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

“To be sure, sir. But are they clean?”

“Oh!”

“Master may have been mistaken as to the time when he last fired the gun, and then the barrels would be soiled; and, instead of helping him, my evidence might ruin him definitely. Before I say any thing, I ought to be sure.”

“Yes,” said Folgat, approvingly, “and you have done well to keep silence, my good man, and I cannot urge you too earnestly not to say a word of it to any one. That fact may become a decisive argument for the defence.”

“Oh! I can keep my tongue, sir. Only you may imagine how impatient it has made me to see these accursed seals which prevent me from going to look at the gun. Oh, if I had dared to break one of them!”

“Poor fellow!”

“I thought of doing it; but I checked myself. Then it occurred to me that other people might think of the same thing. The rascals who have formed this abominable plot against Master Jacques are capable of any thing, don’t you think so? Why might not they come some night, and break the seals? I put the steward on guard in the garden, beneath the windows. I put his son as a sentinel into the courtyard; and I have myself stood watch before the seals with arms in my hands all the time. Let the rascals come on; they will find somebody to receive them.”

In spite of all that is said, lawyers are better than their reputation. Lawyers, accused of being sceptics above all men, are, on the contrary, credulous and simple-minded. Their enthusiasm is sincere; and, when we think they play a part, they are in earnest. In the majority of cases, they fancy their own side the just one, even though they should be beaten. Hour by hour, ever since his arrival at Sauveterre, M. Folgat’s faith in Jacques’s innocence had steadily increased. Old Anthony’s tale was not made to shake his growing conviction. He did not admit the existence of a plot, however; but he was not disinclined to believe in the cunning calculations of some rascal, who, availing himself of circumstances known to him alone, tried to let all suspicion fall upon M. de Boiscoran, instead of himself.

But there were many more questions to be asked; and Anthony was in such a state of feverish excitement, that it was difficult to induce him to answer. For it is not so easy to examine a man, however inclined he may be to answer. It requires no small self-possession, much care, and an imperturbable method, without which the most important facts are apt to be overlooked. M. Folgat began, therefore, after a moment’s pause, once more, saying,—

“My good Anthony, I cannot praise your conduct in this matter too highly. However, we have not done with it yet. But as I have eaten nothing since I left Paris last night, and as I hear the bell strike twelve o’clock”—

M. de Chandore seemed to be heartily ashamed, and broke in,—

“Ah, forgetful old man that I am! Why did I not think of it? But you will pardon me, I am sure. I am so completely upset. Anthony, what can you let us have?”

“The housekeeper has eggs, potted fowl, ham”—

“Whatever can be made ready first will be the best,” said the young lawyer.

“In a quarter of an hour the table shall be set,” replied the servant.

He hurried away, while M. de Chandore invited M. Folgat into the sitting-room. The poor grandfather summoned all his energy to keep up appearances.

“This fact about the gun will save him, won’t it?” he asked.

“Perhaps so,” replied the famous advocate.

And they were silent,—the grandfather thinking of the grief of his grandchild, and cursing the day on which he had opened his house to Jacques, and with him to such heart-rending anguish; the lawyer arranging in his mind the facts he had learned, and preparing the questions he was going to ask. They were both so fully absorbed by their thoughts, that they started when Anthony reappeared, and said,—

“Gentlemen, breakfast is ready!”

The table had been set in the dining-room; and, when the two gentlemen had taken their seats, old Anthony placed himself, his napkin over his arm, behind them; but M. de Chandore called him, saying,—

“Put another plate, Anthony, and breakfast with us.”

“Oh, sir,” protested the old servant,—“sir”—

“Sit down,” repeated the baron: “if you eat after us, you will make us lose time, and an old servant like you is a member of the family.”

Anthony obeyed, quite overcome, but blushing with delight at the honor that was done him; for the Baron de Chandore did not usually distinguish himself to familiarity. When the ham and eggs of the housekeeper had been disposed of, M. Folgat said,—

“Now let us go back to business. Keep cool, my dear Anthony, and remember, that, unless we get the court to say that there is no case, your answers may become the basis of our defence. What were M. de Boiscoran’s habits when he was here?”

“When he was here, sir, he had, so to say, no habits. We came here very rarely, and only for a short time.”

“Never mind: what was he doing here?”

“He used to rise late; he walked about a good deal; he sometimes went out hunting; he sketched; he read, for master is a great reader, and is as fond of his books as the marquis, his father, is of his porcelains.”

“Who came here to see him?”

“M. Galpin most frequently, Dr. Seignebos, the priest from Brechy, M. Seneschal, M. Daubigeon.”

“How did he spend his evenings?”

“At M. de Chandore’s, who can tell you all about it.”

“He had no other relatives in this country?”

“No.”

“You do not know that he had any lady friend?”

Anthony looked as if he would have blushed.

“Oh, sir!” he said, “you do not know, I presume, that master is engaged to Miss Dionysia?”

The Baron de Chandore was not a baby, as he liked to call it. Deeply interested as he was, he got up, and said,—

“I want to take a little fresh air.”

And he went out, understanding very well that his being Dionysia’s grandfather might keep Anthony from telling the truth.

“That is a sensible man,” thought M. Folgat.

Then he added aloud,—

“Now we are alone, my dear Anthony, you can speak frankly. Did M. de Boiscoran keep a mistress?”