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Reading books fiction Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself.



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Read books online » Fiction » Within an Inch of His Life by Emile Gaboriau (good summer reads .TXT) 📖

Book online «Within an Inch of His Life by Emile Gaboriau (good summer reads .TXT) 📖». Author Emile Gaboriau



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“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 all that appears quite natural to you?”

“No! At first it shocked me as it shocked everybody. You seem to be far above all suspicion. But a moment afterwards they pick up the cartridge-case, which can only have belonged to you. Then, upon my arrival here, I surprise you in bed, and find the water in which you have washed your hands black with coal, and little pieces of charred paper swimming on top of it.”

“Yes,” said M. de Boiscoran in an undertone: “it is fate.”

“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.”

M. de Boiscoran had no time to answer.

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,—

“Drown Boiscoran! Let us drown the incendiary!”

The attorney rose, and told the gendarme,—

“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,—

“These unfortunate people believe my guilt!”

“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.”

M. de Boiscoran said nothing.

“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.”

“Ah! how can I?”

“If you are innocent, nothing is easier. Tell us how you employed yourself last night.”

“I have told you all I can say.”

The magistrate seemed to reflect for a full minute; then he said,—

“Take care, M. de Boiscoran: I shall have to have you arrested.”

“Do so.”

“I shall be obliged to order your arrest at once, and to send you to jail in Sauveterre.”

“Very well.”

“Then you confess?”

“I confess that I am the victim of an unheard-of combination of circumstances; I confess that you are right, and that certain fatalities can only be explained by the belief in Providence: but I swear by all that is holy in the world, I am innocent.”

“Prove it.”

“Ah! would I not do it if I could?”

“Be good enough, then, to dress, sir, and to follow the gendarmes.”

Without a word, M. de Boiscoran went into his dressing-room, followed by his servant, who carried him his clothes. M. Galpin was so busy dictating to the clerk the latter part of the examination, that he seemed to forget his prisoner. Old Anthony availed himself of this opportunity.

“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.”

A bitter smile rose on M. de Boiscoran’s lips, as he said,—

“And you too, my old friend: you think I am guilty?”

“I conjure you,” said Anthony, “I answer for any thing. It is barely twenty feet. In your mother’s name”—

But, instead of answering him, M. de Boiscoran turned round, and called M. Galpin. When he had come in, he said to him, “Look at that window, sir! I have money, fast horses; and the sea is only five miles off. A guilty man would have escaped. I stay here; for I am innocent.”

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.

Under such circumstances, to resist the temptation to escape, and to make this resistance well known, was in fact not so much an evidence of innocence as a proof of great cleverness. M. Galpin, at all events, looked upon it in that light; for he judged others by himself. Carefully and cunningly calculating every step he took in life, he did not believe in sudden inspirations. He said, therefore, with an ironical smile, which was to show that he was not so easily taken in,—

“Very well, sir. This circumstance shall be mentioned, as well as the others, at the trial.”

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