bidding, the doctor said,—
A heavy step was heard shaking the stairs; and almost immediately a
gendarme appeared, who in one hand held a violin, and with the other aided
a poor creature, who seemed unable to walk alone.
It was Goudar, really, but in what a state! His clothes muddy, and torn, pale,
with haggard eyes, his beard and his lips covered with a white foam.
“The story is this,” said the gendarme. “This individual was playing the fiddle
in the court of the barrack, and we were looking out of the window, when
all of a sudden he fell on the ground, rolled about, twisted and writhed,
while he uttered fearful howls, and foamed like a mad dog. We picked him
up; and I bring him to you.”
The gendarme went out; and, as soon as the door was shut, Goudar cried
with a voice full of intense disgust,—
“What a profession! Just look at me! What a disgrace if my wife should see
me in this state! Phew!”
And, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his face, and drew
from his mouth a small piece of soap.
408
“But the point is,” said the doctor, “that you have played the epileptic so
well, that the gendarmes have been taken in.”
“An excellent trick, since you can now quite safely go to the hospital. They
will put you in the same ward with Cocoleu, and I shall come and see you
every morning. You are free to act now.”
“Now, my dear friend, let us consult. Shall we speak of what Martha has told
us and of Goudar’s plan. I think not; for M. Galpin is watching us; and, if a
mere suspicion of what is going on reaches the prosecution, all is lost. Let us
content ourselves, then, with reporting to Jacques your interview with the
countess; and as to the rest, Silence!”
409
CHAPTER 26
Like all very clever men, Dr. Seignebos made the mistake of thinking other
people as cunning as he was himself. M. Galpin was, of course, watching
him, but by no means with the energy which one would have expected from
so ambitious a man. He had, of course, been the first to be notified that the
case was to be tried in open court, and from that moment he felt relieved of
all anxiety.
As to remorse, he had none. He did not even regret any thing. He did not
think of it, that the prisoner who was thus to be tried had once been his
friend,—a friend of whom he was proud, whose hospitality he had enjoyed,
and whose favor he had eagerly sought in his matrimonial aspirations. No.
He only saw one thing,—that he had engaged in a dangerous affair, on
which his whole future was depending, and that he was going to win
triumphantly.
Evidently his responsibility was by no means gone; but his zeal in preparing
the case for trial was no longer required. He need not appear at the trial.
Whatever must be the result, he thought he should escape the blame, which
he should surely have incurred if no true bill had been found. He did not
disguise it from himself that he should be looked at askance by all
Sauveterre, that his social relations were well-nigh broken off, and that no
one would henceforth heartily shake hands with him. But that gave him no
concern. Sauveterre, a miserable little town of five thousand inhabitants! He
hoped with certainty he would not remain there long; and a brilliant
preferment would amply repay him for his courage, and relieve him from all
foolish reproaches.
trouble and disturb the vulgar mind, and whose heart is like a rock, against
which all human passions are helplessly broken to pieces.”
With such a reputation, with his knowledge of the world, and his eagerness
to succeed, opportunities would not be wanting to put himself forward, to
make himself known, to become useful, indispensable even. He saw himself
already on the highest rungs of the official ladder. He was a judge in
Bordeaux, in Lyons, in Paris itself!
With such rose-colored dreams he fell asleep at night. The next morning, as
he crossed the streets, his carriage haughtier and stiffer than ever, his firmly-
closed lips, and the cold and severe look of his eyes, told the curious
observers that there must be something new.
“M. de Boiscoran’s case must be very bad indeed,” they said, “or M. Galpin
would not look so very proud.”
He went first to the commonwealth attorney. The truth is, he was still
smarting under the severe reproaches of M. Daubigeon, and he thought he
would enjoy his revenge now. He found the old book-worm, as usual, among
his beloved books, and in worse humor than ever. He ignored it, handed him
a number of papers to sign; and when his business was over, and while he
was carefully replacing the documents in his bag with his monogram on the
outside, he added with an air of indifference,—
“Well, my dear sir, you have heard the decision of the court? Which of us
was right?”
“Of course I am nothing but an old fool, a maniac: I give it up; and I say, like
Horace’s man,—
“You are joking. But what would have happened if I had listened to you?”
411
“M. de Boiscoran would none the less have been sent to a jury.”
“May be.”
“Anybody else would have collected the proofs of his guilt just as well as I.”
“That is a question.”
“And I should have injured my reputation very seriously; for they would have
called me one of those timid magistrates who are frightened at a nothing.”
He had vowed he would answer only in monosyllables; but his anger made
him forget his oath. He added in a very severe tone,—
“Another man would not have been bent exclusively upon proving that M.
de Boiscoran was guilty.”
M. Galpin was beginning to regret that he had ever come. He had hoped to
find M. Daubigeon quite penitent, and here he was worse than ever.
412
“No; but the jury may feel some. They are, occasionally, men of sense.”
“Oh!”
“Oh, oh!”
The magistrate was evidently becoming angry; his ears reddened up; and in
the same proportion M. Daubigeon regained his calmness.
This was evidently the place where the shoe pinched; but M. Galpin took
care not to let it be seen, and replied,—
M. Daubigeon smiled sarcastically, and said, much more for the purpose of
teasing his visitor than because he believed it himself,—
“Take care! do not trust appearances. You have to do with very clever
people. I always told you Cocoleu is probably the mainspring of the whole
case. The very fact that M. Gransiere will speak ought to make you tremble.
If he should not succeed, he would, of course, blame you, and never forgive
you in all his life. Now, you know he may fail. ‘There is many a slip between
the cup and the lip.’
M. Galpin could tell very well that he should gain nothing by prolonging the
discussion, and so he said,—
“Happen what may, I shall always know that my conscience supports me.”
Then he made great haste to take leave, lest an answer should come from
M. Daubigeon. He went out; and as he descended the stairs, he said to
himself,—
“It is losing time to reason with that old fogy who sees in the events of the
day only so many opportunities for quotations.”
But he struggled in vain against his own feelings; he had lost his self-
confidence. M. Daubigeon had revealed to him a new danger which he had
not foreseen. And what a danger!—the resentment of one of the most
eminent men of the French bar, one of those bitter, bilious men who never
forgive. M. Galpin had, no doubt, thought of the possibility of failure, that is
to say, of an acquittal; but he had never considered the consequences of
such a check.
Who would have to pay for it? The prosecuting attorney first and foremost,
because, in France, the prosecuting attorney makes the accusation a
personal matter, and considers himself insulted and humiliated, if he misses
his man.
“I had to draw my arguments from your part of the work. I did not obtain a
condemnation, because your work was imperfect. A man like myself ought
not to be exposed to such an humiliation, and, least of all, in a case which is
sure to create an immense sensation. You do not understand your
business.”
M. Galpin shuddered at the idea. He saw himself buried under the ruins of
his castles in Spain. And, unluckily, he went once more over all the papers of
the investigation, analyzing the evidence he had, like a soldier, who, on the
eve of a battle, furbishes up his arms. However, he only found one
objection, the same which M. Daubigeon had made,—what interest could
Jacques have had in committing so great a crime?
“There,” he said, “is evidently the weak part of the armor; and I would do
well to point it out to M. Gransiere. Jacques’s counsel are capable of making
that the turning-point of their plea.”
And, in spite of all he had said to M. Daubigeon, he was very much afraid of
the counsel for the defence. He knew perfectly well the prestige which M.
Magloire derived from his integrity and disinterestedness. It was no secret
to him, that a cause which M. Magloire espoused was at once considered a
good cause. They said of him,—
“He may be mistaken; but whatever he says he believes.” He could not but
have a powerful influence, therefore, not on judges who came into court
with well-established opinions, but with jurymen who are under the
influence of the moment, and may be carried off by the eloquence of a
speech. It is true, M. Magloire did not possess that burning eloquence which
thrills a crowd, but M. Folgat had it, and in an uncommon degree. M. Galpin
had made inquiries; and one of his Paris friends had written to him,—
especially, any incidents that may happen during the trial; for he has always
some kind of surprise in reserve.”
He had no reason for mistrusting his agent; and yet his apprehensions
became so serious, that he went out of his way to look in at the hospital.
The lady superior received him, as a matter of course, with all the signs of
profound respect; and, when he inquired about Cocoleu, she added,—
She took him into the garden, and there asked a gardener,—
The man put his spade into the ground; and, with that affected reverence
which characterizes all persons employed in a convent, he answered,—
“The idiot is down there in the middle avenue, mother, in his usual place,
you know, which nothing will induce him to leave.”
M. Galpin and the lady superior found him there. They had taken off the rags
which he wore when he was admitted, and put him into the hospital-dress,
which was a large gray coat and a cotton cap. He did not look any more
intelligent for that; but he was less repulsive. He was seated on the ground,
playing with the gravel.
He raised his inane face, and fixed his dull eye on the lady superior; but he
made no reply.
“Look here,” said M. Galpin, “answer me, and I’ll give you a ten-cent piece.”
416
“That is the way he is always,” declared the lady superior. “Since he is here,
no one has ever gotten a word out of him. Promises, threats, nothing has
any effect. One day I thought I would try an experiment; and, instead of
letting him have his breakfast, I said to him, ‘You shall have nothing to eat till
you say, “I am hungry.”’ At the end of twenty-four hours I had to let him
have his pittance; for he would have starved himself sooner than utter a
word.”
“The doctor does not want to hear his name mentioned,” replied the lady
superior.
“And that is a clear proof, that, but for the direct intervention of Providence,
the poor creature would never have denounced the crime which he had
witnessed.”
“But will you not relieve us soon of this poor idiot, who is a heavy charge on
our hospital? Why not send him back to his village, where he found his
support before? We have quite a number of sick and poor, and very little
room.”
“We must wait, sister, till M. de Boiscoran’s trial is finished,” replied the
magistrate.
“That is what the mayor told me, and it is very provoking, I must say:
however, they have allowed me to turn him out of the room which they had
given him at first. I have sent him to the Insane Ward. That is the name we
give to a few little rooms, enclosed by a wall, where we keep the poor
insane, who are sent to us provisionally.”
Here she was interrupted by the janitor of the hospital, who came up,
bowing.
417
“Epileptic,” she said, “and somewhat idiotic: as if we wanted any more! And
a stranger into the bargain! Really Dr. Seignebos is too yielding. Why does he
not send all these people to their own parish to be taken care of?”
And, with a very elastic step for her age, she went to the parlor, followed by
M. Galpin and the janitor. They had put the new patient in there, and, sunk
upon a bench, he looked the picture of utter idiocy. After having looked at
him for a minute, she said,—
“Put him in the Insane Ward: he can keep Cocoleu company. And let the
sister know at the drug-room. But no, I will go myself. You will excuse me,
sir.”
And then she left the room. M. Galpin was much comforted.
CHAPTER 27
At the same hour when the magistrate left the hospital, Dr. Seignebos and
M. Folgat parted, after a frugal breakfast,—the one to visit his patients, the
other to go to the prison. The young advocate was very much troubled. He
hung his head as he went down the street; and the diplomatic citizens who
compared his dejected appearance with the victorious air of M. Galpin came
to the conclusion that Jacques de Boiscoran was irrevocably lost.
The declarations made by little Martha and the governess had literally
overwhelmed him. Just when he thought he had the end of the thread in his
hand, the tangle had become worse than ever. And so it had been from the
commencement. At every step he took, the problem had become more
complicated than ever. At every effort he made, the darkness, instead of
being dispelled, had become deeper. Not that he as yet doubted Jacques’s
innocence. No! The suspicion which for a moment had flashed through his
mind had passed away instantly. He admitted, with Dr. Seignebos, the
possibility that there was an accomplice, and that it was Cocoleu, in all
probability, who had been charged with the execution of the crime. But how
could that fact be made useful to the defence? He saw no way.
Goudar was an able man; and the manner in which he had introduced
himself into the hospital and Cocoleu’s company indicated a master. But
however cunning he was, however experienced in all the tricks of his
profession, how could he ever hope to make a man confess who intrenched
himself behind the rampart of feigned imbecility? If he had only had an
abundance of time before him! But the days were counted, and he would
have to hurry his measures.
M. Folgat gave him a minute account of his mission, quoting the words of
the countess almost literally.
“That is just like her!” exclaimed the prisoner. “I think I can hear her! What a
woman! To defy me in this way!”
And in his anger he wrung his hands till they nearly bled.
“You see,” said the young advocate, “there is no use in trying to get outside
of our circle of defence. Any new effort would be useless.”
And after a few moments’ reflection,—if he can be said to have been able to
reflect,—he said,—
“I hope you will pardon me, my dear sir, for having exposed you to such
insults. I ought to have foreseen it, or, rather, I did foresee it. I knew that
was not the way to begin the battle. But I was a coward, I was afraid, I drew
back, fool that I was! As if I had not known that we shall at any rate have to
come to the last extremity! Well, I am ready now, and I shall do it!”
“Oh!”
420
“You do not think she will deny it to my face? When I once have her under
my eye, I shall make her confess the crime of which I am accused.”
M. Folgat had promised Dr. Seignebos not to mention what Martha and her
governess had said; but he felt no longer bound to conceal it.
“Well, she will tell me who it is. I will insist upon it, I will make her tell. I will
not be disgraced. I am innocent, I will not go to the galleys!”
To try and make Jacques listen to reason would have been madness just
now.
“Have a care,” said the young lawyer. “Our defence is difficult enough
already; do not make it still more so.”
“I shall be careful.”
“Now, my dear sir,” said the prisoner, “you will render me a service, will you
not?”
“What is it?”
Without saying a word, M. Folgat took out a sheet of paper, and drew on it a
plan of the house, as far as he knew,—of the garden, the entrance-hall, and
the sitting-room.
421
“Then all is right,” he said, “and I have only to ask you, my dear counsel, to
tell Miss Dionysia that I must see her to-day, as soon as possible. I wish her
to come accompanied by one of her aunts only. And, I beseech you, make
haste.”
M. Folgat did hasten; so that, twenty minutes later, he was at the young
lady’s house. She was in her chamber. He sent word to her that he wished to
see her; and, as soon as she heard that Jacques wanted her, she said
simply,—
“I am ready to go.”
“Come, Aunt Elizabeth, be quick. Take your hat and your shawl. I am going
out, and you are going with me.”
The prisoner counted so fully upon the promptness of his betrothed, that he
had already gone down into the parlor when she arrived at the prison, quite
out of breath from having walked so fast. He took her hands, and, pressing
them to his lips, he said,—
“Oh, my darling! how shall I ever thank you for your sublime fidelity in my
misfortune? If I escape, my whole life will not suffice to prove my gratitude.”
But he tried to master his emotion, and turning to Aunt Elizabeth, he said,—
“Will you pardon me if I beg you to render me once more the service you
have done me before? It is all important that no one should hear what I am
going to say to Dionysia. I know I am watched.”
422
Accustomed to passive obedience, the good lady left the room without
daring to make the slightest remark, and went to keep watch in the passage.
Dionysia was very much surprised; but Jacques did not give her time to utter
a word. He said at once,—
“You told me in this very place, that, if I wished to escape, Blangin would
furnish me the means, did you not?”
The young girl drew back, and stammered with an air of utter
bewilderment,—
“I remember.”
“Well, then,” he said again, “the time has come. To-morrow I shall have to
be away all the evening. I shall like to leave about nine; and I shall be back at
midnight.”
The household of the jailer of Sauveterre was like many others. The husband
was brutal, imperious, and tyrannical: he talked loud and positively, and thus
made it appear that he was the master. The wife was humble, submissive,
apparently resigned, and always ready to obey; but in reality she ruled by
intelligence, as he ruled by main force. When the husband had promised any
thing, the consent of the wife had still to be obtained; but, when the wife
undertook to do any thing, the husband was bound through her. Dionysia,
therefore, knew very well that she would have first to win over the wife.
