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

“Did he ever have one?”

“Never. They will tell you, perhaps, that once upon a time he was rather pleased with a great, big red-haired woman, the daughter of a miller in the neighborhood, and that the gypsy of a woman came more frequently to the chateau than was needful,—now on one pretext, and now on another. But that was mere childishness. Besides, that was five years ago, and the woman has been married these three years to a basket-maker at Marennes.”

“You are quite sure of what you say?”

“As sure as I am of myself. And you would be as sure of it yourself, if you knew the country as I know it, and the abominable tongues the people have. There is no concealing any thing from them. I defy a man to talk three times to a woman without their finding it out, and making a story of it. I say nothing of Paris”—

M. Folgat listened attentively. He asked,—

“Ah! was there any thing of the kind in Paris?”

Anthony hesitated; at last he said,—

“You see, master’s secrets are not my secrets, and, after the oath I have sworn,”—

“It may be, however, that his safety depends upon your frankness in telling me all,” said the lawyer. “You may be sure he will not blame you for having spoken.”

For several seconds the old servant remained undecided; then he said,—

“Master, they say, has had a great love-affair.”

“When?”

“I do not know when. That was before I entered his service. All I know is, that, for the purpose of meeting the person, master had bought at Passy, at the end of Vine Street, a beautiful house, in the centre of a large garden, which he had furnished magnificently.”

“Ah!”

“That is a secret, which, of course, neither master’s father nor his mother knows to this day; and I only know it, because one day master fell down the steps, and dislocated his foot, so that he had to send for me to nurse him. He may have bought the house under his own name; but he was not known by it there. He passed for an Englishmen, a Mr. Burnett; and he had an English maid-servant.”

“And the person?”

“Ah, sir! I not only do not know who she is, but I cannot even guess it, she took such extraordinary precautions! Now that I mean to tell you every thing, I will confess to you that I had the curiosity to question the English maid. She told me that she was no farther than I was, that she knew, to be sure, a lady was coming there from time to time; but that she had never seen even the end of her nose. Master always arranged it so well, that the girl was invariably out on some errand or other when the lady came and when she went away. While she was in the house, master waited upon her himself. And when they wanted to walk in the garden, they sent the servant away, on some fool’s errand, to Versailles or to Fontainebleau; and she was mad, I tell you.”

M. Folgat began to twist his mustache, as he was in the habit of doing when he was specially interested. For a moment, he thought he saw the woman—that inevitable woman who is always at the bottom of every great event in man’s life; and just then she vanished from his sight; for he tortured his mind in vain to discover a possible if not probable connection between the mysterious visitor in Vine Street and the events that had happened at Valpinson. He could not see a trace. Rather discouraged, he asked once more,—

“After all, my dear Anthony, this great love-affair of your master’s has come to an end?”

“It seems so, sir, since Master Jacques was going to marry Miss Dionysia.”

That reason was perhaps not quite as conclusive as the good old servant imagined; but the young advocate made no remark.

“And when do you think it came to an end?”

“During the war, master and the lady must have been parted; for master did not stay in Paris. He commanded a volunteer company; and he was even wounded in the head, which procured him the cross.”

“Does he still own the house in Vine Street?”

“I believe so.”

“Why?”

“Because, some time ago, when master and I went to Paris for a week, he said to me one day, ‘The War and the commune have cost me dear. My cottage has had more than twenty shells, and it has been in turn occupied by Francs-tireurs, Communists and Regulars. The walls are broken; and there is not a piece of furniture uninjured. My architect tells me, that all in all, the repairs will cost me some ten thousand dollars.’”

“What? Repairs? Then he thought of going back there?”

“At that time, sir, master’s marriage had not been settled. Yet”—

“Still that would go to prove that he had at that time met the mysterious lady once more, and that the war had not broken off their relations.”

“That may be.”

“And has he never mentioned the lady again?”

“Never.”

At this moment M. de Chandore’s cough was heard in the hall,—that cough which men affect when they wish to announce their coming. Immediately afterwards he reappeared; and M. Folgat said to him, to show that his presence was no longer inconvenient,—

“Upon my word, sir, I was just on the point of going in search of you, for fear that you felt really unwell.”

“Thank you,” replied the old gentleman, “the fresh air has done me good.”

He sat down; and the young advocate turned again to Anthony, saying,—

“Well, let us go on. How was he the day before the fire?”

“Just as usual.”

“What did he do before he went out?”

“He dined as usual with a good appetite; then he went up stairs and remained there for an hour. When he came down, he had a letter in his hand, which he gave to Michael, our tenant’s son, and told him to carry it to Sauveterre, to Miss Chandore.”

“Yes. In that letter, M. de Boiscoran told Miss Dionysia that he was retained here by a matter of great importance.”

“Ah!”

“Have you any idea what that could have been?”

“Not at all, sir, I assure you.”

“Still let us see. M. de Boiscoran must have had powerful reasons to