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

but neither of them realized fully what that meant. They had no idea of this atrocious measure, which is, nevertheless, rendered necessary by the peculiar forms of French law-proceedings,—a measure which, so to say, immures a man alive, and leaves him in his cell alone with the crime with which he is charged, and utterly at the mercy of another man, whose duty it is to extort the truth from him. The two ladies only saw the want of liberty, a cell with its dismal outfittings, the bars at the window, the bolts at the door, the jailer shaking his bunch of keys at his belt, and the tramp of the solitary sentinel in the long passages.

“They cannot refuse me permission,” said the old lady, “to see my son.”

“They cannot,” repeated Dionysia. “And, besides, I know the jailer, Blangin: his wife was formerly in our service.”

When the young girl, therefore, raised the heavy knocker at the prison-door, she was full of cheerful confidence. Blangin himself came to the door; and, at the sight of the two poor ladies, his broad face displayed the utmost astonishment.

“We come to see M. de Boiscoran,” said Dionysia boldly.

“Have you a permit, ladies?” asked the keeper.

“From whom?”

“From M. Galpin.”

“We have no permit.”

“Then I am very sorry to have to tell you, ladies, that you cannot possibly see M. de Boiscoran. He is kept in close confinement, and I have the strictest orders.”

Dionysia looked threatening, and said sharply,—

“Your orders cannot apply to this lady, who is the Marchioness de Boiscoran.”

“My orders apply to everybody, madam.”

“You would not, I am sure, keep a poor, distressed mother from seeing her son!”

“Ah! but—madam—it does not rest with me. I? Who am I? Nothing more than one of the bolts, drawn or pushed at will.”

For the first time, it entered the poor girl’s head that her effort might fail: still she tried once more, with tears in her eyes,—

“But I, my dear M. Blangin, think of me! You would not refuse me? Don’t you know who I am? Have you never heard your wife speak of me?”

The jailer was certainly touched. He replied,—

“I know how much my wife and myself are indebted to your kindness, madam. But—I have my orders, and you surely would not want me to lose my place, madam?”

“If you lose your place, M. Blangin, I, Dionysia de Chandore, promise you another place twice as good.”

“Madame!”

“You do not doubt my word, M. Blangin, do you?”

“God forbid, madam! But it is not my place only. If I did what you want me to do, I should be severely punished.”

The marchioness judged from the jailer’s tone that Dionysia was not likely to prevail over him, and so she said,—

“Don’t insist, my child. Let us go back.”

“What? Without finding out what is going on behind these pitiless walls; without knowing even whether Jacques is dead or alive?”

There was evidently a great struggle going on in the jailer’s heart. All of a sudden he cast a rapid glance around, and then said, speaking very hurriedly,—

“I ought not to tell you—but never mind—I cannot let you go away without telling you that M. de Boiscoran is quite well.”

“Ah!”

“Yesterday, when they brought him here, he was, so to say, overcome. He threw himself upon his bed, and he remained there without stirring for over two hours. I think he must have been crying.”

A sob, which Dionysia could not suppress, made Blangin start.

“Oh, reassure yourself, madame!” he added quickly. “That state of things did not last long. Soon M. de Boiscoran got up, and said, ‘Why, I am a fool to despair!’”

“Did you hear him say so?” asked the old lady.

“Not I. It was Trumence who heard it.”

“Trumence?”

“Yes, one of our jail-birds. Oh! he is only a vagabond, not bad at all; and he has been ordered to stand guard at the door of M. de Boiscoran’s cell, and not for a moment to lose sight of it. It was M. Galpin who had that idea, because the prisoners sometimes in their first despair,—a misfortune happens so easily,—they become weary of life—Trumence would be there to prevent it.”

The old lady trembled with horror. This precautionary measure, more than any thing else, gave her the full measure of her son’s situation.

“However,” M. Blangin went on, “there is nothing to fear. M. de Boiscoran became quite calm again, and even cheerful, if I may say so. When he got up this morning, after having slept all night like a dormouse, he sent for me, and asked me for paper, ink, and pen. All the prisoners ask for that the second day. I had orders to let him have it, and so I gave it to him. When I carried him his breakfast, he handed me a letter for Miss Chandore.”

“What?” cried Dionysia, “you have a letter for me, and you don’t give it to me?”

“I do not have it now, madam. I had to hand it, as is my duty, to M. Galpin, when he came accompanied by his clerk, Mechinet, to examine M. de Boiscoran.”

“And what did he say?”

“He opened the letter, read it, put it into his pocket, and said, ‘Well.’”

Tears of anger this time sprang from Dionysia’s eyes; and she cried,—

“What a shame? This man reads a letter written by Jacques to me! That is infamous!”

And, without thinking of thanking Blangin, she drew off the old lady, and all the way home did not say a word.

“Ah, poor child, you did not succeed,” exclaimed the two old aunts, when they saw their niece come back.

But, when they had heard every thing, they said,—

“Well, we’ll go and see him, this little magistrate, who but the day before yesterday was paying us abject court to obtain the hand of our cousin. And we’ll tell him the truth; and, if we cannot make him give us back Jacques, we will at least trouble him in his triumph, and take down his pride.”

How could poor Dionysia help adopting the notions of the old ladies, when their project offered such immediate satisfaction to her indignation, and at the same time served her