423
“I know,” the young girl cut her short, “you are attached to me. But listen!”
And then she promptly explained to her what she wanted; while Jacques,
standing a little aside in the shade, watched the impression on the woman’s
face. Gradually she raised her head; and, when Dionysia had finished, she
said in a very different tone,—
“I understand perfectly, and, if I were the master, I should say, ‘All right!’ But
Blangin is master of the jail. Well, he is not bad; but he insists upon doing his
duty. We have nothing but our place to live upon.”
“In gold?”
A flash of covetousness broke forth from under the thick brows of the
jailer’s wife; but, quite self-possessed, she went on,—
“In that case, my man will probably consent. I will go and put him right, and
then you can talk to him.”
She went out hastily, and, as soon as she had disappeared, Jacques asked
Dionysia,—
“Ah, what does the money matter? I wish we were both of us ruined, if you
were but free.”
But it had not taken the wife long to persuade the husband. Blangin’s heavy
steps were heard in the passage; and almost immediately, he entered, cap in
hand, looking obsequious and restless.
“My wife has told me every thing,” he said, “and I consent. Only we must
understand each other. This is no trifle you are asking for.”
“Let us not exaggerate the matter. I do not mean to escape: I only want to
leave for a time. I shall come back, I give you my word of honor.”
“Upon my life, that is not what troubles me. If the question was only to let
you run off altogether, I should open the doors wide, and say, ‘Good-by!’ A
prisoner who runs away—that happens every day; but a prisoner who
leaves for a few hours, and comes back again—Suppose anybody were to
see you in town? Or if any one came and wanted to see you while you are
gone? Or if they saw you come back again? What should I say? I am quite
ready to be turned off for negligence. I have been paid for that. But to be
tried as an accomplice, and to be put into jail myself. Stop! That is not what I
mean to do.”
“Oh! why lose so many words?” asked Dionysia. “Explain yourself clearly.”
“Did he want to extort more money? Did he make the difficulties out greater
than they really were?”
“After all,” said Jacques, “if you consent, there must be a way.”
425
“If the thing is to be done, you must get out as if you were escaping in good
earnest. The wall between the two towers is, to my knowledge, at one place
not over two feet thick; and on the other side, where there are nothing but
bare grounds and the old ramparts, they never put a sentinel. I will get you a
crowbar and a pickaxe, and you make a hole in the wall.”
“And the next day,” he said, “when I am back, how will you explain that
hole?”
Blangin smiled.
“Be sure,” he replied, “I won’t say the rats did it. I have thought of that too.
At the same time with you, another prisoner will run off, who will not come
back.”
“What prisoner?”
The plan was really a good one; only Blangin ought not to have claimed the
honor of inventing it: the idea came from his wife.
“Well,” replied Jacques, “that is settled. Get me the pickaxe and the
crowbar, show me the place where we must make the hole, and I will take
charge of Trumence. To-morrow you shall have the money.”
He was on the point of following the jailer, when Dionysia held him back;
and, lifting up her beautiful eyes to him, she said in a tremor,—
“You see, Jacques, I have not hesitated to dare every thing in order to
procure you a few house of liberty. May I not know what you are going to
do in that time?”
A rush of blood colored the face of the unfortunate man; and he said in an
embarrassed voice,—
Two tears trembled for a moment in the long lashes of the young girl, and
then silently rolled down her cheeks.
She did not hear him. Gently shaking her heard, she went on,—
“A woman whom you have loved, or whom you love still, at whose feet you
have probably murmured the same words which you whispered at my feet.
How could you think of her in the midst of all your anxieties? She cannot
love you, I am sure. Why did she not come to you when she found that you
were in prison, and falsely accused of an abominable crime?”
“Great God!” he cried, “I would a thousand times rather tell you every thing
than allow such a suspicion to remain in your heart! Listen, and forgive me.”
But she stopped him, putting her hand on his lips, and saying, all in a
tremor,—
“No, I do not wish to know any thing,—nothing at all. I believe in you. Only
you must remember that you are every thing to me,—hope, life, happiness.
If you should have deceived me, I know but too well—poor me!—that I
would not cease loving you; but I should not have long to suffer.”
“Dionysia, Dionysia, my darling, let me confess to you who this woman is,
and why I must see her.”
“No,” she interrupted him, “no! Do what your conscience bids you do. I
believe in you.”
And instead of offering to let him kiss her forehead, as usual, she hurried off
with her Aunt Elizabeth, and that so quickly, that, when he rushed after her,
he only saw, as it were, a shadow at the end of the long passage.
Never until this moment had Jacques found it in his heart really to hate the
Countess Claudieuse with that blind and furious hatred which dreams of
nothing but vengeance. Many a time, no doubt, he had cursed her in the
solitude of his prison; but even when he was most furious against her, a
feeling of pity had risen in his heart for her whom he had once loved so
dearly; for he did not disguise it to himself, he had once loved her to
distraction. Even in his prison he trembled, as he thought of some of his first
meetings with her, as he saw before his mind’s eye her features swimming
in voluptuous languor, as he heard the silvery ring of her voice, or inhaled
the perfume she loved ever to have about her. She had exposed him to the
danger of losing his position, his future, his honor even; and he still felt
inclined to forgive her. But now she threatened him with the loss of his
betrothed, the loss of that pure and chaste love which burnt in Dionysia’s
heart, and he could not endure that.
“I will spare her no longer,” he cried, mad with wrath. “I will hesitate no
longer. I have not the right to do so; for I am bound to defend Dionysia!”
He was more than ever determined to risk that adventure on the next day,
feeling quite sure now that his courage would not fail him.
“Certainly I am, my dear sir. Here, you see, I am not so badly off: I have a
good bed, I have two meals a day, I have nothing to do, and I pick up now
and then, from one man or another, a few cents to buy me a pinch of
tobacco or a glass of wine.”
“Well, I shall get that too. I have committed no crime. I may have gotten
over a wall into an orchard; but people are not hanged for that. I have
consulted M. Magloire, and he told me precisely how I stand. They will try
me in a police-court, and they will give me three or four months. Well, that is
not so very bad. But, if I run away, they put the gendarmes on my track; they
bring me back here; and then I know how they will treat me. Besides, to
break jail is a grave offence.”
How could he overcome such wise conclusions and such excellent reasons?
Jacques was very much troubled.
“Because they are gendarmes, my dear sir. And then, that is not all. If it were
spring, I should say at once, ‘I am your man.’ But we have autumn now; we
are going to have bad weather; work will be scarce.”
Although an incurable idler, Trumence had always a good deal to say about
work.
“Well?”
429
“But that only lasts a fortnight, and then comes winter. And winter is no
man’s friend: it’s my enemy. I know I have been without a place to lie down
when it has been freezing to split stones, and the snow was a foot deep. Oh!
here they have stoves, and the Board gives very warm clothes.”
“Yes; but there are no merry evenings here, Trumence, eh? None of those
merry evenings, when the hot wine goes round, and you tell the girls all
sorts of stories, while you are shelling peas, or shucking corn?”
“Oh! I know. I do enjoy those evenings. But the cold! Where should I go
when I have not a cent?”
“You do not think I would let you go off with empty pockets? I would give
you any thing you may ask.”
“You see I should want a good deal. Winter is long. I should want—let me
see, I should want fifty Napoleons!”
“Do you want the whole sum at once?” replied Jacques. “Wait.”
He drew from the drawer in his table a thousand-franc note. But, at the sight
of the note, the vagrant drew back the hand which he had promptly
stretched out to take the money.
430
“Oh! that kind? No! I know what that paper is worth: I have had some of
them myself. But what could I do with one of them now? It would not be
worth more to me than a leaf of a tree; for, at the first place I should want it
changed, they would arrest me.”
“Give me some of one kind, and some of the other,” he said, “and I am your
man! Hurrah for liberty! Where is that wall that we are to go through?”
It was only the next day that Blangin showed Jacques the place where the
wall had least thickness. It was in a kind of cellar, where nobody ever came,
and where cast-off tools were stored away.
“In order that you may not be interrupted,” said the jailer, “I will ask two of
my comrades to dine with me, and I shall invite the sergeant on duty. They
will enjoy themselves, and never think of the prisoners. My wife will keep a
sharp lookout; and, if any of the rounds should come this way, she would
warn you, and quick, quick, you would be back in your room.”
All was settled; and, as soon as night came, Jacques and Trumence, taking a
candle with them, slipped down into the cellar, and went to work. It was a
hard task to get through this old wall, and Jacques would never have been
able to accomplish it alone. The thickness was even less than what Blangin
had stated it to be; but the hardness was far beyond expectation. Our
fathers built well. In course of time the cement had become one with the
stone, and acquired the same hardness. It was as if they had attacked a
block of granite. The vagrant had, fortunately, a strong arm; and, in spite of
the precautions which they had to take to prevent being heard, he had, in
less than an hour, made a hole through which a man could pass. He put his
head in; and, after a moment’s examination, he said,—
“All right! The night is dark, and the place is deserted. Upon my word, I will
risk it!”
431
“Add this to the hundred Napoleons I have given you before. Thank you: you
are a good fellow, and, if I get out of my trouble, I will not forget you. And
now let us part. Make haste, be careful, and good luck!”
After these words he went off rapidly. But Trumence did not march off in
the opposite direction, as had been agreed upon.
“Anyhow,” said the poor vagrant to himself, “this is a curious story about
the poor gentleman. Where on earth can he be going?”
CHAPTER 28
“The countess does not see anybody,” replied the girl. “She is sitting up
with the count, who is very ill to-night.”
“Impossible.”
“Tell her that a gentleman who has been sent by M. Galpin desires to see
her for a moment. It is the Boiscoran affair.”
“Why did you not say so at once?” said the servant. “Come in.” And
forgetting, in her hurry, to close the gates again, she went before Jacques
through the garden, showed him into the vestibule, and then opened the
parlor-door, saying,—
“Will you please go in here and sit down, while I go to tell the countess?”
After lighting one of the candles on the mantelpiece, she went out. So far,
every thing had gone well for Jacques, and even better than he could have
expected. Nothing remained now to be done, except to prevent the
433
countess from going back and escaping, as soon as she should have
recognized Jacques. Fortunately the parlor-door opened into the room. He
went and put himself behind the open half, and waited there.
For twenty-four hours he had prepared himself for this interview, and
arranged in his head the very words he would use. But now, at the last
moment, all his ideas flew away, like dry leaves under the breath of a
tempest. His heart was beating with such violence, that he thought it filled
the whole room with the noise. He imagined he was cool, and, in fact, he
possessed that lucidity which gives to certain acts of madmen an
appearance of sense.
He was surprised at being kept waiting so long, when, at last, light steps,
and the rustling of a dress, warned him that the countess was coming.
She came in, dressed in a long, dark, undress robe, and took a few steps into
the room, astonished at not seeing the person who was waiting for her.
He pushed to, violently, the open half of the door; and, placing himself
before her, he said,—
“Jacques!”
And terrified, as if she had seen a ghost, she looked all around, hoping to see
a way out. One of the tall windows of the room, which went down to the
ground, was half open, and she rushed towards it; but Jacques anticipated
her, and said,—
“Do not attempt to escape; for I swear I should pursue you into your
husband’s room, to the foot of his bed.”
“Yes,” he replied, “I am here. You are astonished, are you? You said to
yourself, ‘He is in prison, well kept under lock and key: I can sleep in peace.
No evidence can be found. He will not speak. I have committed the crime,
and he will be punished for it. I am guilty; but I shall escape. He is innocent,
and he is lost.’ You thought it was all settled? Well, no, it is not. I am here!”
“This is monstrous!”
“Monstrous indeed!”
“Murderer! Incendiary!”
“Yes,” she replied, “yes, I do! You cannot deny your crime to me. I know, I
know the motives which the judges do not even guess. You thought I would
carry out my threats, and you were frightened. When I left you in such haste,
you said to yourself, ‘It is all over: she will tell her husband.’ And then you
kindled that fire in order to draw my husband out of the house, you
incendiary! And then you fired at my husband, you murderer!”
“And that is your plan?” he broke in. “Who do you think will believe such an
absurd story? Our letters were burnt; and, if you deny having been my
mistress, I can just as well deny having been your lover. And, besides, would
the exposure do me any harm? You know very well it would not. You are
perfectly aware, that, as society is with us, the same thing which disgraces a
woman rather raises a man in the estimate of the world. And as to my being
afraid of Count Claudieuse, it is well known that I am afraid of nobody. At
the time when we were concealing our love in the house in Vine Street, yes,
at that time, I might have been afraid of your husband; for he might have
surprised us there, the code in one hand, a revolver in the other, and have
435
availed himself of that stupid and savage law which makes the husband the
judge of his own case, and the executor of the sentence which he himself
pronounces. But setting aside such a case, the case of being taken in the act,
which allows a man to kill like a dog another man, who can not or will not
defend himself, what did I care for Count Claudieuse? What did I care for
your threats or for his hatred?” He said these words with perfect calmness,
but with that cold, cutting tone which is as sharp as a sword, and with that
positiveness which enters irresistibly into the mind. The countess was
tottering, and stammered almost inaudibly,—
“But I am losing my senses. If you are innocent, who, then, could be the
guilty man?”
Jacques seized her hands almost madly, and pressing them painfully, and
bending over her so closely that she felt his hot breath like a flame touching
her face, he hissed into her ear,—
And then pushing her from him with such violence that she fell into a chair,
he continued,—
And repeating with crushing irony the words just uttered by the countess,
he said,—
“If you are innocent, who, then, would be the guilty man?”
436
Quite beside herself, she sprang up from her chair, and casting at Jacques
one of those glances which seem to enter through our eyes into the very
heart of our hearts, she asked,—
“Is it really possible that you have not committed this abominable crime?”
“But then,” she repeated, almost panting, “is it true, can it really be true,
that you think I have committed it?”
With a wild gesture she raised her arms to heaven, and cried in a heart-
rending voice,—
Standing face to face, Jacques and the Countess Claudieuse looked at each
other madly, feeling that the fatal hour in their lives had come at last.
Each felt a growing, a sure conviction of the other. There was no need of
explanations. They had been misled by appearances: they acknowledged it;
they were sure of it.
“Which?”
“That I have been your lover; that I went to Valpinson by appointment with
you; that the cartridge-case which was found there was used by me to get
fire; that my blackened hands were soiled by the half-burnt fragment of our
letters, which I had tried to scatter.”
“Do you not see that the truth cannot possibly be told. They would never
believe in our innocence. They would only look upon us as accomplices.”
“Be it so.”
“To confess every thing would never save you, but would most assuredly
ruin me. Is that what you want? Would your fate appear less cruel to you, if
there were two victims instead of one?”
“Are you always the same? I am sinking, I am drowning; and she calculates,
she bargains! And she said she loved me!”
Her whole body was shivering from head to foot; her bosom rose and fell;
her eyes shone with unbearable brilliancy.
438
Thanks to the violence of her action, her dress, put on in great haste, had
opened, and her dishevelled hair flowed in golden masses over her bosom
and her shoulders, which matched the purest marble in their dazzling
whiteness.
And in a voice trembling with pent-up passion, now sweet and soft like a
tender caress, and now deep and sonorous like a bell, she went on,—
“What keeps us? Since you have escaped from prison, the greatest difficulty
is overcome. I thought at first of taking our girl, your girl, Jacques; but she is
very ill; and besides a child might betray us. If we go alone, they will never
overtake us. We will have money enough, I am sure, Jacques. We will flee to
those distant countries which appear in books of travels in such fairy-like
beauty. There, unknown, forgotten, unnoticed, our life will be one unbroken
enjoyment. You will never again say that I bargain. I will be yours, entirely,
and solely yours, body and soul, your wife, your slave.”
She threw her head back, and with half-closed eyes, bending with her whole
person toward him, she said in melting tones,—
She turned deadly pale; a spasm of rage convulsed her features; and
drawing back, stiff and stern, she said,—
He made no reply.
