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

lips. ‘There he is!’ I say to myself. ‘Hm!’ He looked rather dandyish, to be sure, a lot of decorations in his buttonhole, whiskers trimmed as carefully as the box in my garden, and, instead of honest spectacles, a pair of eye-glasses. But no man is perfect. I go up to him, I give him my name, we shake hands, I ask him to breakfast, he accepts; and here we are at table, he doing justice to my Bordeaux, and I explaining to him the case systematically. When we have done, he wishes to see Cocoleu. We go to the hospital; and there, after merely glancing at the creature, he says, ‘That man is simply the most complete idiot I have ever seen in my life!’ I was a little taken aback, and tried to explain the matter to him; but he refuses to listen to me. I beseech him to see Cocoleu once more: he laughs at me. I feel hurt, and ask him how he explains the evidence which this idiot gave on the night of the fire. He laughs again, and replies that he does not explain it. I begin to discuss the question; and he marches off to court. And do you know where he dined that day? At the hotel with my other learned brother of the commission; and there they drew up a report which makes of Cocoleu the most perfect imbecile that was ever dreamed of.”

He was walking up and down in the room with long strides, and, unwilling to listen, he went on,—

“But Master Galpin need not think of crowing over us yet. The end is not yet; they will not get rid of Dr. Seignebos so easily. I have said that Cocoleu was a wretched cheat, a miserable impostor, a false witness, and I shall prove it. Boiscoran can count upon me.”

He broke off here, and, placing himself before M. Folgat, he added,—

“And I say M. de Boiscoran may count upon me, because I have my reasons. I have formed very singular suspicions, sir,—very singular.”

M. Folgat, Dionysia, and the marchioness urged him to explain; but he declared that the moment had not come yet, that he was not perfectly sure yet.

And he left again, vowing that he was overworked, that he had forsaken his patients for forty-eight hours, and that the Countess Claudieuse was waiting for him, as her husband was getting worse and worse.

“What can the old man suspect?” Grandpapa Chandore asked again, an hour after the doctor had left.

M. Folgat might have replied that these probable suspicions were no doubt his own suspicions, only better founded, and more fully developed. But why should he say so, since all inquiry was prohibited, and a single imprudent word might ruin every thing? Why, also, should he excite new hopes, when they must needs wait patiently till it should seem good to M. Galpin to make an end to this melancholy suspense?

They heard very little nowadays of Jacques de Boiscoran. The examinations took place only at long intervals; and it was sometimes four or five days before Mechinet brought another letter.

“This is intolerable agony,” repeated the marchioness over and over again.

The end was, however, approaching.

Dionysia was alone one afternoon in the sitting-room, when she thought she heard the clerk’s voice in the hall. She went out at once and found him there.

“Ah!” she cried, “the investigation is ended!” For she knew very well that nothing less would have emboldened Mechinet to show himself openly at their house.

“Yes, indeed, madam!” replied the good man; “and upon M. Galpin’s own order I bring you this letter from M. de Boiscoran.”

She took it, read it at a single glance, and forgetting every thing, half delirious with joy, she ran to her grandfather and M. Folgat, calling upon a servant at the same time to run and fetch M. Magloire.

In less than an hour, the eminent advocate of Sauveterre arrived; and when Jacques’s letter had been handed to him, he said with some embarrassment,—

“I have promised M. de Boiscoran my assistance, and he shall certainly have it. I shall be at the prison to-morrow morning as soon as the doors open, and I will tell you the result of our interview.”

He would say nothing more. It was very evident that he did not believe in the innocence of his client, and, as soon as he had left, M. de Chandore exclaimed,—

“Jacques is mad to intrust his defence to a man who doubts him.”

“M. Magloire is an honorable man, papa,” said Dionysia; “and, if he thought he could compromise Jacques, he would resign.”

Yes, indeed, M. Magloire was an honorable man, and quite accessible to tender sentiments; for he felt very reluctant to go and see the prisoner, charged as he was with an odious crime, and, as he thought, justly charged,—a man who had been his friend, and whom, in spite of all, he could not help loving still.

He could not sleep for it that night; and noticed his anxious air as he crossed the street next morning on his way to the jail. Blangin the keeper was on the lookout for him, and cried,—

“Ah, come quick, sir! The accused is devoured with impatience.”

Slowly, and his heart beating furiously, the famous advocate went up the narrow stairs. He crossed the long passage; Blangin opened a door; he was in Jacques de Boiscoran’s cell.

“At last you are coming,” exclaimed the unhappy young man, throwing himself on the lawyer’s neck. “At last I see an honest face, and hold a trusty hand. Ah! I have suffered cruelly, so cruelly, that I am surprised my mind has not given way. But now you are here, you are by my side, I am safe.”

The lawyer could not speak. He was terrified by the havoc which grief had made of the noble and intelligent face of his friend. He was shocked at the distortion of his features, the unnatural brilliancy of his eyes, and the convulsive laugh on his lips.

“Poor man!” he murmured at last.

Jacques misunderstood him: he stepped back, as white as the walls of his cell.

“You do not think me guilty?” he exclaimed.

An inexpressibly sad expression convulsed his features.

“To be sure,” he went on with his terrible convulsive laughter, “the charges must be overwhelming indeed, if they have convinced my best friends. Alas! why did I refuse to speak that first day? My honor!—what a phantom! And still, victimized as I am by an infamous conspiracy, I should still refuse to speak, if my life alone were at stake. But my honor is at stake. Dionysia’s honor, the honor of the Boiscorans. I shall speak. You, M. Magloire, shall know the truth, you shall see my innocence in a word.”

And, seizing M. Magloire’s hand, he pressed it almost painfully, as he added in a hoarse voice,—

“One word will explain the whole thing to you: I was the lover of the Countess Claudieuse!”

XIII.