The Count's Millions by Emile Gaboriau (big screen ebook reader .txt) 📖

The magistrate who was now approaching the Chalusse mansion in the concierge’s company, exemplified in a remarkable manner all the ideas that are awakened in one’s mind by the grand yet simple title of “Justice of the Peace.” He was the very person you would like to think of as the family magistrate; as the promoter of friendly feeling; as the guardian of the rights of the absent, the young, and the weak; as the just arbiter in unfortunate differences between those who are closely related; a sage of wide experience and boundless benevolence; a judge whose paternal justice dispenses with all pomp and display, and who is allowed by French statutes to hold his court by his own fireside, providing the doors stand open. He was considerably over fifty, tall, and very thin, with bent shoulders. His clothes were rather old-fashioned in cut, but by no means ridiculous. The expression of his face was gentleness itself; but it would not have done to presume upon this gentleness, for his glance was keen and piercing—like the glance of all who are expert in diving into consciences, and discovering the secrets hidden there. Moreover, like all men who are accustomed to deliberate in public, his features were expressionless. He could see and hear everything, suspect and understand everything, without letting a muscle of his face move. And yet the habitues of his audience-chamber, and his clerks, pretended that they could always detect the nature of his impressions. A ring which he wore upon one of his fingers served as a barometer for those who knew him. If a difficult case, or one that embarrassed his conscience, presented itself, his eyes fixed themselves obstinately upon this ring. If he were satisfied that everything was right, he looked up again, and began playing with the ring, slipping it up and down between the first and second joint of his finger; but if he were displeased, he abruptly turned the bezel inside.

In appearance, he was sufficiently imposing to intimidate even M. Casimir. The proud valet bowed low as the magistrate approached, and with his heart in his mouth, and in an obsequious voice he said: “It was I who took the liberty of sending for you, monsieur.”

“Ah!” said the magistrate, who already knew as much about the Hotel de Chalusse, and the events of the past twelve hours, as M. Casimir himself; for on his way to the house, he had turned Bourigeau inside out like a glove, by means of a dozen gentle questions.

“If monsieur wishes I will explain,” resumed M. Casimir.

“Nothing! It is quite unnecessary. Usher us in.”

This “us” astonished the valet; but before they reached the house it was explained to him. He discovered a man of flourishing and even jovial mien who was walking along in the magistrate’s shadow carrying a large black portfolio under his arm. This was evidently the clerk. He seemed to be as pleased with his employment as he was with himself; and as he followed M. Casimir, he examined the adornments of the mansion, the mosaics in the vestibule, the statuary and the frescoed walls with an appraiser’s eye. Perhaps he was calculating how many years’ salary it would require to pay for the decorating of this one staircase.

On the threshold of the death room the magistrate paused. There had been some change during M. Casimir’s absence. The doctor had left. The bed had been rearranged, and several candles were burning on a table covered with a white cloth. Madame Leon had gone to her own room, accompanied by two servants, to fetch a vessel of holy water and a branch of withered palm. She was now engaged in repeating the prayers for the dead, pausing from time to time to dip the palm branch in the holy water, and sprinkle the bed. Both windows had been opened in spite of the cold. On the marble hearth stood a chafing-dish full of embers from which rose spiral rings of smoke, filling the room with a pungent odor as a servant poured some vinegar and sugar on to the coals.

As the magistrate appeared, every one rose up. Then, after bestowing prolonged scrutiny upon the room and its occupants, he respectfully removed his hat, and walked in. “Why are so many people here?” he inquired.

“I suggested that they should remain,” replied M. Casimir, “because—”

“You are—suspicious,” interrupted the magistrate.

His clerk had already drawn a pen and some paper from his portfolio, and was engaged in reading the decision, rendered by the magistrate at the request of one Bourigeau, and in virtue of which, seals were about to be affixed to the deceased nobleman’s personal effects. Since the magistrate had entered the room, his eyes had not once wandered from Mademoiselle Marguerite, who was standing near the fireplace, looking pale but composed. At last he approached her, and in a tone of deep sympathy: “Are you Mademoiselle Marguerite?” he asked.

She raised her clear eyes, rendered more beautiful than ever, by the tears that trembled on her lashes, and in a faltering voice, replied: “Yes, monsieur.”

“Are you a relative? Are you connected in any way with the Count de Chalusse? Have you any right to his property?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Excuse me, mademoiselle, but these questions are indispensable. Who intrusted you to the care of M. de Chalusse, and by what right? Was it your father or your mother?”

“I have neither father nor mother, monsieur. I am alone in the world—utterly alone.”

The magistrate glanced keenly round the room. “Ah! I understand,” said he, at last; “advantage has been taken of your isolation to treat you with disrespect, to insult you, perhaps.”

Every head drooped, and M. Casimir bitterly regretted that he had not remained below in the courtyard. Mademoiselle Marguerite looked at the magistrate in astonishment, for she was amazed by his penetration. She was ignorant of his conversation with Bourigeau on the road, and did not know that through the concierge’s ridiculous statements and accusations, the magistrate had succeeded in discovering at least a portion of the truth.

“I shall have the honor of asking for a few moments’ conversation with you presently, mademoiselle,” he said. “But first, one question. I am told that the Count de Chalusse entertained a very lively affection for you. Are you sure that he has not taken care to provide for your future? Are you sure that he has not left a will?”

The girl shook her head. “He made one in my favor some time ago,” she replied. “I saw it; he gave it to me to read; but it was destroyed a fortnight after my arrival here, and in compliance with my request.”

Madame Leon had hitherto been dumb with fear, but, conquering her weakness, she now decided to draw near and take part in the conversation. “How can you say that, my dear young lady?” she exclaimed. “You know that the count—God rest his soul!—was an