Then she, who had just now been all humility, raised herself to her full
height, and in a tone of bitterest sarcasm said slowly,—
439
“In other words, you want me to sacrifice myself, and at the same time all
my family. For your sake? Yes, but even more for Miss Chandore’s sake. And
you think that it is quite a simple thing. I am the past to you, satiety, disgust:
she is the future to you, desire, happiness. And you think it quite natural that
the old love should make a footstool of her love and her honor for the new
love? You think little of my being disgraced, provided she be honored; of my
weeping bitterly, if she but smile? Well, no, no! it is madness in you to come
and ask me to save you, so that you may throw yourself into the arms of
another. It is madness, when in order to tear you from Dionysia, I am ready
to ruin myself, provided only that you be lost to her forever.”
She looked at him with a mocking air, and her eyes beamed with infernal
audacity.
“You do not know me yet,” she cried. “Go, speak, denounce me! M. Folgat
no doubt has told you how I can deny and defend myself.”
Jacques and the countess turned round, and uttered, both at the same
instant, the same kind of sharp, terrible cry, which must have been heard a
great distance.
In the frame of the door stood Count Claudieuse, a revolver in his hand, and
ready to fire.
“I have heard all,” he said, casting crushing looks at both the guilty ones.
440
The countess uttered a deep, hoarse sigh, and sank into a chair. But Jacques
drew himself up, and said,—
“Great God! You would allow me to be condemned for a crime which I have
not committed. Ah, that would be the meanest cowardice.”
The count was so feeble that he had to lean against the door-post.
“Would it be cowardly?” he asked. “Then, what do you call the act of that
miserable man who meanly, disgracefully robs another man of his wife, and
palms off his own children upon him? It is true you are neither an incendiary
nor an assassin. But what is fire in my house in comparison with the ruin of
all my faith? What are the wounds in my body in comparison with that
wound in my heart, which never can heal? I leave you to the court, sir.”
Jacques was terrified; he saw the abyss opening before him that was to
swallow him up.
“But why do you not fire, sir? Why do you not fire? Are you afraid of blood?
Shoot! I have been the lover of your wife: your youngest daughter is my
child.”
“The courts of justice are more certain,” he said. “You have robbed me of
my honor: now I want yours. And, if you cannot be condemned without it, I
shall say, I shall swear, that I recognized you. You shall go to the galleys, M.
de Boiscoran.”
He was on the point of coming forward; but his strength was exhausted,
and he fell forward, face downward, and arms outstretched. Overcome with
horror, half mad, Jacques fled.
441
CHAPTER 29
M. Folgat had just risen. Standing before his mirror, hung up to one of the
windows in his room, he had just finished shaving himself, when the door
was thrown open violently, and old Anthony appeared quite beside himself.
“What?”
“Who?”
“Master Jacques!”
The surprise was so great, that M. Folgat nearly let his razor drop: he said,
however, peremptorily,—
“That is false!”
“Alas, sir,” replied the old servant, “everybody is full of it in town. All the
details are known. I have just seen a man who says he met master last night,
about eleven o’clock, running like a madman down National Street.”
“That is absurd.”
“I have only told Miss Dionysia so far, and she sent me to you. You ought to
go and make inquiry.”
The advice was not needed. Wiping his face hastily, the young advocate
went to dress at once. He was ready in a moment; and, having run down the
stairs, he was crossing the passage when he heard somebody call his name.
He turned round, and saw Dionysia making him a sign to come into the
boudoir in which she was usually sitting. He did so.
Dionysia and the young advocate alone knew what a desperate venture
Jacques had undertaken the night before. They had not said a word about it
to each other; but each had noticed the preoccupation of the other. All the
442
evening M. Folgat had not spoken ten words, and Dionysia had, immediately
after dinner, gone up to her own room.
“Who knows?”
“His evasion would be a confession of his crime. It is only the guilty who try
to escape; and M. de Boiscoran is innocent. You can rest quite assured,
madam, it is not so. I pray you be quiet.”
Who would not have pitied the poor girl at that moment? She was as white
as her collar, and trembled violently. Big tears ran over her eyes; and at each
word a violent sob rose in her throat.
“You know where Jacques went last night?” she asked again.
“Yes.”
She turned her head a little aside, and went on, in a hardly audible voice,—
“He went to see once more a person whose influence over him is, probably,
all powerful. It may be that she has upset him, stunned him. Might she not
have prevailed upon him to escape from the disgrace of appearing in court,
charged with such a crime?”
“This person has always been Jacques’s evil genius. She loves him, I am sure.
She must have been incensed at the idea of his becoming my husband.
Perhaps, in order to induce him to flee, she has fled with him.”
Dionysia threw herself back in utter amazement; and, raising her wide-open
eyes to the young advocate, she said with an air of stupefaction,—
M. Folgat saw his indiscretion. He had been under the impression that
Jacques had told his betrothed every thing; and her very manner of
speaking had confirmed him in his conviction.
“Ah, it is the Countess Claudieuse,” she went on,—“that lady whom all
revere as if she were a saint. And I, who only the other day marvelled at her
fervor in praying,—I who pitied her with all my heart,—I—Ah! I now see
what they were hiding from me.”
“I shall never forgive myself, madam, for having mentioned that name in
your presence.”
“Perhaps you have rendered me a great service, sir. But, I pray, go and see
what the truth is about this report.”
M. Folgat had not walked down half the street, when he became aware that
something extraordinary must really have happened. The whole town was in
uproar. People stood at their doors, talking. Groups here and there were
engaged in lively discussions.
Hastening his steps, he was just turning into National Street, when he was
stopped by three or four gentlemen, whose acquaintance he had, in some
way or other, been forced to make since he was at Sauveterre.
“Well, sir?” said one of these amiable friends, “your client, it seems, is
running about nicely.”
“Certainly. The wife of a workman whom I employ was the person through
whom the escape became known. She had gone on the old ramparts to cut
grass there for her goat; and, when she came to the prison wall, she saw a
444
big hole had been made there. She gave at once the alarm; the guard came
up; and they reported the matter immediately to the commonwealth
attorney.”
“Cannot be found. Ah, I tell you, it is just as I say. I know it from a friend who
heard it from a clerk at the mayor’s office. Blangin the jailer, they say, is
seriously implicated.”
“I hope soon to see you again,” said the young advocate, and left him
abruptly.
He was become apprehensive. He did not fear an evasion, but thought there
might have occurred some fearful catastrophe. A hundred persons, at least,
were assembled around the prison-doors, standing there with open mouths
and eager eyes; and the sentinels had much trouble in keeping them back.
M. Folgat made his way through the crowd, and went in.
On all sides he had been greeted by ironical salutations, mocking smiles, and
even expressions of condolence at the loss of his prisoner. Two men, whom
445
He was the first to notice the young advocate, and at once said to him,—
But M. Folgat was not the man to be taken in twice the same day.
Concealing his apprehensions under the most punctilious politeness, he
replied,—
“I have heard all kinds of reports; but they do not affect me. M. de
Boiscoran has too much confidence in the excellency of his cause and the
justice of his country to think of escaping. I only came to confer with him.”
“And you are right!” exclaimed M. Daubigeon. “M. de Boiscoran is in his cell,
utterly unaware of all the rumors that are afloat. It was Trumence who has
run off,—Trumence, the light-footed. He was kept in prison for form’s sake
only, and helped the keeper as a kind of assistant jailer. He it is who has
made a hole in the wall, and escaped, thinking, no doubt, that the heavens
are a better roof than the finest jail.”
A little distance behind the group stood Blangin, the jailer, affecting a
contrite and distressed air.
“Take the counsel to the prisoner Boiscoran,” said M. Galpin dryly, fearing,
perhaps, that M. Daubigeon might regale the public with all the bitter
epigrams with which he persecuted him privately. The jailer bowed to the
ground, and obeyed the order; but, as soon as he was alone with M. Folgat
in the porch of the building, he blew up his cheek, and then tapped it,
saying,—
“And still,” Blangin went on, “this is not the end of it yet. The gendarmes are
all out. If they should catch my poor Trumence! That man is such a fool, the
most stupid judge would worm his secret out of him in five minutes. And
then, who would be in a bad box?”
M. Folgat still made no reply; but the other did not seem to mind that much.
He continued,—
Blangin had stopped at the foot of the staircase to give all these
explanations.
He found Jacques lying on his bed, all dressed; and at the first glance he saw
that a great misfortune had happened.
The prisoner raised himself up with difficulty, and sat up on the side of his
bed; then he replied in a voice of utter despair,—
“Oh!”
“Just listen!”
The young advocate could not help shuddering as he heard the account
given by Jacques of what had happened the night before. And when it was
finished, he said,—
447
“You are right. If Count Claudieuse carries out his threat, it may be a
condemnation.”
“It must be a condemnation, you mean. Well, you need not doubt. He will
carry out his threat.”
“And the most formidable part of it is this: I cannot blame him for doing it.
The jealousy of husbands is often nothing more than self-love. When they
find they have been deceived, their vanity is offended; but their heart
remains whole. But in this case it is very different. He not only loved his wife,
he worshipped her. She was his happiness, life itself. When I took her from
him, I robbed him of all he had,—yes, of all! I never knew what adultery
meant till I saw him overcome with shame and rage. He was left without any
thing in a moment. His wife had a lover: his favorite daughter was not his
own! I suffer terribly; but it is nothing, I am sure, in comparison with what he
suffers. And you expect, that, holding a weapon in his hand, he should not
use it? It is a treacherous, dishonest weapon, to be sure; but have I been
frank and honest? It would be a mean, ignoble vengeance, you will say; but
what was the offence? In his place, I dare say, I should do as he does.”
Jacques passed his hand mechanically over his forehead, as if to gather his
thoughts, and then went on,—
“After that I fled precipitately, like a man who has committed a crime. The
garden-door was open, and I rushed out. I could not tell you with certainty in
what direction I ran, through what streets I passed. I had but one fixed
idea,—to get away from that house as quickly and as far as possible. I did
not know what I was doing. I went, I went. When I came to myself, I was
many miles away from Sauveterre, on the road to Boiscoran. The instinct of
the animal within me had guided me on the familiar way to my house. At the
first moment I could not comprehend how I had gotten there. I felt like a
drunkard whose head is filled with the vapors of alcohol, and who, when he
is roused, tries to remember what has happened during his intoxication.
448
Alas! I recalled the fearful reality but too soon. I knew that I ought to go
back to prison, that it was an absolute necessity; and yet I felt at times so
weary, so exhausted, that I was afraid I should not be able to get back. Still I
did reach the prison. Blangin was waiting for me, all anxiety; for it was nearly
two o’clock. He helped me to get up here. I threw myself, all dressed as I
was, on my bed, and I fell fast asleep in an instant. But my sleep was a
miserable sleep, broken by terrible dreams, in which I saw myself chained to
the galleys, or mounting the scaffold with a priest by my side; and even at
this moment I hardly know whether I am awake or asleep, and whether I am
not still suffering under a fearful nightmare.”
“Poor man!”
“Oh, yes, poor man indeed!” repeated Jacques. “Why did I not follow my
first inspiration last night when I found myself on the high-road. I should
have gone on to Boiscoran, I should have gone up stairs to my room, and
there I should have blown out my brains. I should then suffer no more.”
“Ah! it is for her sake first of all that I ought to make an end of it. Poor
Dionysia! Certainly she would grieve terribly when she heard of my suicide.
But she is not twenty yet. My memory would soon fade in her heart; and
weeks growing into months, and months into years, she would find comfort.
To live means to forget.”
“No! You cannot really think what you are saying!” broke in M. Folgat. “You
know very well that she—she would never forget you!”
A tear appeared in the eyes of the unfortunate man, and he said in a half-
smothered voice,—
449
“You are right. I believe to strike me down means to strike her down also.
But do you think what life would be after a condemnation? Can you imagine
what her sensations would be, if day after day she had to say to herself, ‘He
whom alone I love upon earth is at the galleys, mixed up with the lowest of
criminals, disgraced for life, dishonored.’ Ah! death is a thousand times
preferable.”
“Jacques, M. de Boiscoran, do you forget that you have given me your word
of honor?”
“The proof that I have not forgotten it is that you see me here. But, never
mind, the day is not very far off when you will see me so wretched that you
yourself will be the first to put a weapon into my hands.”
But the young advocate was one of those men whom difficulties only excite
and stimulate, instead of discouraging. He had already recovered somewhat
from the first great shock, and he said,—
“Before you throw down your hand, wait, at least, till the game is lost. You
are not sentenced yet. Far from it! You are innocent, and there is divine
justice. Who tells us that Count Claudieuse will really give evidence? We do
not even know whether he has not, at this moment, drawn his last breath
upon earth!”
“Ah, don’t say that! That fatal thought has already occurred to me, that
perhaps he did not rise again last night. Would to God that that be not so!
for then I should but too surely be an assassin. He was my first thought
when I awoke. I thought of sending out to make inquiries. But I did not dare
do it.”
M. Folgat felt his heart oppressed with most painful anxiety, like the
prisoner himself. Hence he said at once,—
“Ah, there you are coming at last! I give up twenty of my worst patients to
see you, and you keep me waiting forever. I was sure you would come. What
happened last night at Count Claudieuse’s house?”
“I know nothing. I have seen the results; but I do not know the cause. The
result was this: last night, about eleven o’clock, I had just gone to bed, tired
to death, when, all of a sudden, somebody rings my bell as if he were
determined to break it. I do not like people to perform so violently at my
door; and I was getting up to let the man know my mind, when Count
Claudieuse’s servant rushed in, pushing my own servant unceremoniously
aside, and cried out to me to come instantly, as his master had just died.”
“Great God!”
“That is what I said, because, although I knew the count was very ill, I did
not think he was so near death.”
“Not at all. But, if you interrupt me continually, I shall never be able to tell
you.”
And taking off his spectacles, wiping them, and putting them on again, he
went on,—
“I was dressed in an instant, and in a few minutes I was at the house. They
asked me to go into the sitting-room down stairs. There I found, to my great
amazement, Count Claudieuse, lying on a sofa. He was pale and stiff, his
features fearfully distorted, and on his forehead a slight wound, from which
a slender thread of blood was trickling down. Upon my word I thought it
was all over.”
“The countess was kneeling by her husband; and, with the help of her
women, she was trying to resuscitate him by rubbing him, and putting hot
napkins on his chest. But for these wise precautions she would be a widow
at this moment; whilst, as it is, he may live a long time yet. This precious
count has a wonderful tenacity of life. We, four of us, then took him and
carried him up stairs, and put him to bed, after having carefully warmed it
first. He soon began to move; he opened his eyes; and a quarter of an hour
later he had recovered his consciousness, and spoke readily, though with a
somewhat feeble voice. Then, of course, I asked what had happened, and
for the first time in my life I saw the marvellous self-possession of the
countess forsake her. She stammered pitifully, looking at her husband with a
most frightened air, as if she wished to read in his eyes what she should say.
He undertook to answer me; but he, also was evidently very much
embarrassed. He said, that being left alone, and feeling better than usual, he
had taken it into his head to try his strength. He had risen, put on his
dressing-gown, and gone down stairs; but, in the act of entering the room,
he had become dizzy, and had fallen so unfortunately as to hurt his forehead
against the sharp corner of a table. I affected to believe it, and said, ‘You
have done a very imprudent thing, and you must not do it again.’ Then he
looked at his wife in a very singular way, and replied, ‘Oh! you can be sure I
shall not commit another imprudence. I want too much to get well. I have
never wished it so much as now.’”
