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

Seignebos wants to make a speech at the graveyard. Good-by and good luck!”

The driver whipped the horse, and, as the carriage was going down through the suburbs, M. de Chandore said,—

“I cannot understand why Anthony did not come to me immediately after his master had been arrested. What can have happened to him?”

IV.

M. Seneschal’s horse was perhaps one of the very best in the whole province; but M. de Chandore’s was still better. In less than fifty minutes they had driven the whole distance to Boiscoran; and during this time M. de Chandore and M. Folgat had not exchanged fifty words.

When they reached Boiscoran, the courtyard was silent and deserted. Doors and windows were hermetically closed. On the steps of the porch sat a stout young peasant, who, at the sight of the newcomers, rose, and carried his hand to his cap.

“Where is Anthony?” asked M. de Chandore.

“Up stairs, sir.”

The old gentleman tried to open the door: it resisted.

“O sir! Anthony has barricaded the door from the inside.”

“A curious idea,” said M. de Chandore, knocking with the butt-end of his whip.

He was knocking fiercer and fiercer, when at last Anthony’s voice was heard from within,—

“Who is there?”

“It is I, Baron Chandore.”

The bars were removed instantly, and the old valet showed himself in the door. He looked pale and undone. The disordered condition of his beard, his hair, and his dress, showed that he had not been to bed. And this disorder was full of meaning in a man who ordinarily prided himself upon appearing always in the dress of an English gentleman.

M. de Chandore was so struck by this, that he asked, first of all,—

“What is the matter with you, my good Anthony?”

Instead of replying, Anthony drew the baron and his companion inside; and, when he had fastened the door again, he crossed his arms, and said,—

“The matter is—well, I am afraid.”

The old gentleman and the lawyer looked at each other. They evidently both thought the poor man had lost his mind. Anthony saw it, and said quickly,—

“No, I am not mad, although, certainly, there are things passing here which could make one doubtful of one’s own senses. If I am afraid, it is for good reasons.”

“You do not doubt your master?” asked M. Folgat.

The servant cast such fierce, threatening glances at the lawyer, that M. de Chandore hastened to interfere.

“My dear Anthony,” he said, “this gentleman is a friend of mine, a lawyer, who has come down from Paris with the marchioness to defend Jacques. You need not mistrust him, nay, more than that, you must tell him all you know, even if”—

The trusty old servant’s face brightened up, and he exclaimed,—

“Ah! If the gentleman is a lawyer. Welcome, sir. Now I can say all that weighs on my heart. No, most assuredly I do not think Master Jacques guilty. It is impossible he should be so: it is absurd to think of it. But what I believe, what I am sure of, is this,—there is a plot to charge him with all the horrors of Valpinson.”

“A plot?” broke in M. Folgat, “whose? how? and what for?”

“Ah! that is more than I know. But I am not mistaken; and you would think so too, if you had been present at the examination, as I was. It was fearful, gentlemen, it was unbearable, so that even I was stupefied for a moment, and thought my master was guilty, and advised him to flee. The like has never been heard of before, I am sure. Every thing went against him. Every answer he made sounded like a confession. A crime had been committed at Valpinson; he had been seen going there and coming back by side paths. A fire had been kindled; his hands bore traces of charcoal. Shots had been fired; they found one of his cartridge-cases close to the spot where Count Claudieuse had been wounded. There it was I saw the plot. How could all these circumstances have agreed so precisely if they had not been pre-arranged, and calculated beforehand? Our poor M. Daubigeon had tears in his eyes; and even that meddlesome fellow, Mechinet, the clerk, was quite overcome. M. Galpin was the only one who looked pleased; but then he was the magistrate, and he put the questions. He, my master’s friend!—a man who was constantly coming here, who ate our bread, slept in our beds, and shot our game. Then it was, ‘My dear Jacques,’ and ‘My dear Boiscoran’ always, and no end of compliments and caresses; so that I often thought one of these days I should find him blackening my master’s boots. Ah! he took his revenge yesterday; and you ought to have seen with what an air he said to master, ‘We are friends no longer.’ The rascal! No, we are friends no longer; and, if God was just, you ought to have all the shot in your body that has wounded Count Claudieuse.”

M. de Chandore was growing more and more impatient. As soon, therefore, as Anthony’s breath gave out a moment, he said,—

“Why did you not come and tell me all that immediately?”

The old servant ventured to shrug his shoulders slightly, and replied,—

“How could I? When the examination was over, that man, Galpin, put the seals everywhere,—strips of linen, fastened on with sealing-wax, as they do with dead people. He put one on every opening, and on some of them two. He put three on the outer door. Then he told me that he appointed me keeper of the house, that I would be paid for it, but that I would be sent to the galleys if any one touched the seals with the tip of the finger. When he had handed master over to the gendarmes, that man, Galpin, went away, leaving me here alone, dumfounded, like a man who has been knocked in the head. Nevertheless, I should have come to you, sir, but I had an idea, and that gave me the shivers.”

Grandpapa Chandore stamped his foot, and said,—

“Come to the point, to the point!”

“It was this: you must know, gentlemen, that, in the examination, that breech-loading gun played a prominent part. That man, Galpin looked at it carefully, and asked master when he had last fired it off. Master said, ‘About five days ago. You hear, I say, five days.’ Thereupon, that man, Galpin, puts the gun down, without looking at the barrels.”

“Well?” asked M. Folgat.

“Well, sir, I—Anthony—I had the evening before—I say the evening before—cleaned the gun, washed it, and”—

“Upon my word,” cried M. de Chandore, “why did you not say so at once? If the barrels are clean, that is an absolute proof that Jacques is innocent.”

The old servant shook his head, and said,—