Within an Inch of His Life by Emile Gaboriau (good summer reads .TXT) 📖

rose, turned crimson in her face, and said with flaming eyes,—

“Do you know, sir, what this letter contains?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know that M. de Boiscoran dares call me by my first name, Genevieve, as my husband does, and my father?”

The decisive moment had come, and M. Folgat had all his self-possession.

“M. de Boiscoran, madame, claims that he used to call you so in former days,—in Vine Street,—in days when you called him Jacques.”

The countess seemed to be utterly bewildered.

“But that is sheer infamy, sir,” she stammered. “What! M. de Boiscoran should have dared tell you that I, the countess Claudieuse, have been his—mistress?”

“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.”

She rose at these words, and said in a penetrating voice,—

“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.

“Lower, madam, I pray you speak lower,” said M. Folgat.

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.”

“But, madam, M. de Boiscoran pledges himself to the most perfect secrecy.”

“Secrecy in what? In your cowardly insults, your abominable plots, of which this, no doubt, is but a beginning?”

M. Folgat turned livid under this insult.

“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.

“Madam,” said M. Folgat once more,—“madam!”

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.

“Upon my word!” he said, “I never thought the countess would take my treachery so coolly. When she came out from you just now, she asked me, 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.

“Why, what on earth is the matter?” he asked.

The young advocate looked at him with an utterly bewildered air.

“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?”

M. Folgat looked altogether disheartened.

“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”—

It was the doctor’s turn, now, to be amazed; and he actually forgot to trouble his gold spectacles.

“Why? What did the countess say?” he asked.

“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. Seignebos stopped, and pressing the arm of the young advocate, and bending over to him, he whispered into his ear,—

“Mind!” he said. “You know the truth is in the lips of children.”

“What do you expect?” murmured M. Folgat.

“To settle a doubtful point. Hush! Let me manage it.”

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.

“Good-morning, gentlemen!” she replied with a nice little courtesy.

Dr. Seignebos bent down to kiss her rosy cheeks, and them, looking at her, he said,—

“You look sad, Martha?”

“Yes, because papa and little sister are sick,” she replied with a deep sigh.

“And also because you miss Valpinson?”

“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,—