M. Folgat was on the point of replying; but the doctor closed his lips with his
hand, and said,—
paternal tone I could assume, ‘Now my child, you must tell me what was the
matter.’ She hesitated a while, and then she said, ‘I was frightened.’—
‘Frightened at what, my darling?’ She raised herself on her bed, trying to
consult her mother’s eyes; but I had placed myself between them, so that
she could not see them. When I repeated my question, she said, ‘Well, you
see, I had just gone to bed, when I heard the bell ring. I got up, and went to
the window to see who could be coming so late. I saw the servant go and
open the door, a candlestick in her hand, and come back to the house,
followed by a gentleman, whom I did not know.’ The countess interrupted
her here, saying, ‘It was a messenger from the court, who had been sent to
me with an urgent letter.’ But I pretended not to hear her; and, turning still
to Martha, I asked again, ‘And it was this gentleman who frightened you
so?’—‘Oh, no!’—‘What then?’ Out of the corner of my eye I was watching
the countess. She seemed to be terribly embarrassed. Still she did not dare
to stop her daughter. ‘Well, doctor,’ said the little girl, ‘no sooner had the
gentleman gone into the house than I saw one of the statues under the
trees there come down from its pedestal, move on, and glide very quietly
along the avenue of lime-trees.’”
M. Folgat trembled.
“Do you remember, doctor,” he said, “the day we were questioning little
Martha, she said she was terribly frightened by the statutes in the garden?”
“Yes, indeed!” replied the doctor. “But wait a while. The countess promptly
interrupted her daughter, saying to me, ‘But, dear doctor, you ought to
forbid the child to have such notions in her head. At Valpinson she never
was afraid, and even at night, quite alone, and without a light, all over the
house. But here she is frightened at every thing; and, as soon as night
comes, she fancies the garden is full of ghosts. You are too big now, Martha,
to think that statues, which are made of stone, can come to life, and walk
about.’ The child was shuddering.
“‘The other times, mamma,’ she said, ‘I was not quite sure; but this time I am
sure. I wanted to go away from the window, and I could not do it. It was too
strong for me: so that I saw it all, saw it perfectly. I saw the statue, the
ghost, come up the avenue slowly and cautiously, and then place itself
453
behind the last tree, the one that is nearest to the parlor window. Then I
heard a loud cry, then nothing more. The ghost remained all the time behind
the tree, and I saw all it did: it turned to the left and the right; it drew itself
up; and it crouched down. Then, all of a sudden, two terrible cries; but, O
mamma, such cries! Then the ghost raised one arm, this way, and all of a
sudden it was gone; but almost the same moment another one came out,
and then disappeared, too.’”
CHAPTER 30
“What scene? What witness? That is what I wanted to hear from you, and
why I was waiting so impatiently for you,” said Dr. Seignebos to M. Folgat. “I
have seen and stated the results: now it is for you to give me the cause.”
Nevertheless, he did not seem to be in the least surprised by what the young
advocate told him of Jacques’s desperate enterprise, and of the tragic
result. As soon as he had heard it all, he exclaimed,—
“I thought so: yes, upon my word! By racking my brains all night long, I had
very nearly guessed the whole story. And who, in Jacques’s place, would not
have been desirous to make one last effort? But certainly fate is against
him.”
“Who knows?” said M. Folgat. And, without giving the doctor time to reply,
he went on,—
“In what are our chances worse than they were before? In no way. We can
to-day, just as well as we could yesterday, lay our hands upon those proofs
which we know do exist, and which would save us. Who tells us that at this
moment Sir Francis Burnett and Suky Wood may not have been found? Is
your confidence in Goudar shaken?”
“Oh, as to that, not at all! I saw him this morning at the hospital, when I paid
my usual visit; and he found an opportunity to tell me that he was almost
certain of success.”
“Well?”
“I am persuaded Cocoleu will speak. But will he speak in time? That is the
question. Ah, if we had but a month’s time, I should say Jacques is safe. But
our hours are counted, you know. The court will be held next week. I am
told the presiding judge has already arrived, and M. Gransiere has engaged
rooms at the hotel. What do you mean to do if nothing new occurs in the
meantime?”
“And if Count Claudieuse keeps his promise, and declares that he recognized
Jacques in the act of firing at him?”
“Only the sentence will not be a fatal sentence. Ah, do not interrupt me,
doctor, and upon your life, upon Jacques’s life, do not say a word of what I
am going to tell you. A suspicion which should cross M. Galpin’s mind would
destroy my last hope; for it would give him an opportunity of correcting a
blunder which he has committed, and which justifies me in saying to you,
‘Even if the count should give evidence, even if sentence should be passed,
nothing would be lost yet.’”
He had become animated; and his accent and his gestures made you feel
that he was sure of himself.
“No,” he repeated, “nothing would be lost; and then we should have time
before us, while waiting for a second trial, to hunt up our witnesses, and to
force Cocoleu to tell the truth. Let the count say what he chooses, I like it all
the better: I shall thus be relieved of my last scruples. It seemed to me
odious to betray the countess, because I thought the most cruelly punished
would be the count. But, if the count attacks us, we are on the defence; and
public opinion will be on our side. More than that, they will admire us for
having sacrificed our honor to a woman’s honor, and for having allowed
ourselves to be condemned rather than to give up the name of her who has
given herself to us.”
The physician did not seem to be convinced; but the young advocate paid no
attention. He went on,—
“No, our success in a second trial would be almost certain. The scene in
Mautrec Street has been seen by a witness: his iron-shod shoes have left, as
you say, their marks under the linden-trees nearest to the parlor-window,
and little Martha has watched his movements. Who can this witness be
456
unless it is Trumence? Well, we shall lay hands upon him. He was standing so
that he could see every thing, and hear every word. He will tell what he saw
and what he heard. He will tell how Count Claudieuse called out to M. de
Boiscoran, ‘No, I do not want to kill you! I have a surer vengeance than that:
you shall go to the galleys.’”
But they came again for the doctor the third time to-day. Shaking hands
with the young advocate, he parted with his young friend, who after a short
visit to M. Magloire, whom he thought it his duty to keep well informed of
all that was going on, hastened to the house of M. de Chandore. As soon as
he looked into Dionysia’s face, he knew that he had nothing to tell her; that
she knew all the facts, and how unjust her suspicions had been.
She blushed, ashamed at having let him see the secret doubts which had
troubled her so sorely, and, instead of replying, she said,—
“There are some letters for you, M. Folgat. They have carried them up stairs
to your room.”
He found two letters,—one from Mrs. Goudar, the other from the agent
who had been sent to England.
The former was of no importance. Mrs. Goudar only asked him to send a
note, which she enclosed, to her husband.
The second, on the other hand, was of the very greatest interest. The agent
wrote,—
“Not without great difficulties, and especially not without a heavy outlay of
money, I have at length discovered Sir Francis Burnett’s brother in London,
the former cashier of the house of Gilmour and Benson.
“Our Sir Francis is not dead. He was sent by his father to Madras, to attend
to very important financial matters, and is expected back by the next mail
457
“I have had less trouble in discovering Suky Wood’s family. They are people
very well off, who keep a sailor’s tavern in Folkstone. They had news from
their daughter about three weeks ago; but, although they profess to be very
much attached to her, they could not tell me accurately where she was just
now. All they know is, that she has gone to Jersey to act as barmaid in a
public house.
“But that is enough for me. The island is not very large; and I know it quite
well, having once before followed a notary public there, who had run off
with the money of his clients. You may consider Suky as safe.
Quite elated by this first success, M. Folgat put a thousand-franc note into
an envelope, directed it as desired, and sent it at once to the post-office.
Then he asked M. de Chandore to lend him his carriage, and went out to
Boiscoran.
He wanted to see Michael, the tenant’s son, who had been so prompt in
finding Cocoleu, and in bringing him into town. He found him, fortunately,
just coming home, bringing in a cart loaded with straw; and, taking him
aside, he asked him,—
“What must I do?” replied the young man in a tone of voice which said,
better than all protestations could have done, that he was ready to do any
thing.
“Exactly.”
“Upon my word, don’t I know him? He has stolen apples enough from me,
the scamp! But I don’t blame him so much, after all; for he is a good fellow,
in spite of that.”
“And we must find him again. They have put the gendarmes on his track; but
will they catch him?”
“Never in his life!” he said. “Trumence will make his way to Oleron, where
he has friends; the gendarmes will be after him in vain.”
“But you, if you choose? Oh! do not look angry at me. We do not want to
have him arrested. All I want you to do is to hand him a letter from me, and
to bring me back his answer.”
“If that is all, then I am your man. Just give me time to change my clothes,
and to let father know, and I am off.”
Thus M. Folgat began, as far as in him lay, to prepare for future action, trying
to counteract all the cunning measures of the prosecution by such
combinations as were suggested to him by his experience and his genius.
Did it follow from this, that his faith in ultimate success was strong enough
to make him speak of it to his most reliable friends, even, say to Dr.
Seignebos, to M. Magloire, or to good M. Mechinet?
No; for, bearing all the responsibility on his own shoulders, he had carefully
weighed the contrary chances of the terrible game in which he proposed to
engage, and in which the stakes were the honor and the life of a man. He
459
knew, better than anybody else, that a mere nothing might destroy all his
plans, and that Jacques’s fate was dependent on the most trivial accident.
The last two months had made of M. de Chandore an old man in good
earnest. His tall figure had begun to stoop, and he looked bent and broken.
He walked with difficulty, and his hands began to tremble.
The Marquis de Boiscoran had been hit even harder. He, who only a few
weeks before looked robust and hearty, now appeared almost decrepit. He
did not eat, so to say, and did not sleep. He became frightfully thin. It gave
him pain to utter a word.
As to the marchioness, the very sources of life seemed to have been sapped
within her. She had had to hear M. Magloire say that Jacques’s safety would
have been put beyond all doubt if they had succeeded in obtaining a change
of venue, or an adjournment of the trial. And it was her fault that such a
change had not been applied for. That thought was death to her. She had
hardly strength enough left to drag herself every day as far as the jail to see
her son.
The two Misses Lavarande had to bear all the practical difficulties arising
from this sore trial: they went and came, looking as pale as ghosts,
whispering in a low voice, and walking on tiptoe, as if there had been a
death in the house.
Dionysia alone showed greater energy as the troubles increased. She did not
indulge in much hope.
460
“I know Jacques will be condemned,” she said to M. Folgat. But she said,
also, that despair belonged to criminals only, and that the fatal mistake for
which Jacques was likely to suffer ought to inspire his friends with nothing
but indignation and thirst for vengeance.
And, while her grandfather and the Marquis de Boiscoran went out as little
as possible, she took pains to show herself in town, astonishing the ladies
“in good society” by the way in which she received their false expressions of
sympathy. But it was evident that she was only held up by a kind of feverish
excitement, which gave to her cheeks their bright color, to her eyes their
brilliancy, and to her voice its clear, silvery ring. Ah! for her sake mainly, M.
Folgat longed to end this uncertainty which is so much more painful than
the greatest misfortune.
He was one of those men whose character is an honor to the bench, full of
the dignity of his profession, but not thinking himself infallible, firm without
useless rigor, cold and still kind-hearted, having no other mistress but
Justice, and knowing no other ambition but that of establishing the truth.
He had examined Jacques, as he was bound to do; but the examination had
been, as it always is, a mere formality, and had led to no result.
The jurymen had already begun to arrive from all parts of the department.
They lodged at the Hotel de France, where they took their meals in common
in the large back dining-room, which is always specially reserved for their
use.
In the afternoon one might see them, looking grave and thoughtful, take a
walk on the New-Market Square, or on the old ramparts.
M. Gransiere, also, had arrived. But he kept strictly in retirement in his room
at the Hotel de la Poste, where M. Galpin every day spent several hours in
close conference with him.
461
The day after, Dionysia opened “The Sauveterre Independent,” and found in
it an announcement of the cases set down for each day,—
(case of M. de Boiscoran).
This was, therefore, the great day on which the good people of Sauveterre
expected to enjoy the most delightful emotions. Hence there was an
immense pressure brought to bear upon all the principal members of the
court to obtain tickets of admission. People who, the night before, had
refused to speak to M. Galpin, would stop him the next day in the street,
and beg him to give them a ticket, not for themselves, but for “their lady.”
Finally, the unheard-of fact became known, that tickets were openly sold for
money! One family had actually the incomprehensible courage to write to
the Marquis de Boiscoran for three tickets, promising, in return, “by their
attitude in court” to contribute to the acquittal of the accused.
In the midst of all these rumors, the city was suddenly startled by a list of
subscriptions in behalf of the families of the unfortunate firemen who had
perished in the fire at Valpinson.
Who had started this paper? M. Seneschal tried in vain to discover the hand
that had struck this blow. The secret of this treacherous trick was well kept.
But it was a most atrocious trick to revive thus, on the eve of the trial, such
mournful memories and such bitter hatred.
“That man Galpin had a hand in it,” said Dr. Seignebos, grinding his teeth.
“And to think that he may, after all, be triumphant! Ah, why did not Goudar
commence his experiment a little sooner?”
462
For Goudar, while assuring everybody of certain success, asked for time. To
disarm the mistrust of an idiot like Cocoleu was not the work of a day or a
week. He declared, that, if he should be overhasty, he would most assuredly
ruin every thing.
The agent in Jersey had telegraphed that he was on Suky’s track; that he
would certainly catch her, but that he could not say when.
Michael, finally, had in vain searched the whole district, and been all over
Oleron; no one had been able to give him any news of Trumence.
Thus, on the day when the session began, a council was held, in which all of
Jacques’s friends took part; and here it was resolved that his counsel would
not mention the name of the Countess Claudieuse, and would, even if the
count should offer to give evidence, adhere to the plan of defence
suggested by M. Folgat.
Alas! the chances of success seemed hourly to diminish; for the jury, very
much against the usual experience, appeared to be excessively severe. The
bankrupt was sentenced to twenty years’ hard labor. The man accused of
murder could not even obtain the plea of “extenuating circumstances,” and
was sentenced to death.
It was decided that M. de Chandore and the Marquis and the Marchioness
de Boiscoran should attend the trial. They wanted to spare Dionysia the
terrible excitement; but she declared that, in that case, she should go alone
to the court-house; and thus they were forced to submit to her will.
Jacques looked excessively pale, but was quite composed. And when his
counsel left him, saying,—
463
CHAPTER 31
At last, in his dark cell, Jacques de Boiscoran saw the day break that was to
decide his fate.
ASSASSINATION! INCENDIARISM!
Whence this unusual commotion, this uproar, this great excitement, in our
peaceful city? Whence these gatherings of our public squares, these groups
in front of all the houses! Whence this restlessness on all faces, this anxiety
in all eyes?
The reason is, that to-day this terrible Valpinson case will be brought up in
court, after having for so many weeks now agitated our people.
To-day this man who is charged with such fearful crimes is to be tried.
Hence all steps are eagerly turned towards the court-house: the people all
hurry, and rush in the same direction.
They press and crowd and push. Coarse words fly to and fro. From words
they pass to gestures, from gestures to blows. A row is imminent. Women
cry, men swear, and two peasants from Brechy are arrested on the spot.
465
It is well known that there will be few only, happy enough to get in. The
great square would not contain all these curious people, who have gathered
here from all parts of the district: how should the court-room be able to hold
them?
And still our authorities, always anxious to please their constituents, who
have bestowed their confidence upon them, have resorted to heroic
measures. They have had two partition walls taken down, so that a part of
the great hall is added to the court-room proper.
M. Lautier, the city architect, who is a good judge in such matters, assures us
that this immense hall will accommodate twelve hundred persons.
Long before the hour fixed for the opening of the court, every thing is full to
overflowing. A pin might be thrown into the room, and it could not fall to
the ground.
Not an inch of space is lost. All around, along the wall men are standing in
close ranks. On both sides of the platform, chairs have been put, which are
occupied by a large number of our first ladies in good society, not only of
Sauveterre, however, but also of the neighborhood and even other cites.
Some of them appear in magnificent toilettes.
It was the family of the accused, who had come in, and now occupied the
seats assigned them close by the platform.
