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

“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.”

“Great God!” cried the doctor.

“What, what have I said?”

“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.”

“The truth? Then you think I am mistaken?”

“Most assuredly.”

Then fixing his spectacles on his nose, Dr. Seignebos added,—

“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.”

The young advocate did not seem to be fully convinced.

“In that case, there would have been premeditation,” he objected; “and how, then, came the gun to be loaded with small-shot?”

“The accomplice had not sense enough to know better.”

Although he saw very well the doctor’s drift, M. Folgat started up,—

“What?” he said, “always Cocoleu?”

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.”

“If what you say is true, doctor, we shall never get the key of this affair; for Cocoleu will never confess.”

“Don’t swear to that. There is a way.”

He was interrupted by the sudden entrance of his servant.

“Sir,” said the latter, “there is a gendarme below who brings you a man who has to be sent to the hospital at once.”

“Show them up,” said the doctor.

“And, while the servant was gone to do his bidding, the doctor said,—

“And here is the way. Now mind!”

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.

“Goudar!” was on M. Folgat’s lips.

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.”

“Leave us alone with him,” said the physician.

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.

“But the point is,” said the doctor, “that you have played the epileptic so well, that the gendarmes have been taken in.”

“A fine trick indeed, and very creditable.”

“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.”

“Never mind me,” said the detective. “I have my plan.”

Then turning to M. Folgat, he added,—

“I am a prisoner now; but I have taken my precautions. The agent whom I have sent to England will report to you. I have, besides, to ask a favor at your hands. I have written to my wife to send her letters to you: you can send them to me by the doctor. And now I am ready to become Cocoleu’s companion, and I mean to earn the house in Vine Street.”

Dr. Seignebos signed an order of admission. He recalled the gendarme; and, after having praised his kindness, he asked him to take “that poor devil” to the hospital. When he was alone once more with M. Folgat, he said,—

“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!”

XXVI.

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