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

He had been congratulated, it is true, by the attorney-general; but there is no certainty in a trial, as long as the accused refuses to confess. The charges against Jacques, to be sure, were so overwhelming, that his being sent before the court was out of question. But by the side of the court there is still the jury.

“And in fine, my dear,” said the commonwealth attorney, “you have not a single eye-witness. And from time immemorial an eye-witness has been looked upon as worth a hundred hearsays.”

“I have Cocoleu,” said M. Galpin, who was rather impatient of all these objections.

“Have the doctors decided that he is not an idiot?”

“No: Dr. Seignebos alone maintains that doctrine.”

“Well, at least Cocoleu is willing to repeat his evidence?”

“No.”

“Why, then you have virtually no witness!”

Yes, M. Galpin understood it but too well, and hence his anxiety. The more he studied his accused, the more he found him in an enigmatic and threatening position, which was ominous of evil.

“Can he have an alibi?” he thought. “Or does he hold in reserve one of those unforeseen revelations, which at the last moment destroy the whole edifice of the prosecution, and cover the prosecuting attorney with ridicule?”

Whenever these thoughts occurred to him, they made big drops of perspiration run down his temples; and then he treated his poor clerk Mechinet like a slave. And that was not all. Although he lived more retired than ever, since this case had begun, many a report reached him from the Chandore family.

To be sure, he was a thousand miles from imagining that they had actually opened communications with the prisoner, and, what is more, that this intercourse was carried on by Mechinet, his own clerk. He would have laughed if one had come and told him that Dionysia had spent a night in prison, and paid Jacques a visit. But he heard continually of the hopes and the plans of the friends and relations of his prisoner; and he remembered, not without secret fear and trembling that they were rich and powerful, supported by relations in high places, beloved and esteemed by everybody. He knew that Dionysia was surrounded by devoted and intelligent men, by M. de Chandore, M. Seneschal, Dr. Seignebos, M. Magloire, and, finally, that advocate whom the Marchioness de Boiscoran had brought down with her from Paris, M. Folgat.

“And Heaven knows what they would not try,” he thought, “to rescue the guilty man from the hands of justice!”

It may well be said, therefore, that never was prosecution carried on with as much passionate zeal or as much minute assiduity. Every one of the points upon which the prosecution relied became, for M. Galpin, a subject of special study. In less than a fortnight he examined sixty-seven witnesses in his office. He summoned the fourth part of the population of Brechy. He would have summoned the whole country, if he had dared.

But all his efforts were fruitless. After weeks of furious investigations, the inquiry was still at the same point, the mystery was still impenetrable. The prisoner had not refuted any of the charges made against him; but the magistrate had, also, not obtained a single additional piece of evidence after those he had secured on the first day.

There must be an end of this, however.

One warm afternoon in July, the good ladies in National Street thought they noticed that M. Galpin looked even more anxious than usual. They were right. After a long conference with the commonwealth attorney and the presiding judge, the magistrate had made up his mind. When he reached the prison, he went to Jacques’s cell and there, concealing his embarrassment under the greatest stiffness, he said,—

“My painful duty draws to an end, sir: the inquiry with which I have been charged will be closed. To-morrow the papers, with a list of the objects to be used as evidence, will be sent to the attorney-general, to be submitted to the court.”

Jacques de Boiscoran did not move.

“Well,” he said simply.

“Have you nothing to add, sir?” asked M. Galpin.

“Nothing, except that I am innocent.”

M. Galpin found it difficult to repress his impatience. He said,—

“Well, then, prove it. Refute the charges which have been brought against you, which overwhelm you, which induce me, the court, and everybody else, to consider you guilty. Speak, and explain your conduct.”

Jacques kept obstinately silent.

“Your resolution is fixed,” said the magistrate once more, “you refuse to say any thing?”

“I am innocent.”

M. Galpin saw clearly that it was useless to insist any longer.

“From this moment,” he said, “you are no longer in close confinement. You can receive the visits of your family in the prison parlor. The advocate whom you will choose will be admitted to your cell to consult with you.”

“At last!” exclaimed Jacques with explosive delight; and then he added,—

“Am I at liberty to write to M. de Chandore?”

“Yes,” replied M. Galpin, “and, if you choose to write at once, my clerk will be happy to carry your letter this evening to its destination.”

Jacques de Boiscoran availed himself on the spot of this permission; and he had done very soon, for the note which he wrote, and handed to M. Mechinet, contained only the few words,—

“I shall expect M. Magloire to-morrow morning at nine.

“J.”

Ever since the day on which they had come to the conclusion that a false step might have the most fatal consequences, Jacques de Boiscoran’s friends had abstained from doing anything. Besides, what would have been the use of any efforts? Dr. Seignebos’s request, though unsupported, had been at least partially granted; and the court had summoned a physician from Paris, a great authority on insanity, to determine Cocoleu’s mental condition. It was on a Saturday that Dr. Seignebos came triumphantly to announce the good news. It was the following Tuesday that he had to report his discomfiture. In a furious passion he said,—

“There are asses in Paris as well as elsewhere! Or, rather, in these days of trembling egotism and eager servility, an independent man is as difficult to find in Paris as in the provinces. I was looking for a savant who would be inaccessible to petty considerations; and they send me a trifling fellow, who does not dare to be disagreeable to the gentlemen of the bar. Ah, it was a cruel disappointment!”

And all the time worrying his spectacles, he went on,—

“I had been informed of the arrival of my learned brother; and I went to receive him myself at the railway station. The train comes in; and at once I make out my man in the crowd: a fine head, well set in grizzly hair, a noble eye, eloquent