The Marquis de Boiscoran had on his arm Miss Chandore, who wore with
great grace and dignity a dark gray dress, trimmed with cherry-colored
466
The attention of all is now directed towards a large table standing before
the judges, and on which may be seen a number of articles covered by large
red cloth.
In the meantime it strikes eleven o’clock. The sheriff’s officers move about
the room, seeing that every thing is in order.
Then a small door opens on the left, and the counsel for the defence enter.
Our readers know who they are. One is M. Magloire, the ornament of our
bar; the other, an advocate from the capital, M. Folgat, quite young, but
already famous.
M. Magloire looks as he does on his best days, and smilingly converses with
the mayor of Sauveterre; while M. Folgat opens his blue bag, and consults
his papers.
Half-past eleven!
An usher announces,—
The court.
M. Domini takes the chair. M. Gransiere occupies the seat of the prosecuting
attorney.
Behind them the jurymen sit down, looking grave and solemn.
Everybody rises, everybody strains his eyes to see, and stands on tiptoe.
Some persons in the back rows even get upon their chairs.
He appears.
He looks pale; but his eye is clear and open, full of confidence, yet not
defiant. His carriage is proud, though melancholy.
He has hardly taken his seat when a gentleman passes over three rows of
chairs, and, in spite of the officers of the court, succeeds in shaking hands
with him. It is Dr. Seignebos.
The president orders the sheriff to proclaim silence; and, after having
reminded the audience that all expressions of approbation or
disapprobation are strictly prohibited, he turns to the accused, and asks
him,—
“Tell me your first names, your family name, your age, your profession, and
your domicile.”
“Sit down, and listen to the charges which are brought against you.”
The clerk, M. Mechinet, thereupon reads the charges, which, in their terrible
simplicity, cause a shudder to pass through the whole audience.
We shall not repeat them here, as all the incidents which they relate are well
known to our readers.
A.—I am innocent. And, first of all, I beg you will allow me to say one thing.
The crime committed at Valpinson is an atrocious, cowardly crime; but it is at
the same time an absurdly stupid crime, more like the unconscious act of a
madman. Now, I have always been looked upon as not lacking exactly in
intelligence.
P.—That is a discussion.
P.—Hereafter you shall have full liberty to state your argument. For the
present you must be content to answer the questions which I shall ask you.
A.—I submit.
At this question all eyes are turned towards Miss Chandore, who blushes till
she is as red as a poppy, but does not cast down her eyes.
P.—Did you not write to your betrothed a few hours before the crime was
committed?
A.—Yes, sir; and I sent her my letter by the son of one of my tenants,
Michael.
At the moment when the accused opened his lips to reply, the president
stopped him by a gesture, and said,—
469
P.—Take care! You were asked this question during the preliminary
investigation, and you replied that you had to go to Brechy to see your
wood-merchant.
A.—I did indeed make that reply on the spur of the moment. It was not
exact.
P.—But you very soon found out that you were in danger?
A.—Yes, I did.
A.—Because the magistrate who carried on the investigation had been too
intimate a friend of mine to inspire me with confidence.
P.—Such murmurs are improper, and I remind the audience of the respect
due to the court.
“We cannot tolerate such recriminations against a magistrate who has done
his duty nobly, and in spite of the pain it caused him. If the accused had well-
founded objections to the magistrate, why did he not make them known?
He cannot plead ignorance: he knows the law, he is a lawyer himself. His
counsel, moreover, are men of experience.”
“We were of the opinion that the accused ought to ask for a change of
venue. He declined to follow our advice, being confident, as he said, that his
cause was a good one.”
P.—(To the accused.) And now are you ready to tell the truth with regard to
that business which prevented you from spending the evening with your
betrothed?
A.—Yes, sir. My wedding was to take place at the church in Brechy, and I
had to make my arrangements with the priest about the ceremony. I had,
besides, to fulfil certain religious duties. The priest at Brechy, who is a friend
of mine, will tell you, that, although no day had been fixed, it had been
agreed upon between us that I should come to confession on one of the
evenings of the week since he insisted upon it.
The audience, which had been expecting some very exciting revelations,
seemed to be much disappointed; and ironical laughter was heard in various
directions.
P.—Go on!
A.—I went therefore to the priest at Brechy, that evening: unluckily there
was no one at home at the parsonage when I got there. I was ringing the
third or fourth time in vain, when a little peasant-girl came by, who told me
that she had just met the priest at the Marshalls’ Cross-roads. I thought at
once I would go and meet him, and went in that direction. But I walked
more than four miles without meeting him. I thought the girl must have
been mistaken, and went home again.
A.—Yes.
A.—I have promised to say not what is plausible, but what is true. I may
confess, however, that, precisely because the explanation is so simple, I did
not venture at first to give it. And yet if no crime had been committed, and I
had said the day after, “Yesterday I went to see the priest at Brechy, and did
not find him,” who would have seen any thing unnatural in my statement?
P.—Then, why were you so frightened upon meeting young Ribot at the
Seille Canal?
A.—I was not frightened, but simply surprised, as one is apt to be when
suddenly meeting a man where no one is expected. And, if I was surprised,
young Ribot was not less so.
A.—Pardon me, I did not say so. To expect is not the same as to hope.
P.—Why, then did you take such pains to explain your being there?
A.—I gave no explanations. Young Ribot first told me, laughingly, where he
was going, and then I told him that I was going to Brechy.
P.—You told him, also, that you were going through the marshes to shoot
birds, and, at the same time you showed him your gun?
A.—That may be. But is that any proof against me? I think just the contrary.
If I had had such criminal intentions as the prosecution suggests, I should
certainly have gone back after meeting people, knowing that I was exposed
to great danger. But I was only going to see my friend, the priest.
A.—My land lies in the woods and marshes, and there was not a day when I
did not bag a rabbit or a waterfowl. Everybody in the neighborhood will tell
you that I never went out without a gun.
A.—Because, from the place where I was on the road, it was probably the
shortest way to Boiscoran. I say probably, because just then I did not think
much about that. A man who is taking a walk would be very much
embarrassed, in the majority of cases, if he had to give a precise account
why he took one road rather than another.
P.—That witness deposes that you were in a state of great excitement. You
were tearing leaves from the branches, you were talking loud.
A.—I certainly was very much vexed at having lost my evening, and
particularly vexed at having relied on the little peasant-girl. It is quite likely
that I might have exclaimed, as I walked along, “Plague upon my friend, the
priest, who goes and dines in town!” or some such words.
There was a smile in the assembly, but not such as to attract the president’s
attention.
P.—You know that the priest of Brechy was dining out that day?
“It is through us, sir, that the accused has found out this fact. When he told
us how he had spent the evening, we went to see the priest at Brechy, who
told us how it came about that neither he nor his old servant was at the
parsonage. At our request the priest has been summoned. We shall also
produce another priest, who at that time passed the Marshalls’ Cross-roads,
and was the one whom the little girl had seen.”
Having made a sign to counsel to sit down again, the president once more
turns to the accused.
473
P.—The woman Courtois who met you deposes that you looked very
curious. You did not speak to her: you were in great haste to escape from
her.
A.—The night was much too dark for the woman to see my face. She asked
me to render her a slight service, and I did so. I did not speak to her, because
I had nothing to say to her. I did not leave her suddenly, but only got ahead
of her, because her ass walked very slowly.
At a sign from the president, the ushers raise the red cloth which cover the
objects on the table.
Great curiosity is manifested by the whole audience; and all rise, and stretch
their necks to see better. On the table are displayed clothes, a pair of
velveteen trousers, a shooting-jacket of maroon-colored velveteen, an old
straw hat, and a pair of dun-colored leather boots. By their side lie a double-
barrelled gun, packages of cartridges, two bowls filled with small-shot, and,
finally, a large china basin, with a dark sediment at the bottom.
P.—(Showing these objects to the accused.) Are those the clothes which
you wore the evening of the crime?
A.—Yes, sir.
A.—The priest at Brechy was my friend. Our intimacy will explain, even if it
does not justify, the liberty I took.
P.—Do you also recognize this basin? The water has been allowed to
evaporate, and the residue alone remains there on the bottom.
Is it not evident, that if I had been guilty, my first effort would have been to
put every evidence of my crime out of the way? And yet this circumstance is
474
“And I wish to point out that this is not one of those explanations which are
invented, after the fact, to meet the necessities of a doubtful case. We have
absolute and overwhelming proof of it. M. de Boiscoran did not have the
little match-box which he usually carries about him, at that time, because he
had left it at M. de Chandore’s house, on the mantelpiece, where I have seen
it, and where it still is.”
A.—I wanted to smoke; and so I resorted to the usual expedient, which all
sportsmen know. I tore open one of my cartridges, put, instead of the lead,
a piece of paper inside, and set it on fire.
A.—Not the operation itself. But, when I had lit my cigar, I could not throw
away the burning paper as it was: I might have kindled a regular fire.
A.—But, sir, I smoked five or six cigars during the evening, which means that
I had to repeat the operation a dozen times at least, and in different
places,—in the woods and on the high-road. Each time I quenched the fire
with my fingers; and, as the powder is always greasy, my hands naturally
became soon as black as those of a charcoal-burner.
475
The accused gives this explanation in a perfectly natural but still rather
excited manner, which seems to make a great impression.
P.—Yes.
The accused takes up the gun with feverish eagerness, snaps the two cocks,
and puts one of his fingers inside the barrels.
He turns crimson, and, bending down to his counsel, says a few words to
them so quickly and so low, that they do not reach us.
During this time the accused has gone up to the table on which the objects
are lying. He wraps his handkerchief around the ramrod, slips it into one of
the barrels, draws it out again, and shows that it is hardly soiled.
P.—You see, and still you have told us that you had burnt, perhaps, a dozen
cartridges to light your cigars. But the prosecution had foreseen this
objection, and they are prepared to meet it. Sheriff, bring in the witness,
Maucroy.
our great Square. He is dressed up, and without hesitation takes the
required oath.
WITNESS.—It is an excellent gun, and very costly: such guns are not made in
France, where people are too economical.
At this answer the whole audience laughs. M. Maucroy is not exactly famous
for cheap bargains. Even some of the jurymen can hardly control their
laughter.
P.—Never mind your reflections on that object. Tell us only what you know
about the peculiarities of this gun.
WITNESS.—Because you had fired too often. But I mean to say that you can
use up two or three cartridges without a trace being left in the barrels.
P.—(To the accused.) Well, what becomes of that dozen cartridges which
you have used up to light your cigars, and which had blackened your hands
so badly?
477
WITNESS.—Oh, certainly!
P.—Let it be done.
Witness puts a cartridge into each barrel, and goes to the window to
explode them. The sudden explosion is followed by the screams of several
ladies.
WITNESS.—(Returning, and showing that the barrels are no more foul than
they were before.) Well, you see I was right.
P.—(To the accused.) You see this circumstance on which you relied so
securely, so far from helping you, only proves that your explanation of the
blackened state of your hands was a falsehood.
Upon the president’s order, witness is taken out, and the examination of the
accused is continued.
P.—But it was known all over the country that you hated him?
P.—There, at least, you agree with all who knew him. Still you are at law
with him?
A.—I have inherited that suit from my uncle, together with his fortune. I
carried it on, but very quietly. I asked for nothing better than a compromise.
A.—No.
478
P.—You were so irritated against him, that you once actually aimed your gun
at him. At another time you said, “He will not leave me alone till I put a ball
into him.” Do not deny! You will hear what the witnesses say.
There can be no doubt, that, at this stage of the proceedings, public opinion
is on his side. He has won the good-will even of those who came there
strongly prejudiced. No one can help being impressed by his proud but
mournful expression of fate; and all are touched by the extreme simplicity of
his answers.
Although the discussion about the gun has not turned out to his advantage,
it does not seem to have injured him. People are eagerly discussing the
question of the fouling of guns. A number of incredulous persons, whom the
experiment has not convinced, maintain that M. Maucroy has been too rash
in his statements. Others express surprise at the reserve shown by
counsel,—less by that of M. Folgat, who is unknown here, than by that of M.
Magloire, who usually allows no opportunity to escape, but is sure to profit
by the smallest incident.
The proceedings are not exactly suspended; but there is a pause, whilst the
ushers cover the articles on the table once more with red cloth, and, after
several comings and goings, roll a large arm-chair in front of the judge’s
seat.
“We shall now proceed to hear the witnesses, and we propose to begin with
Count Claudieuse. Although seriously indisposed, he has preferred to appear
in court.”
479
[Examination of Witnesses.]
The small door through which the armorer Maucroy had been admitted
opens once more, and Count Claudieuse enters. Supported and almost
carried by his man-servant.
But the silence is so deep, that when the president asks him the usual
question, “Do you swear to tell the whole truth?” and he answers, “I
swear,” the words are distinctly heard all over the court-room.
P.—(Very kindly.) We are very much obliged to you, sir, for the effort which
you have made. That chair has been brought in for you: please sit down.
P.—Please tell us, then, what you know of the attempt made on your life.
C.C.—It might have been eleven o’clock: I had gone to bed a little while
before, and blown out my light. I was in that half state which is neither
waking nor sleeping, when I saw my room lighted up by a dazzling glare. I
saw it was fire. I jumped out of bed, and, only lightly dressed, rushed down
the stairs. I found some difficulty in opening the outer door, which I had
locked myself. At last I succeeded. But I had no sooner put my foot outside
than I felt a terrible pain in my right side, and at the same time I heard an
explosion of fire-arms. Instinctively I rushed towards the place from which
the shot seemed to have been fired; but, before I had taken three steps, I
was struck once more in my shoulder, and fell down unconscious.
480
P.—How long a time was there between the first and the second shots?
C.C.—Yes; and I saw him run from behind a wood-pile, where he had been
lying in ambush, and escape into the country.
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.—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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
482
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.
P.—I have but just been asking the accused, count, whether there was any
ground of enmity between you.
C.C.—Yes; but I did not think he was in earnest, and I never resented the
matter.
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.
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.
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 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.
484
The president at last stops the discussion, and orders another witness to be
brought in.
This man swears he has heard 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.
485
The accused replies, that he had refused upon the advice of his lawyer, but
that he had not used insulting words.
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.
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.]
“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.
“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.
“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.
487
“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.
488
“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”—
“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.”
490
[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.
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.
491
“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?
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.
CHAPTER 1
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?”
“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 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!”
“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,—
A sob cut short his words. His strength was exhausted; for if there are, so to
say, no limits to the power of endurance of the spirit, the energy of the body
has its bounds. Refusing the arm which the sergeant offered him, he rushed
out of the room.
“Ah! why could we not save him?” he said to his young colleague. “Let them
come and speak to me again of the power of conviction. But we must not
stay here: let us go!”
496
They threw themselves into the crowd, which was slowly dispersing, all
palpitating yet with the excitement of the day.
Besides, even the least observant among those present had been struck by
the singular course which the proceedings had taken. There was not one,
probably, in that vast assembly who did not feel that there was a mysterious
and unexplored side of the case, which neither the prosecution nor the
defence had chosen to approach. Why had Cocoleu been mentioned only
once, and then quite incidentally? He was an idiot, to be sure; but it was
nevertheless through his evidence alone that suspicions had been aroused
against M. de Boiscoran. Why had he not been summoned either by the
prosecution or by the defence?
“That was not well done. That was a trick. Why did he not speak out before?
People do not wait for a man to be down before they strike him.”
Others added,—
“And did you notice how M. de Boiscoran and Count Claudieuse looked at
each other? Did you hear what they said to each other? One might have
sworn that there was something else, something very different from a mere
lawsuit, between them.”
“At all events, M. Folgat is right. The whole matter is far from being cleared
up. The jury was long before they agreed. Perhaps M. de Boiscoran would
have been acquitted, if, at the last moment, M. Gransiere had not
announced the impending death of Count Claudieuse in the adjoining
room.”
