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

“Well. And did you not also tell me that the wedding-day was fixed?”

“Yes, three days ago.”

“Has Jacques written to you about the matter?”

“An excellent letter.”

“In which he tells you he is coming up?”

“Yes: he wanted to purchase the wedding-presents himself.” With a gesture of magnificent indifference the marquis tapped the top of his snuffbox, and said,—

“And you think a boy like our Jacques, a Boiscoran, in love, and beloved, who is about to be married, and has his head full of wedding-presents, could have committed such a horrible crime? Such things are not worth discussing, and, with your leave, I shall return to my occupation.”

If doubt is contagious, confidence is still more so. Gradually the marchioness felt reassured by the perfect assurance of her husband. The blood came back to her cheeks; and smiles reappeared on pale lips. She said in a stronger voice,—

“In fact, I may have been too easily frightened.”

The marquis assented by a gesture.

“Yes, much too easily, my dear. And, between us, I would not say much about it. How could the officers help accusing our Jacques if his own mother suspects him?”

The marchioness had taken up the telegram, and was reading it over once more.

“And yet,” she said, answering her own objections, “who in my place would not have been frightened? This name of Claudieuse especially”—

“Why? It is the name of an excellent and most honorable gentleman,—the best man in the world, in spite of his sea-dog manners.”

“Jacques hates him, my dear.”

“Jacques does not mind him any more than that.”

“They have repeatedly quarrelled.”

“Of course. Claudieuse is a furious legitimist; and as such he always talks with the utmost contempt of all of us who have been attached to the Orleans family.”

“Jacques has been at law with him.”

“And he has done right, only he ought to have carried the matter through. Claudieuse has claims on the Magpie, which divides our lands,—absurd claims. He wants at all seasons, and according as he may desire, to direct the waters of the little stream into his own channels, and thus drown the meadows at Boiscoran, which are lower than his own. Even my brother, who was an angel in patience and gentleness, had his troubles with this tyrant.”

But the marchioness was not convinced yet.

“There was another trouble,” she said.

“What?”

“Ah! I should like to know myself.”

“Has Jacques hinted at any thing?”

“No. I only know this. Last year, at the Duchess of Champdoce’s, I met by chance the Countess Claudieuse and her children. The young woman is perfectly charming; and, as we were going to give a ball the week after, it occurred to me to invite her at once. She refused, and did so in such an icy, formal manner, that I did not insist.”

“She probably does not like dancing,” growled the marquis.

“That same evening I mentioned the matter to Jacques. He seemed to be very angry, and told me, in a manner that was hardly compatible with respect, that I had been very wrong, and that he had his reasons for not desiring to come in contact with those people.”

The marquis felt so secure, that he only listened with partial attention, looking all the time aside at his precious faiences.

“Well,” he said at last, “Jacques detests the Claudieuses. What does that prove? God be thanked, we do not murder all the people we detest!”

His wife did not insist any longer. She only asked,—

“Well, what must we do?”

She was so little in the habit of consulting her husband, that he was quite surprised.

“The first thing is to get Jacques out of jail. We must see—we ought to ask for advice.”

At this moment a light knock was heard at the door.

“Come in!” he said.

A servant came in, bringing a large envelope, marked “Telegraphic Despatch. Private.”

“Upon my word!” cried the marquis. “I thought so. Now we shall be all right again.”

The servant had left the room. He tore open the envelope; but at the first glance at the contents the smile vanished, he turned pale, and just said,—

“Great God!”

Quick as lightning, the marchioness seized the fatal paper. She read at a glance,—

“Come quick. Jacques in prison; close confinement; accused of horrible crime. The whole town says he is guilty, and that he has confessed. Infamous calumny! His judge is his former friend, Galpin, who was to marry his cousin Lavarande. Know nothing except that Jacques is innocent. Abominable intrigue! Grandpa Chandore and I will do what can be done. Your help indispensable. Come, come!

“DIONYSIA CHANDORE.”

“Ah, my son is lost!” cried the marchioness with tears in her eyes. The marquis, however, had recovered already from the shock.

“And I—I say more than ever, with Dionysia, who is a brave girl, Jacques is innocent. But I see he is in danger. A criminal prosecution is always an ugly affair. A man in close confinement may be made to say any thing.”

“We must do something,” said the mother, nearly mad with grief.

“Yes, and without losing a minute. We have friends: let us see who among them can help us.”

“I might write to M. Margeril.”

The marquis, who had turned quite pale, became livid.

“What!” he cried. “You dare utter that name in my presence?”

“He is all powerful; and my son is in danger.”

The marquis stopped her with a threatening gesture, and cried with an accent of bitter hatred,—

“I would a thousand times rather my son should die innocent on the scaffold than owe his safety to that man!”

His wife seemed to be on the point of fainting.

“Great God! And yet you know very well that I was only a little indiscreet.”

“No more!” said the marquis harshly.

Then, recovering his self-control by a powerful