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

I.

The Paris house of the Boiscoran family, No. 216 University Street, is a house of modest appearance. The yard in front is small; and the few square yards of damp soil in the rear hardly deserve the name of a garden. But appearances are deceptive. The inside is marvellously comfortable; careful and painstaking hands have made every provision for ease; and the rooms display that solid splendor for which our age has lost the taste. The vestibule contains a superb mosaic, brought home from Venice, in 1798, by one of the Boiscorans, who had degenerated, and followed the fortunes of Napoleon. The balusters of the great staircase are a masterpiece of iron work; and the wainscoting in the dining-room has no rival in Paris.

All this, however, is a mere nothing in comparison with the marquis’s cabinet of curiosities. It fills the whole depth, and half the width, of the upper story; is lighted from above like a huge atelier; and would fill the heart of an artist with delight. Immense glass cases, which stand all around against the walls, hold the treasures of the marquis,—priceless collections of enamels, ivories, bronzes, unique manuscripts, matchless porcelains, and, above all, his faiences, his dear faiences, the pride and the torment of his old age.

The owner was well worthy of such a setting.

Though sixty-one years old at that time, the marquis was as straight as ever, and most aristocratically lean. He had a perfectly magnificent nose, which absorbed immense quantities of snuff; his mouth was large, but well furnished; and his brilliant eyes shone with that restless cunning which betrayed the amateur, who has continually to deal with sharp and eager dealers in curiosities and second-hand articles of vertu.

In the year 1845 he had reached the summit of his renown by a great speech on the question of public meetings; but at that hour his watch seemed to have stopped. All his ideas were those of an Orleanist. His appearance, his costume, his high cravat, his whiskers, and the way he brushed his hair, all betrayed the admirer and friend of the citizen king. But for all that, he did not trouble himself about politics; in fact, he troubled himself about nothing at all. With the only condition that his inoffensive passion should be respected, the marchioness was allowed to rule supreme in the house, administering her large fortune, ruling her only son, and deciding all questions without the right of appeal. It was perfectly useless to ask the marquis any thing: his answer was invariably,—

“Ask my wife.”

The good man had, the evening before, purchased a little at haphazard, a large lot of faiences, representing scenes of the Revolution; and at about three o’clock, he was busy, magnifying-glass in hand, examining his dishes and plates, when the door was suddenly opened.

The marchioness came in, holding a blue paper in her hand. Six or seven years younger than her husband, she was the very companion for such an idle, indolent man. In her walk, in her manner, and in her voice, she showed at once the woman who stands at the wheel, and means to be obeyed. Her once celebrated beauty had left remarkable traces enough to justify her pretensions. She denied having any claims to being considered handsome, since it was impossible to deny or conceal the ravages of time, and hence by far her best policy was to accept old age with good grace. Still, if the marchioness did not grow younger, she pretended to be older than she really was. She had her gray hair puffed out with considerable affectation, so as to contrast all the more forcibly with her ruddy, blooming cheeks, which a girl might have envied and she often thought of powdering her hair.

She was so painfully excited, and almost undone, when she came into her husband’s cabinet, that even he, who for many a year had made it a rule of his life to show no emotion, was seriously troubled. Laying aside the dish which he was examining, he said with an anxious voice,—

“What is the matter? What has happened?”

“A terrible misfortune.”

“Is Jacques dead?” cried the old collector.

The marchioness shook her head.

“No! It is something worse, perhaps”—

The old man, who has risen at the sight of his wife, sank slowly back into his chair.

“Tell me,” he stammered out,—“tell me. I have courage.”

She handed him the blue paper which she had brought in, and said slowly,—

“Here. A telegram which I have just received from old Anthony, our son’s valet.”

With trembling hands the old marquis unfolded the paper, and read,—

“Terrible misfortune! Master Jacques accused of having set the chateau at Valpinson on fire, and murdered Count Claudieuse. Terrible evidence against him. When examined, hardly any defence. Just arrested and carried to jail. In despair. What must I do?”

The marchioness had feared lest the marquis should have been crushed by this despatch, which in its laconic terms betrayed Anthony’s abject terror. But it was not so. He put it back on the table in the calmest manner, and said, shrugging his shoulders,—

“It is absurd!”

His wife did not understand it. She began again,—

“You have not read it carefully, my friend”—

“I understand,” he broke in, “that our son is accused of a crime which he has not and can not have committed. You surely do not doubt his innocence? What a mother you would be! On my part, I assure you I am perfectly tranquil. Jacques an incendiary! Jacques a murderer! That is nonsense!”

“Ah! you did not read the telegram,” exclaimed the marchioness.

“I beg your pardon.”

“You did not see that there was evidence against him.”

“If there had been none, he could not have been arrested. Of course, the thing is disagreeable: it is painful.”

“But he did not defend himself.”

“Upon my word! Do you think that if to-morrow somebody accused me of having robbed the till of some shopkeeper, I would take the trouble to defend myself?”

“But do you not see that Anthony evidently thinks our son is guilty?”

“Anthony is an old fool!” declared the marquis.

Then pulling out his snuffbox, and stuffing his nose full of snuff, he said,—

“Besides, let us consider. Did you not tell me that Jacques is in love with that little Dionysia Chandore?”

“Desperately. Like a real child.”

“And she?”

“She adores Jacques.”