M. Magloire and M. Folgat listened to all these remarks, as they heard them
in the crowd here and there, with great satisfaction; for in spite of all the
assertions of magistrates and judges, in spite of all the thundering
condemnations against the practice, public opinion will find an echo in the
court-room; and, more frequently than we think, public opinion does dictate
the verdict of the jury.
By dint of perseverance they made their way, at last, out through the
narrow door of the court-room, when one of the ushers stopped them.
“Who?”
“The family of the prisoner. Poor people! They are all in there, in M.
Mechinet’s office. M. Daubigeon told me to keep it for them. The
Marchioness de Boiscoran also was carried there when she was taken ill in
the court-room.”
He accompanied the two gentlemen, while telling them this, to the end of
the hall; then he opened a door, and said,—
There, in an easy-chair, with closed eyes, and half-open lips, lay Jacques’s
mother. Her livid pallor and her stiff limbs made her look like a dead person;
but, from time to time, spasms shook her whole body, from head to foot. M.
de Chandore stood on one side, and the marquis, her husband, on the other,
watching her with mournful eyes and in perfect silence. They had been
498
thunderstruck; and, from the moment when the fatal sentence fell upon
their ears, neither of them had uttered a word.
“My grief is not as great as my indignation,” she broke in. “Jacques must be
avenged, and he shall be avenged! I am only twenty, and he is not thirty yet:
there is a whole life before us which we can devote to the work of his
rehabilitation; for I do not mean to abandon him. I! His undeserved
misfortunes make him a thousand times dearer to me, and almost sacred. I
was his betrothed this morning: this evening I am his wife. His
condemnation was our nuptial benediction. And if it is true, as grandpapa
says, that the law prohibits a prisoner to marry the woman he loves, well, I
will be his without marriage.”
Dionysia spoke all this aloud, so loud that it seemed she wanted all the earth
to hear what she was saying.
“Ah! let me reassure you by a single word, madam,” said M. Folgat. “We
have not yet come to that. The sentence is not final.”
“An oversight which M. Galpin has committed makes the whole proceeding
null and void. You will ask how a man of his character, so painstaking and so
formal, should have made such a blunder. Probably because he was blinded
by passion. Why had nobody noticed this oversight? Because fate owed us
this compensation. There can be no question about the matter. The defect is
a defect of form; and the law provides expressly for the case. The sentence
must be declared void, and we shall have another trial.”
“We hardly dared to think of it,” replied M. Magloire. “It was one of those
secrets which we dare not confide to our own pillow. Remember, that, in
the course of the proceedings, the error might have been corrected at any
time. Now it is too late. We have time before us; and the conduct of Count
Claudieuse relieves us from all restraint of delicacy. The veil shall be torn
now.”
The door opened violently, interrupting his words. Dr. Seignebos entered,
red with anger, and darting fiery glances from under his gold spectacles.
“Is next door,” replied the doctor. “They have had him down on a mattress,
and his wife is by his side. What a profession ours is! Here is a man, a wretch,
whom I should be most happy to strangle with my own hands; and I am
compelled to do all I can to recall him to life: I must lavish my attentions
upon him, and seek every means to relieve his sufferings.”
“Not at all! She told me her husband would be terrified by the appearance
of a priest, and that would hasten his end. Even when the good priest from
Brechy came of his own accord, she sent him off unceremoniously.”
“And yet that may be our salvation. Yes, certainly. Why should I hesitate?
Wait for me here: I am coming back.”
She hurried out. Her grandpapa was about to follow her; but M. Folgat
stopped him.
It had just struck ten o’clock. The court-house, just now as full and as noisy
as a bee-hive, was silent and deserted. In the immense hall, badly lighted by
a smoking lamp, there were only two men to be seen. One was the priest
from Brechy, who was praying on his knees close to a door; and the other
was the watchman, who was slowly walking up and down, and whose steps
resounded there as in a church.
“There, madam,” replied the man, pointing at the door before which the
priest was praying,—“there, in the private office of the commonwealth
attorney.”
The watchman made no objection, and went in. But, when he came back, he
said to the young girl,—
501
“Madam, the countess sends word that she cannot leave her husband, who
is very low.”
“Never mind! Go back and tell the countess, that, if she does not come out, I
shall go in this moment; that, if it must be, I shall force my way in; that I shall
call for help; that nothing will keep me. I must absolutely see her.”
“But, madam”—
There was such authority in her voice, that the watchman no longer
hesitated. He went in once more, and reappeared a moment after.
She went in, and found herself in a little anteroom which preceded the
office of the commonwealth attorney. A large lamp illuminated the room.
The door leading to the room in which the count was lying was closed.
In the centre of the room stood the Countess Claudieuse. All these
successive blows had not broken her indomitable energy. She looked pale,
but calm.
“Since you insist upon it, madam,” she began, “I come to tell you myself
that I cannot listen to you. Are you not aware that I am standing between
two open graves,—that of my poor girl, who is dying at my house, and that
of my husband, who is breathing his last in there?”
She made a motion as if she were about to retire; but Dionysia stopped her
by a threatening look, and said with a trembling voice,—
“If you go back into that room where your husband is, I shall go back with
you, and I shall speak before him. I shall ask you right before him, how you
dare order a priest away from his bedside at the moment of death, and
whether, after having robbed him of all his happiness in life, you mean to
make him unhappy in all eternity.”
“Yes, you do understand me, madam. Why will you deny it? Do you not see
that I know every thing, and that I have guessed what you have not told me?
Jacques was your lover; and your husband has had his revenge.”
“Ah!” cried the countess, “that is too much; that is too much!”
“And you have permitted it,” Dionysia went on with breathless haste; “and
you did not come, and cry out in open court that your husband was a false
witness! What a woman you must be! You do not mind it, that your love
carries a poor unfortunate man to the galleys. You mean to live on with this
thought in your heart, that the man whom you love is innocent, and
nevertheless, disgraced forever, and cut off from human society. A priest
might induce the count to retract his statement, you know very well; and
hence you refuse to let the priest from Brechy come to his bedside. And
what is the end and aim of all your crimes? To save your false reputation as
an honest woman. Ah! that is miserable; that is mean; that is infamous!”
The countess was roused at last. What all M. Folgat’s skill and ability had not
been able to accomplish, Dionysia obtained in an instant by the force of her
passion. Throwing aside her mask, the countess exclaimed with a perfect
burst of rage,—
“Well, then, no, no! I have not acted so, and permitted all this to happen,
because I care for my reputation. My reputation!—what does it matter? It
was only a week ago, when Jacques had succeeded in escaping from prison,
I offered to flee with him. He had only to say a word, and I should have given
up my family, my children, my country, every thing, for him. He answered,
‘Rather the galleys!’”
In the midst of all her fearful sufferings, Dionysia’s heart filled with
unspeakable happiness as she heard these words. Ah! now she could no
longer doubt Jacques.
“He has condemned himself, you see,” continued the countess. “I was quite
willing to ruin myself for him, but certainly not for another woman.”
Tears were trembling in Dionysia’s eyes. She was beloved: she thought of
what she must suffer who was not beloved.
“And yet I should have been generous,” she murmured. The countess broke
out into a fierce, savage laugh.
“And the proof of it is,” said the young girl, “that I came to offer you a
bargain.”
“A bargain?”
“Yes. Save Jacques, and, by all that is sacred to me in the world, I promise I
will enter a convent: I will disappear, and you shall never hear my name any
more.”
Intense astonishment seized the countess, and she looked at Dionysia with a
glance full of doubt and mistrust. Such devotion seemed to her too sublime
not to conceal some snare.
“Unhesitatingly.”
But, in proportion as the young girl thus confirmed her sincerity, the brow of
the countess grew darker and sterner, and passing blushes mantled her
cheek. At last she said with haughty irony,—
“Admirable!”
“Madam!”
“You condescend to give up M. de Boiscoran. Will that make him love me?
You know very well he will not. You know that he loves you alone. Heroism
with such conditions is easy enough. What have you to fear? Buried in a
convent, he will love you only all the more ardently, and he will execrate me
all the more fervently.”
“Ah! What does that matter? He will guess it, if you do not tell him. No: I
know what awaits me. I have felt it now for two years,—this agony of
seeing him becoming daily more detached from me. What have I not done
to keep him near me! How I have stooped to meanness, to falsehood, to
keep him a single day longer, perhaps a single hour! But all was useless. I
was a burden to him. He loved me no longer; and my love became to him a
heavier load than the cannon-ball which they will fasten to his chains at the
galleys.”
Dionysia shuddered.
“Horrible! Yes, but true. You look amazed. That is because you have as yet
only seen the morning dawn of your love: wait for the dark evening, and you
will understand me. Is not the story of all of us women the same! I have seen
Jacques at my feet as you see him at yours: the vows he swears to you, he
once swore to me; and he swore them to me with the same voice,
tremulous with passion, and with the same burning glances. But you think
you will be his wife, and I never was. What does that matter? What does he
tell you? That he will love you forever, because his love is under the
protection of God and of men. He told me, precisely because our love was
not thus protected, that we should be united by indissoluble bonds,—bonds
505
stronger than all others. You have his promise: so had I. And the proof of it is
that I gave him every thing,—my honor and the honor of my family, and that
I would have given him still more, if there had been any more to give. And
now to be betrayed, forsaken, despised, to sink lower and lower, until at last
I must become the object of your pity! To have fallen so low, that you should
dare come and offer me to give up Jacques for my benefit! Ah, that is
maddening! And I should let the vengeance I hold in my hands slip from me
at your bidding! I should be stupid enough, blind enough, to allow myself to
be touched by your hypocritical tears! I should secure your happiness by the
sacrifice of my reputation! No, madam, cherish no such hope!”
Her voice expired in her throat in a kind of toneless rattle. She walked up
and down a few times in the room. Then she placed herself straight before
Dionysia, and, looking fixedly into her eyes, she asked,—
“Who suggested to you this plan of coming here, this supreme insult which
you tried to inflict upon me?”
Dionysia was seized with unspeakable horror, and hardly found heart to
reply.
“M. Folgat?”
“And Jacques?”
“I have not seen him. The thought occurred to me quite suddenly, like an
inspiration on high. When Dr. Seignebos told me that you had refused to
admit the priest from Brechy, I said to myself, ‘This is the last misfortune,
and the greatest of them all! If Count Claudieuse dies without retracting,
Jacques can never be fully restored, whatever may happen hereafter, not
even if his innocence should be established.’ Then I made up my mind to
come to you. Ah! it was a hard task. But I was in hopes I might touch your
heart, or that you might be moved by the greatness of my sacrifice.”
506
The countess was really moved. There is no heart absolutely bad, as there is
none altogether good. As she listened to Dionysia’s passionate entreaty, her
resolution began to grow weaker.
“Alas!” she said, “I offer you my life. I know very well you will not be long
jealous of me.”
She was interrupted by groans, which seemed to come from the room in
which the count was lying.
The countess half-opened the door; and immediately a feeble, and yet
imperious voice was heard calling out,—
“What security can you give me,” she said, in a hard and stern voice, after
having closed the door again,—“what security do you give me, that if
Jacques’s innocence were established, and he reinstated, you would not
forget your promises?”
“Ah, madam! How or upon what do you want me to swear that I am ready
to disappear. Choose your own securities, and I will do whatever you
require.”
Then, sinking down on her knees, before the countess, she went on,—
“Here I am at your feet, madam, humble and suppliant,—I whom you accuse
of a desire to insult you. Have pity on Jacques! Ah! if you loved him as much
as I do, you would not hesitate.”
The countess raised her suddenly and quickly, and holding her hands in her
own, looked at her for more than a minute without saying a word, but with
heaving bosom and trembling lips. At last she asked in a voice which was so
deeply affected, that it was hardly intelligible.
“It would be useless to try. You do not know the count. He is a man of iron.
You might tear his flesh inch by inch with hot iron pincers, and he would not
take back one of his words. You cannot conceive what he has suffered, nor
the depth of the hatred, the rage, and the thirst of vengeance, which have
accumulated in his heart. It was to torture me that he brought me here to
his bedside. Only five minutes ago he told me that he died content, since
Jacques was declared guilty, and condemned through his evidence.”
She was conquered: her energy was exhausted, and tears came to her eyes.
“He has been so cruelly tried!” she went on. “He loved me to distraction; he
loved nothing in the world but me. And I—Ah, if we could know, if we could
foresee! No, I shall never be able to induce him to retract.”
“Nor do I expect you to obtain that favor,” she said very gently.
“Who, then?”
“The priest from Brechy. He will surely find words to shake even the firmest
resolution. He can speak in the name of that God, who, even on the cross,
forgave those who crucified Him.”
One moment longer the countess hesitated; and then, overcoming finally
the last rebellious impulses of her pride, she said,—
But the countess stopped her, and said, making a supreme effort over
herself,—
“No: I shall try to save Jacques without making conditions. Let him be yours.
He loves you, and you were ready to sacrifice your life for his sake. He
forsakes me; but I sacrifice my honor to him. Farewell!”
508
And hastening to the door, while Dionysia returned to her friends, she
summoned the priest from Brechy.
509
CHAPTER 2
“Now,” he cried, “this will worry my friend Galpin, and clip his wings
considerably; and yet I had called his attention to the lines of Horace, in
which he speaks of Phaeton’s sad fate, and says,—
But he would not listen to me, forgetting, that, without prudence, force is a
danger. And there he is now, in great difficulty, I am sure.”
And at once he made haste to dress, and to go and see M. Galpin in order to
hear all the details accurately, as he told his clerk, but, in reality, in order to
enjoy to his heart’s content the discomfiture of the ambitious magistrate.
“Is it really true,” he said with an air of assumed pity,—“is it really true, what
they tell me, that this unlucky mistake was made by you?”
“By me? Yes, indeed! I forgot those wretched details which a scholar knows
by heart. Can you understand that? And to say that no one noticed my
inconceivable blindness! Neither the first court of inquiry, nor the attorney-
general himself, nor the presiding judge, ever said a word about it. It is my
510
“It is all the more fortunate,” replied M. Daubigeon, “that yesterday the
case was hanging on a thread.”
For the first time in his life, and no doubt for the last time also, the
commonwealth attorney rejoiced at the misfortune of others. Taking savage
pleasure in turning the dagger in his poor friend’s wounds, he said,—
“Nothing at all.”
“He took them by surprise. It was nothing but a big voice, and grand, rolling
sentences.”
“But still”—
“And what did he say, after all? That the prosecution did not know the real
secret of the case. That is absurd!”
“That may be. But he also risks having a less indulgent jury, and not getting
off with twenty years.”
“I do not know. But I have just sent my clerk to find out; and, if you choose
to wait”—
M. Daubigeon did wait, and he did well; for M. Mechinet came in very soon
after, with a long face for the world, but inwardly delighted.
“I have never seen any thing like this. How fickle public opinion is, after all!
Day before yesterday M. de Boiscoran could not have passed through the
town without being mobbed. If he should show himself to-day, they would
carry him in triumph. He has been condemned, and now he is a martyr. It is
known already that the sentence is void, and they are delighted. My sisters
have just told me that the ladies in good society propose to give to the
Marchioness de Boiscoran and to Miss Chandore some public evidence of
their sympathy. The members of the bar will give M. Folgat a public dinner.”
“Well,” said M. Daubigeon, “‘the opinions of men are more fickle and
changeable than the waves of the sea.’”
“I went to hand M. Gransiere the letter which you gave me for him”—
“I can’t stand it,” he said sighing. “These men whose veins have no blood in
them, but poison, never forgive.”
“Day before yesterday he did not look upon me as the cause of a great
misfortune for him.”
“After leaving M. Gransiere, I went to the court-house, and there I head the
great piece of news which has set all the town agog. Count Claudieuse is
dead.”
