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

But M. Folgat’s enthusiasm had cooled off very rapidly.

“Before giving an opinion,” he said cautiously, “I must study the report of this estimable doctor.”

Unfortunately, the report contained nothing that the doctor had not mentioned. In vain did the young advocate try all the afternoon to find something in it that might be useful for the defence. There were arguments in it, to be sure, which might be very valuable when the trial should come on, but nothing that could be used to make the prosecution give up the case.

The whole house was, therefore, cruelly disappointed and dejected, when, about five o’clock, old Anthony came in from Boiscoran. He looked very sad, and said,—

“I have been relieved of my duties. At two o’clock M. Galpin came to take off the seals. He was accompanied by his clerk Mechinet, and brought Master Jacques with him, who was guarded by two gendarmes in citizen’s clothes. When the room was opened, that unlucky man Galpin asked Master Jacques if those were the clothes which he wore the night of the fire, his boots, his gun, and the water in which he washed his hands. When he had acknowledged every thing, the water was carefully poured into a bottle, which they sealed, and handed to one of the gendarmes. Then they put master’s clothes in a large trunk, his gun, several parcels of cartridge, and some other articles, which the magistrate said were needed for the trial. That trunk was sealed like the bottle, and put on the carriage; then that man Galpin went off, and told me that I was free.”

“And Jacques,” Dionysia asked eagerly,—“how did he look?”

“Master, madam, laughed contemptuously.”

“Did you speak to him?” asked M. Folgat.

“Oh, no, sir! M. Galpin would not allow me.”

“And did you have time to look at the gun?”

“I could but just glance at the lock.”

“And what did you see?”

The brow of the old servant grew still darker, as he replied sadly,—

“I saw that I had done well to keep silent. The lock is black. Master must have used his gun since I cleaned it.”

Grandpapa Chandore and M. Folgat exchanged looks of distress. One more hope was lost.

“Now,” said the young lawyer, “tell me how M. de Boiscoran usually charged his gun.”

“He used cartridges, sir, of course. They sent him, I think, two thousand with the gun,—some for balls, some with large shot, and others with shot of every size. At this season, when hunting is prohibited, master could shoot nothing but rabbits, or those little birds, you know, which come to our marshes: so he always loaded one barrel with tolerably large shot, and the other with small-shot.”

But he stopped suddenly, shocked at the impression which his statement seemed to produce. Dionysia cried,—

“That is terrible! Every thing is against us!”

M. Folgat did not give her time to say any more. He asked,—

“My dear Anthony, did M. Galpin take all of your master’s cartridges away with him?”

“Oh, no! certainly not.”

“Well, you must instantly go back to Boiscoran, and bring me three or four cartridges of every number of shot.”

“All right,” said the old man. “I’ll be back in a short time.”

He started immediately; and, thanks to his great promptness, he reappeared at seven o’clock, at the moment when the family got up from dinner, and put a large package of cartridges on the table.

M. de Chandore and M. Folgat had quickly opened some of them; and, after a few failures, they found two numbers of shot which seemed to correspond exactly to the samples left them by the doctor.

“There is an incomprehensible fatality in all this,” said the old gentleman in an undertone.

The young lawyer, also, looked discouraged.

“It is madness,” he said, “to try to establish M. de Boiscoran’s innocence without having first communicated with him.”

“And if you could do so to-morrow?” asked Dionysia.

“Then, madam, he might give us the key to this mystery, which we are in vain trying to solve; or, at least, he might tell us the way to find it all out. But that is not to be thought of. M. de Boiscoran is held in close confinement, and you may rest assured M. Galpin will see to it that no communication is held with his prisoner.”

“Who knows?” said the young girl.

And immediately she drew M. de Chandore aside into one of the little card-rooms adjoining the parlor, and asked him,—

“Grandpapa, am I rich?”

Never in her life had she thought of that, and she was to a certain extent utterly ignorant of the value of money.

“Yes, you are rich, my child,” replied the old gentleman.

“How much do I have?”

“You have in your own right, as coming to you from your poor father and from your mother, twenty-five thousand francs a year, or a capital of about five hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

“And is that a good deal?”

“It is so much, that you are one of the richest heiresses of the district; but you have, besides, considerable expectations.”

Dionysia was so preoccupied, that she did not even protest. She went on asking,—

“What do they call here to be well off?”

“That depends, my child. If you will tell me”—

She interrupted him, putting down her foot impatiently, saying,—

“Nothing. Please answer me!”

“Well, in our little town, an income of eight hundred or a thousand francs makes anybody very well off.”

“Let us say a thousand.”

“Well, a thousand would make a man very comfortable.”

“And what capital would produce such an income?”

“At five per cent, it would take twenty thousand francs.”

“That is to say, about the income of a year.”

“Exactly.”

“Never mind. I presume that is quite a large sum, and it would be rather difficult for you, grandpapa, to get it together by to-morrow morning?”

“Not at all. I have that much in railway coupon-bonds; and they are just as good as current money.”