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

moment there appeared two gendarmes on horseback, whom M. Galpin had sent for just before he left Valpinson.

When old Anthony saw them, he exclaimed,—

“Great God! what is the meaning of this? I must wake master.”

The magistrate stopped him, saying harshly,—

“Not a step! Don’t say a word!”

And pointing out Ribot to the gendarmes, he said,—

“Keep that lad under your eyes, and let him have no communication with anybody.”

Then, turning again to Anthony, he said,—

“Now show us to M. de Boiscoran’s bedroom.”

VIII.

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?”

“It is I,” said the faithful servant. “I should like”—

“Go to the devil!” broke in the voice.

“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,—

“It is I, M. de Boiscoran: open, if you please!”

“Ah, dear M. Galpin!” replied the voice cheerfully.

“I must speak to you.”

“And I am at your service, illustrious jurist. Just give me time to veil my Apollonian form in a pair of trousers, and I appear.”

Almost immediately, the door opened; and M. de Boiscoran presented himself, his hair dishevelled, his eyes heavy with sleep, but looking bright in his youth and full health, with smiling lips and open hands.

“Upon my word!” he said. “That was a happy inspiration you had, my dear Galpin. You come to join me at breakfast?”

And, bowing to M. Daubigeon, he added,—

“Not to say how much I thank you for bringing our excellent commonwealth attorney with you. This is a veritable judicial visit”—

But he paused, chilled as he was by M. Daubigeon’s icy face, and amazed at M. Galpin’s refusal to take his proffered hand.

“Why,” he said, “what is the matter, my dear friend?”

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.”

M. de Boiscoran looked confounded; but not a shadow of trouble appeared on his frank and open face.

“I’ll be hanged,” he said, “if I understand”—

“Let us go in,” said M. Galpin.

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.”

“Silence, sir!” said the commonwealth attorney, however much he was probably of his clerk’s opinion. “Silence!”

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 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,—

“Will you please show us your hands, sir?”

M. de Boiscoran’s cheeks turned crimson; and his eyes assumed an expression of strange perplexity.

“If this is a joke,” he said, “it has perhaps lasted long enough.”

He was evidently getting angry. M. Daubigeon thought it better to interfere, and thus he said,—

“Unfortunately, sir, the question is a most serious one. Do what the magistrate desires.”

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.

At this question, M. de Boiscoran’s face brightened up; and, breaking out into a hearty laugh, he said,—

“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?”