“He breathed his last this morning, at two or three minutes before six
o’clock. I saw his body in the private room of the attorney-general. The
priest from Brechy was there, and two other priests from his parish. They
were waiting for a bier to have him carried to his house.”
“But I heard a great deal more,” Mechinet said, “from the watchman who
was on guard last night. He told me that when the trial was over, and it
became known that Count Claudieuse was likely to die, the priest from
Brechy came there, and asked to be allowed to offer him the last
consolations of his church. The countess refused to let him come to the
bedside of her husband. The watchman was amazed at this; and just then
Miss Chandore suddenly appeared, and sent word to the countess that she
wanted to speak to her.”
513
“Is it possible?”
“Quite certain. They remained together for more than a quarter of an hour.
What did they say? The watchman told me he was dying with curiosity to
know; but he could hear nothing, because there was the priest from Brechy,
all the while, kneeling before the door, and praying. When they parted, they
looked terribly excited. Then the countess immediately called in the priest,
and he stayed with the count till he died.”
M. Daubigeon and M. Galpin had not yet recovered from their amazement at
this account, when somebody knocked timidly at the door.
“I have been sent here by the attorney-general,” he said; “and the servant
told me you were up here. We have just caught Trumence.”
“Yes. We were about to carry him back there, when he told us that he had a
secret to reveal, a very important, urgent secret, concerning the condemned
prisoner, Boiscoran.”
“Trumence?”
“Yes. Then we carried him to the court-house, and I came for orders.”
“Run and say that I am coming to see him!” cried M. Daubigeon. “Make
haste! I am coming after you.”
But the gendarme, a model of obedience, had not waited so long: he was
already down stairs.
“I must leave you, Galpin,” said M. Daubigeon, very much excited. “You
heard what the man said. We must know what that means at once.”
The recommendation was not needed. M. Galpin had already put on his
boots. He now slipped his overcoat over his home dress, as he was; and off
they went.
Mechinet followed the two gentlemen as they hastened down the street;
and the good people of Sauveterre, always on the lookout, were not a little
scandalized at seeing their well-known magistrate, M. Galpin, in his home
costume,—he who generally was most scrupulously precise in his dress.
The fact was, they were walking so fast, that people might well wonder; and
they did not say a word all the way.
But, ere they reached the court-house, they were forced to stop; for some
four or five hundred people were filling the court, crowding on the steps,
and actually pressing against the doors.
Immediately all became silent; hats were raised; the crowd parted; and a
passage was opened.
On the porch appeared the priest from Brechy, and two other priests.
Behind them came attendants from the hospital, who bore a bier covered
with black cloth; and beneath the cloth the outlines of a human body could
be seen.
The women began to cry; and those who had room enough knelt down.
“Poor countess!” murmured one of them. “Here is her husband dead, and
they say one of her daughters is dying at home.”
But M. Daubigeon, the magistrate, and Mechinet were too preoccupied with
their own interests to think of stopping for more reliable news. The way was
open: they went in, and hastened to the clerk’s office, where the gendarmes
had taken Trumence, and now were guarding him.
515
“Beg pardon, judge,” replied the poor fellow, “I was not retaken. I came of
my own accord.”
“That is the naked truth. Trumence came himself to our barrack, and said, ‘I
surrender as a prisoner. I wish to speak to the commonwealth attorney, and
give importance evidence.’”
“You see, sir, that I did not lie. While these gentlemen were galloping all
over the country in search of me, I was snugly ensconced in a garret at the
Red Lamb, and did not think of coming out from there till I should be
entirely forgotten.”
“Yes; but people who lodge at the Red Lamb have to pay, and you had no
money.”
Trumence very quietly drew from his pocket a handful of Napoleons, and of
five-and-twenty-franc notes, and showed them.
“You see that I had the wherewithal to pay for my room,” he said. “But I
surrendered, because, after all, I am an honest man, and I would rather
suffer some trouble myself than see an innocent gentleman go to the
galleys.”
“M. de Boiscoran?”
“Yes. He is innocent! I know it; I am sure of it; and I can prove it. And, if he
will not tell, I will tell,—tell every thing!”
516
But the vagrant shook his head, pointing at the gendarmes; and, as a man
who is quite cognizant of all the formalities of the law, he replied,—
“But it is a great secret; and, when one confesses, one does not like
anybody else to hear it but the priest. Besides, I should like my deposition to
be taken down in writing.”
“Now we can talk,” said Trumence: “that’s the way I like it. I was not
thinking myself of running away. I was pretty well off in jail; winter is
coming, I had not a cent; and I knew, that, if I were retaken, I should fare
rather badly. But M. Jacques de Boiscoran had a notion to spend a night
outside.”
“Mind what you are saying,” M. Galpin broke in severely. “You cannot play
with the law, and go off unpunished.”
“May I die if I do not tell the truth!” cried Trumence. “M. Jacques has spent
a whole night out of jail.”
“I have my proof,” replied Trumence coldly, “and you shall hear. Well, as he
wanted to leave, M. Jacques came to me, and we agreed, that in
consideration of a certain sum of money which he has paid me, and of which
you have seen just now all that is left, I should make a hole in the wall, and
that I should run off altogether, while he was to come back when he had
done his business.”
Like a true peasant of his promise, Trumence was far too cunning to expose
Blangin unnecessarily. Assuming, therefore, the whole responsibility of the
evasion, he replied,—
“The jailer saw nothing. We had no use for him. Was not I, so to say, under-
jailer? Had not I been charged by you yourself, M. Galpin, with keeping
watch over M. Jacques? Was it not I who opened and locked his door, who
took him to the parlor, and brought him back again?”
“Well,” said Trumence, “every thing was done as agreed upon. One evening,
about nine o’clock, I make my hole in the wall, and here we are, M. Jacques
and I, on the ramparts. There he slips a package of banknotes into my hand,
and tells me to run for it, while he goes about his business. I thought he was
innocent then; but you see I should not exactly have gone through the fire
for him as yet. I said to myself, that perhaps he was making fun of me, and
that, once on the wing, he would not be such a fool as to go back into the
cage. This made me curious, as he was going off, to see which way he was
going,—and there I was, following him close upon his heels!”
Mechinet, who knew already all that was coming, laughed in his sleeve while
his pen was flying rapidly over the paper.
“I know now what house it was; but I did not know then. Well, he rings. A
servant comes and opens. He speaks to her, and immediately she invites him
in, and that so eagerly, that she forgets to close the gate again.”
“Wait!” he said.
And, taking up a blank form, he filled it up, rang the bell, and said to an
usher of the court who had hastened in, giving him the printed paper,—
“There I was, standing in the middle of the street, feeling like a fool. I
thought I had nothing left me but to go and use my legs: that was safest for
me. But that wretched, half-open gate attracted me. I said to myself, ‘If you
go in, and they catch you, they will think you have come to steal, and you’ll
have to pay for it.’ That was true; but the temptation was too strong for me.
My curiosity broke my heart, so to say, and, ‘Come what may, I’ll risk it,’ I
said. I push the huge gate just wide enough to let me in, and here I am in a
large garden. It was pitch dark; but, quite at the bottom of the garden, three
windows in the lower story of the house were lighted up. I had ventured too
far now to go back. So I went on, creeping along stealthily, until I reached a
tree, against which I pressed closely, about the length of my arm from one
of the windows, which belonged to a beautiful parlor. I look—and I see
whom? M. de Boiscoran. As there were no curtains to the windows, I could
see as well as I can see you. His face looked terrible. I was asking myself for
whom he could be waiting there, when I saw him hiding behind the open
door of the room, like a man who is lying in wait for somebody, with evil
intentions. This troubled me very much; but the next moment a lady came
in. Instantly M. Jacques shuts the door behind her; the lady turns round,
sees him, and wants to run, uttering at the same time a loud cry. That lady
was the Countess Claudieuse!”
“One of the windows was half open,” continued the vagrant, “and thus I
could hear almost as well as I saw. I crouched down on all-fours and kept my
head on a level with the ground, so as not to lose a word. Oh, it was fearful!
At the first word I understood it all: M. Jacques and the Countess Claudieuse
had been lovers.”
“Well, I tell you I was amazed. The Countess Claudieuse—such a pious lady!
But I have ears; don’t you think I have? M. Jacques reminded her of the night
of the crime, how they had been together a few minutes before the fire
broke out, as they had agreed some days before to meet near Valpinson at
that very time. At this meeting they had burnt their love-letters, and M.
Jacques had blackened his fingers badly in burning them.”
“However, they explained; and at last they found out that they were both of
them innocent. Then M. Jacques entreated the countess to save him; and
she replied that she would certainly not save him at the expense of her
reputation, and so enable him, as soon as he was free once more, to marry
Miss Chandore. Then he said to her, ‘Well, then I must tell all;’ and she, ‘You
520
will not be believed. I shall deny it all, and you have no proof!’ In his despair,
he reproached her bitterly, and said she had never loved him at all. Then she
swore she loved him more than ever; and that, as he was free now, she was
ready to abandon every thing, and to escape with him to some foreign
country. And she conjured him to flee, in a voice which moved my heart,
with loving words such as I have never heard before in my life, and with
looks which seemed to be burning fire. What a woman! I did not think he
could possibly resist. And yet he did resist; and, perfectly beside himself with
anger, he cried, ‘Rather the galleys!’ Then she laughed, mocking him, and
saying, ‘Very well, you shall go to the galleys!’”
Although Trumence entered into many details, it was quite evident that he
kept back many things.
Still M. Daubigeon did not dare question him, for fear of breaking the thread
of his account.
“But that was nothing at all,” said the vagrant. “While M. Jacques and the
countess were quarrelling in this way, I saw the door of the parlor suddenly
open as if by itself, and a phantom appear in it, dressed in a funeral pall. It
was Count Claudieuse himself. His face looked terrible; and he had a revolver
in his hand. He was leaning against the side of the door; and he listened
while his wife and M. Jacques were talking of their former love-affairs. At
certain words, he would raise his pistol as if to fire; then he would lower it
again, and go on listening. It was so awful, I had not a dry thread on my
body. It was very hard not to cry out to M. Jacques and the countess, ‘You
poor people, don’t you see that the count is there?’ But they saw nothing;
for they were both beside themselves with rage and despair: and at last M.
Jacques actually raised his hand to strike the countess. ‘Do not strike that
woman!’ suddenly said the count. They turn round; they see him, and utter a
fearful cry. The countess fell on a chair as if she were dead. I was
thunderstruck. I never in my life saw a man behave so beautifully as M.
Jacques did at that moment. Instead of trying to escape, he opened his coat,
and baring his breast, he said to the husband, ‘Fire! You are in your right!’
The count, however, laughed contemptuously, and said, ‘The court will
avenge me!’—‘You know very well that I am innocent.’—‘All the better.’—‘It
would be infamous to let me be condemned.’—‘I shall do more than that. To
521
make your condemnation sure, I shall say that I recognized you.’ The count
was going to step forward, as he said this; but he was dying. Great God,
what a man! He fell forward, lying at full-length on the floor. Then I got
frightened, and ran away.”
By a very great effort only could the commonwealth attorney control his
intense excitement. His voice, however, betrayed him as he asked
Trumence, after a solemn pause,—
“Why did you not come and tell us all that at once?”
“I meant to do so; but I was afraid. You ought to understand what I mean. I
was afraid I might be punished very severely for having run off.”
“I had no idea M. Jacques would be found guilty. Big people like him, who
can pay great lawyers, always get out of trouble. Besides, I did not think
Count Claudieuse would carry out his threat. To be betrayed by one’s wife is
hard; but to send an innocent man to the galleys”—
“Ah, if I could have foreseen! My intentions were good; and I assure you,
although I did not come at once to denounce the whole thing, I was firmly
resolved to make a clean breast of it if M. Jacques should get into trouble.
And the proof of it is, that instead of running off, and going far away, I very
quietly lay concealed at the Red Lamb, waiting for the sentence to be
published. As soon as I heard what was done last night, I did not lose an
hour, and surrendered at once to the gendarmes.”
In the meantime, M. Galpin had overcome his first amazement, and now
broke out furiously,—
“This man is an impostor. The money he showed us was paid him to bear
false witness. How can we credit his story?”
“We must investigate the matter,” replied M. Daubigeon. He rang the bell;
and, when the usher came in, he asked,—
522
“Yes, sir,” replied the man. “M. de Boiscoran and the servant of Count
Claudieuse are here.”
This woman was a big country-girl, plain of face, and square of figure. She
seemed to be very much excited, and looked crimson in her face.
“Do you remember,” asked M. Daubigeon, “that one night last week a man
came to your house, and asked to see your mistress?”
“Oh, yes!” replied the honest girl. “I did not want to let him in at first; but he
said he came from the court, and then I let him in.”
“Certainly.”
The commonwealth attorney rang again; the door opened, and Jacques
came in, his face full of amazement and wonder.
But Jacques remained standing where he was, like a man who has suddenly
been overcome, looking all around with amazed eyes, and evidently unable
to comprehend.
They had taken him out of his cell without warning; they had carried him to
the court-house; and here he was confronted with Trumence, whom he
thought he should never see again, and with the servant of the Countess
Claudieuse.
The usher who had brought him in had actually to take him out.
“Now, my good girl, can you tell me if any thing special happened in
connection with this gentleman’s visit at your house?”
“There was a great quarrel between him and master and mistress.”
“How so?”
“Well, I will tell you. When I went up stairs to tell the countess that there
was a gentleman below who came from the courts, she was in a great hurry
to go down, and told me to stay with the count, my master. Of course, I did
what she said. But no sooner was she down than I heard a loud cry. Master,
who had looked all in a stupor, heard it too: he raised himself on his pillow,
and asked me where my mistress was. I told him, and he was just settling
down to try and fall asleep again, when the sound of loud voices came up to
us. ‘That is very singular,’ said master. I offered to go down and see what
was the matter: but he told me sharply not to stir an inch. And, when the
voices became louder and louder, he said, ‘I will go down myself. Give me
my dressing-gown.’
“I obeyed, therefore, and did what he wanted. Poor man! He was so weak
he could hardly stand up, and had to hold on to a chair while I helped him
just to hang his dressing-gown over his shoulders.
“Then I asked him if he would not let me help him down. But looking at me
with awful eyes, he said, ‘You will do me the favor to stay here, and,
whatever may happen, if you dare so much as open the door while I am
away, you shall not stay another hour in my service.’
“Then he went out, holding on to the wall; and I remained alone in the
chamber, all trembling, and feeling as sick as if I had known that a great
misfortune was coming upon us.
“However, I heard nothing more for a time; and as the minutes passed
away, I was just beginning to reproach myself for having been so foolishly
alarmed, when I heard two cries; but, O sir! two such fearful, sharp cries,
that I felt cold shivers running all over me.
“As I did not dare leave the room, I put my ear to the door, and I heard
distinctly the count’s voice, as he was quarrelling with another gentleman.
But I could not catch a single word, and only made out that they were angry
about a very serious matter.
“All of a sudden, a great but dull noise, like that of the fall of a heavy body,
then another awful cry, I had not a drop of blood left in my veins at that
moment.
“Fortunately, the other servants, who had gone to bed, had heard
something. They had gotten up, and were now coming down the passage.
“I left the room at all hazards, and went down stairs with the others, and
there we found my mistress fainting in an armchair, and my master
stretched out at full-length, lying on the floor like a dead man.”
But the commonwealth attorney made him a sign to keep quiet; and,
turning again to the girl, he asked,—
“We raised up the count: we carried him up stairs and laid him on his bed.
Then we brought mistress round again; and the valet went in haste to fetch
Dr. Seignebos.”
“Nothing. Mistress looked like a person who has been knocked in the head.”
“What?”
“The oldest of the young ladies, Miss Martha, was seized with terrible
convulsions.”
