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

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.’”

Dr. Seignebos sadly shook his head as he said,—

“I hope your expectations may be realized, my dear sir.”

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.

“What did I tell you, madam?” he said very modestly.

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 steamer. We shall be informed of his arrival on the very day on which he lands.

“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.

“When you receive this letter, I shall be on my way to Jersey.

“Send me money there to the Golden Apple Hotel, where I propose to lodge. Life is amazingly dear in London; and I have very little left of the sum you gave me on parting.”

Thus, in this direction, at least, every thing was going well.

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,—

“Will you render M. de Boiscoran a great service?”

“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.

“Do you know Trumence?”

“The former basket-weaver of Tremblade?”

“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.”

“He was in prison at Sauveterre.”

“Yes, I know; he had broken down a gate near Brechy and”—

“Well, he has escaped.”

“Ah, the scamp!”

“And we must find him again. They have put the gendarmes on his track; but will they catch him?”

Michael burst out laughing.

“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.”

M. Folgat slapped Michael amicably on the shoulder, and said,—

“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 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.

Like a great general on the eve of a battle, he managed to control his feelings, affecting, for the benefit of others, a confidence which he did not really feel, and allowing no feature of his face to betray the great anxiety which generally kept him awake more than half the night.

And certainly it required a character of marvellous strength to remain impassive and resolute under such circumstances.

Everybody around him was in despair, and gave up all hope.

The house of M. de Chandore, once so full of life and merriment, had become as silent and sombre as a tomb.

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.