“Ah! It is a very singular story. When this gentleman whom I have just seen
here rang the bell at our gate, Miss Martha, who had already gone to bed,
got up again, and went to the window to see who it was. She saw me go
and open, with a candle in my hand, and come back again with the
gentleman behind me. She was just going to bed again, when she thought
she saw one of the statues in the garden move, and walk right off. We told
her it could not be so; but she did not mind us. She told us over and over
again that she was quite sure that she saw that statue come up the avenue,
and take a place behind the tree which is nearest to the parlor-window.”
“I know it must have been a man who had stolen into the garden, and who
had frightened Miss Martha so terribly, because Dr. Seignebos dropped, in
going out, a five-franc piece just at the foot of that tree, where miss said she
had seen the man standing. The valet who showed the doctor out helped
him look for his money; and, as they sought with the candle, they saw the
footprints of a man who wore iron-shod shoes.”
“The marks of my shoes!” broke in Trumence again; and sitting down, and
raising his legs, he said to the magistrate,—
“Just look at my shoes, and you will see there is no lack of iron nails!”
But there was no need for such evidence; and he was told,—
“And you, my good girl,” said M. Daubigeon again, “can you tell us, if, after
these occurrences, Count Claudieuse had any explanation with your
mistress?”
“No, I do not know. Only I saw that the count and the countess were no
longer as they used to be with each other.”
That was all she knew. She was asked to sign her deposition; and then M.
Daubigeon told her she might go.
“You will be taken to jail now. But you are an honest man, and you need not
give yourself any trouble. Go now.”
The magistrate and the commonwealth attorney remained alone now, since,
of course, a clerk counts for nothing.
“Do you begin to see how that M. Folgat was right when he said the case
was far from being so clear as you pretended?”
“Ah! who would not have been deceived as I was? You yourself, at one time
at least, were of my opinion. And yet, if the Countess Claudieuse and M. de
Boiscoran are both innocent, who is the guilty one?”
“That is what we shall know very soon; for I am determined I will not allow
myself a moment’s rest till I have found out the truth of the whole matter.
How fortunate it was that this fatal error in form should have made the
sentence null and void!”
“But we must not lose a minute. Put your legs into active motion, my dear
Mechinet, and run and ask M. Folgat to come here. I will wait for him here.”
528
CHAPTER 3
Her grandfather and the Marquis de Boiscoran urged her to explain; but she
refused to say any thing, and only later, towards evening, she confessed to
M. Folgat what she had done with the countess, and that it was more than
probable that the count would, before he died, retract his evidence.
But his hope only encouraged him to make still greater efforts; and, all
overcome as he was by his labors and emotions of the trial, he spent the
night in Grandpapa Chandore’s study, preparing with M. Magloire the
application they proposed to make for a new trial.
They finished only when it was already broad daylight: so he did not care to
go to bed, and installed himself in a large easy-chair for the purpose of
getting a few hours’ rest.
He had, however, not slept more than an hour, when old Anthony roused
him to tell him that there was an unknown man down stairs who asked to
see him instantly.
M. Folgat rubbed his eyes, and at once went down: in the passage he found
himself face to face with a man of some fifty years, of rather suspicious
appearance, who wore his mustache and his chin-beard, and was dressed in
a tight coat and large trousers, such as old soldiers affect.
“Yes.”
“Since this morning, by express. Twenty-four hours too late, I know; for I
bought a newspaper at the station. M. de Boiscoran has been found guilty.
And yet I swear I did not lose a minute; and I have well earned the gratuity
which I was promised in case of success.”
“Of course. Did I not tell you in my letter from Jersey that I was sure of
success?”
“Of course. She is at the Hotel de France, where I have left her till I could
come and see you.”
“Every thing.”
From the time when M. Folgat first hoped for this recovery of the servant-
girl, he had made up his mind to make the most of her evidence.
She was a tall, stout woman of some forty years, with hard features,
masculine manners, and dressed, as all common English-women are, with
great pretensions to fashion.
“I stayed four years at the house in Vine Street; and I should be there still,
but for the war. As soon as I entered upon my duties, I became aware that I
was put in charge of a house in which two lovers had their meetings. I was
not exactly pleased, because, you know, we have our self-respect; but it was
a good place. I had very little to do, and so I staid. However, my master
mistrusted me: I saw that very clearly. When a meeting was to take place,
my master sent me on some errand to Versailles, to Saint Germain, or even
to Orleans. This hurt me so much, that I determined I would find out what
they tried so hard to conceal from me. It was not very difficult; and the very
next week I knew that my master was no more Sir Francis Burnett than I
was; and that he had borrowed the name from a friend of his.”
“Oh! very simply. One day, when my master went away on foot, I followed
him, and saw him go into a house in University Street. Before the house
opposite, some servants were standing and talking. I asked them who the
gentleman was; and they told me it was the son of the Marquis de
Boiscoran.”
“As for the lady,” she replied, “I did the same thing to find her out. It cost
me, however, a great deal more time and a great deal more patience,
because she took the very greatest precautions; and I lost more than one
afternoon in watching her. But, the more she tried to hide, the more I was
curious to know, as a matter of course. At last, one evening when she left
the house in her carriage, I took a cab and followed her. I traced her thus to
her house; and next morning I talked to the servants there, and they told me
that she was a lady who lived in the province, but came every year to Paris
to spend a month with her parents, and that her name was Countess
Claudieuse.”
And Jacques had imagined and strongly maintained that Suky would not
know any thing, in fact, could not know any thing!
“Among thousands.”
“Here she is!” cried Suky, putting her finger on the photograph.
“But now, Miss Suky,” said the young advocate, “you will have to repeat all
that before a magistrate.”
“If that is so, they will send for you at your lodgings, and you will please stay
there till you are called. You need not trouble yourself about any thing. You
shall have whatever you want, and they will pay you your wages as if you
were in service.”
M. Folgat had not time to say more; for Dr. Seignebos rushed in like a
tempest, and cried out at the top of his voice,—
But he could not speak before Suky and the agent. They were sent off; and,
as soon as they had left the room, he said to M. Folgat,—
“I am just from the hospital. I have seen Goudar. He had done it. He had
made Cocoleu talk.”
“Well, exactly what I knew he would say, as soon as they could loose his
tongue. But you will hear it all; for it is not enough that Cocoleu should
confess it to Goudar: there must be witnesses present to certify to the
confessions of the wretch.”
“He must not see them: they can be concealed. The place is admirably
adapted for such a purpose.”
“But how, if Cocoleu refuses to talk after the witnesses have been
introduced?”
“He will not. Goudar has found out a way to make him talk whenever he
wants it. Ah! that man is a clever man, and understands his business
thoroughly. Have you full confidence in him?”
“Oh, entire!”
But they were hardly in the passage when they were met by Mechinet, who
came running up out of breath, and half mad with delight.
“M. Daubigeon sends me to say you must come to him at once. Great news!
Great news!”
And immediately he told them in a few words what had happened in the
morning,—Trumence’s statement, and the deposition of the maid of
Countess Claudieuse.
“Let us tell the marquis and Miss Dionysia what is going on before we leave
the house.”
“No,” said the doctor, “no! Let us wait till every thing is quite safe. Let us go
quick; let us go at once.”
They were right to make haste. The magistrate and the commonwealth
attorney were waiting for them with the greatest impatience. As soon as
they came into the small room of the clerk’s office, M. Daubigeon cried,—
“Yes,” replied M. Folgat; “but we have some information of which you have
heard as yet nothing.”
Then he told them that Suky Wood had arrived, and what she had given in as
evidence.
“Most assuredly he is innocent!” said Dr. Seignebos; “and the proof of it is,
that I know who is guilty.”
“Oh!”
“And you will know too, if you will take the trouble of following me, with M.
Galpin, to the hospital.”
It was just striking one; and not one of them all had eaten any thing that
morning. But they had no time to think of breakfast.
M. Daubigeon spoke first to the lady superior of the hospital; and, when he
had explained to her what their purpose was in coming there, she raised her
eyes heavenward, and said with a sigh of resignation,—
“Well, gentlemen, do as you like, and I hope you will be successful; for it is a
sore trial for us poor sisters to have these continual visitations in the name
of the law.”
“Please follow me, then, to the Insane Ward, gentlemen,” said the doctor.
They call the Insane Ward at the Sauveterre hospital a small, low building,
with a sanded court in front, and a tall wall around the whole. The building is
divided into six cells, each of which has two doors,—one opening into the
court, and the other an outside door for the assistants and servants.
It was to one of these latter doors that Dr. Seignebos led his friends. And
after having recommended to them the most perfect silence, so as not to
rouse Cocoleu’s suspicions, he invited them into one of the cells, in which
the door leading into the court had been closed. There was, however, a little
grated window in the upper part of the door, so that they could, without
being seen, both see and hear all that was said and done in the court
reserved for the use of the insane.
Not two yards from the little window, Goudar and Cocoleu were sitting on a
wooden bench in the bright sunlight.
By long study and a great effort of will, Goudar had succeeded in giving to
his face a most perfect expression of stupidity: even the people belonging
to the hospital thought he was more idiotic than the other.
He held in his hand his violin, which the doctor had ordered to be left to him;
and he accompanied himself with a few notes, as he repeated the same
familiar song which he had sung on the New-Market Square when he first
accosted M. Folgat.
535
But this music delighted him so intensely, that he actually forgot to eat, and,
with hanging lip and half-closed eyes, rocked himself to and fro, keeping
time with the measure.
“They look hideous!” M. Folgat could not keep from whispering. In the
meantime Goudar, warned by the preconcerted signal, had finished his
song. He bent over, and drew from under the bench an enormous bottle,
from which he seemed to draw a considerable quantity of something
pleasant.
Then he passed it to Cocoleu, who likewise began to pull, eagerly and long,
and with an expression of idiotic beatitude. Then patting his stomach with
his hands, he said,—
“That’s—that’s—that’s—good!”
“Ah, I begin to see! I notice from Cocoleu’s eyes, that this practice with the
bottle must have been going on for some time already. Cocoleu is drunk.”
Goudar kept him waiting a little while, and then handed him the bottle. The
idiot threw back his head, and drank till he had lost his breath. Then Goudar
asked,—
“Ah! you did not have such good wine to drink at Valpinson?”
“Yes. Quite—enough.”
“I got—got into the cellar through one of the windows; and I drank—drank
through—through a—a straw.”
“Oh, yes!”
“But, if you were so well off at Valpinson, why did you set it on fire?”
The witnesses of the strange scene crowded to the little window of the cell,
and held their breath with eager expectation.
“I wanted to burn some fagots only, to make the count come out. It was not
my fault, if the whole house got on fire.”
“Oh, no! But she cried so much; and then she told me she would be so
happy if her husband were dead. And she was always good to Cocoleu; and
the count was always bad; and so I shot him.”
“Well! But why, then, did you say it was M. de Boiscoran who shot the
count?”
“They said at first it was me. I did not like that. I would rather they should
cut off his head than mine.”
“I—I had taken it from the count to shoot birds: and I—I have it still—still. It
is hid in the hole where Michael found me.”
Poor Dr. Seignebos could not stand it any longer. He suddenly pushed open
the door, and, rushing into the court, he cried,—
537
At the noise, Cocoleu had started up. He evidently understood it all; for
terror drove the fumes of the wine out of his mind in an instant, and he
looked frightened to death.
And, throwing himself upon Goudar, he plunged his knife twice into him.
The movement was so rapid and so sudden, that it had been impossible to
prevent it. Pushing M. Folgat violently back as he tried to disarm him,
Cocoleu leaped into a corner of the court, and there, looking like a wild
beast driven to bay, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth foaming, he threatened
with his formidable knife to kill any one who should come near him.
In the meantime, poor Dr. Seignebos, who had unwillingly caused the
catastrophe, was distressed beyond measure; still he hastened to the
assistance of Goudar, who lay insensible on the sand of the court. The two
wounds which the detective had received were quite serious, but not fatal,
or even very dangerous, as the knife had been turned aside by the ribs. He
was at once carried into one of the private rooms of the hospital, and soon
recovered his consciousness.
When he saw all four of the gentlemen bending anxiously over his bed, he
murmured with a mournful smile,—
“But you are at liberty now to give it up,” replied M. Folgat, “provided
always a certain house in Vine Street should not prove too small for your
ambition.”
The pale face of the detective recovered its color for a moment.
“Since you have discovered the real criminal, and handed him over to
justice.”
“Well, then, I will bless these wounds: I feel that I shall be up again in a
fortnight. Give me quick pen and ink, that I may write my resignation
immediately, and tell my wife the good news.”
He was interrupted by the entrance of one of the officers of the court, who,
walking up to the commonwealth attorney, said to him respectfully,—
“Sir, the priest from Brechy is waiting for you at your office.”
The priest was waiting, and rose quickly from his chair when he saw M.
Daubigeon enter, accompanied by M. Galpin, M. Folgat, and Dr. Seignebos.
“No, sir,” replied the old priest, “no! The words of reparation which have
been intrusted to me must be uttered publicly.” And handing him a letter,
he added,—
“Actuated by hatred, I have been guilty of giving false evidence in court, and
of stating wrongfully that M. de Boiscoran is the man who shot at me, and
that I recognized him in the act.
“I did not only not recognize him, but I know that he is innocent. I am sure
of it; and I swear it by all I hold sacred in this world which I am about to
leave, and in that world in which I must appear before my sovereign Judge.
“You may rest assured, reverend father,” said M. Daubigeon, “that Count
Claudieuse’s last wishes shall be attended to. The name of the countess shall
not appear. There will be no need for it. The secret of her wrongs shall be
religiously kept by those who know it.”
An hour later there arrived at the court-house a gendarme and Michael, the
son of the Boiscoran tenant, who had been sent out to ascertain if Cocoleu’s
statement was true. They brought back the gun which the wretch had used,
and which he had concealed in that den which he had dug out for himself in
the forest of Rochepommier, and where Michael had discovered him the
day after the crime.
and the active cooperation of M. Gransiere, that he should be set free that
same evening.
He was hopeful, it is true; and yet when he was told that he was safe, that
he was free, he sank, an inert mass, into a chair, being less able to bear joy
than sorrow.
But such emotions are not apt to last long. A few moments later, and
Jacques de Boiscoran, arm in arm with his counsel, left his prison, in which
he had for several months suffered all that an honest man can suffer. He had
paid a fearful penalty for what, in the eyes of so many men, is but a trifling
wrong.
When they reached the street in which the Chandores lived, M. Folgat said
to his client,—
The young advocate employed the utmost caution in preparing them for the
truth; but at the first words Dionysia asked,—
“Where is Jacques?”
Jacques was kneeling at her feet, overcome with gratitude and love.
541
CHAPTER 5
The next day the funeral of Count Claudieuse took place. His youngest
daughter was buried at the same time; and in the evening the Countess left
Sauveterre, to make her home henceforth with her father in Paris.
In the proper course of the law, the sentence which condemned Jacques
was declared null and void; and Cocoleu, found guilty of having committed
the crime at Valpinson, was sentenced to hard labor for life.
Even the excellent commonwealth attorney laid aside on that day some of
his usual gravity. He continually repeated,—
Pulsanda tellus.”
And he really did drink his glass of wine, and opened the ball with the bride.
M. Galpin, who was sent to Algiers, was not present at the wedding. But M.
Mechinet was there, quite brilliant, and, thanks to Jacques, free from all
pecuniary troubles.
The two Blangins, husband and wife, have well-nigh spent the whole of the
large sums of money which they extorted from Dionysia. Trumence, private
bailiff at Boiscoran, is the terror of all vagrants.
And Goudar, in his garden and nursery, sells the finest peaches in Paris.
A quick note: Hi! I'm Julie, the woman who runs Global Grey - the website
where this ebook was published for free. These are my own editions, and I
hope you enjoyed reading this particular one. To support the site, and to
542
Thanks for reading this and I really hope you visit Global Grey again - new
books are added regularly so you'll always find something of interest :)