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

If he had been less distressed, Jacques de Boiscoran would have seen how wisely he had acted in choosing for his defender the great advocate of Sauveterre. A stranger, M. Folgat, for instance, would have heard him silently, and would have seen in the revelation nothing but the fact without giving it a personal value. In M. Magloire, on the contrary, he saw what the whole country would feel. And M. Magloire, when he heard him declare that the Countess Claudieuse had been his mistress, looked indignant, and exclaimed,—

“That is impossible.”

At least Jacques was not surprised. He had been the first to say that they would refuse to believe him when he should speak; and this conviction had largely influenced him in keeping silence so long.

“It is impossible, I know,” he said; “and still it is so.”

“Give me proofs!” said M. Magloire.

“I have no proofs.”

The melancholy and sympathizing expression of the great lawyer changed instantly. He sternly glanced at the prisoner, and his eye spoke of amazement and indignation.

“There are things,” he said, “which it is rash to affirm when one is not able to support them with proof. Consider”—

“My situation forces me to tell all.”

“Why, then, did you wait so long?”

“I hoped I should be spared such a fearful extremity.”

“By whom?”

“By the countess.”

M. Magloire’s face became darker and darker.

“I am not often accused of partiality,” he said. “Count Claudieuse is, perhaps, the only enemy I have in this country; but he is a bitter, fierce enemy. To keep me out of the chamber, and to prevent my obtaining many votes, he stooped to acts unworthy of a gentleman. I do not like him. But in justice I must say that I look upon the countess as the loftiest, the purest, and noblest type of the woman, the wife, and the mother.”

A bitter smile played on Jacques’s lips.

“And still I have been her lover,” he said.

“When? How? The countess lived at Valpinson: you lived in Paris.”

“Yes; but every year the countess came and spent the month of September in Paris; and I came occasionally to Boiscoran.”

“It is very singular that such an intrigue should never have been suspected even.”

“We managed to take our precautions.”

“And no one ever suspected any thing?”

“No one.”

But Jacques was at last becoming impatient at the attitude assumed by M. Magloire. He forgot that he had foreseen all the suspicions to which he found now he was exposed.

“Why do you ask all these questions?” he said. “You do not believe me. Well, be it so! Let me at least try to convince you. Will you listen to me?”

M. Magloire drew up a chair, and sitting down, not as usually, but across the chair, and resting his arms on the back, he said,—

“I listen.”

Jacques de Boiscoran, who had been almost livid, became crimson with anger. His eyes flashed wrath. That he, he should be treated thus! Never had all the haughtiness of M. Galpin offended him half as much as this cool, disdainful condescension on the part of M. Magloire. It occurred to him to order him out of his room. But what then? He was condemned to drain the bitter cup to the very dregs: for he must save himself; he must get out of this abyss.

“You are cruel, Magloire,” he said in a voice of ill-suppressed indignation, “and you make me feel all the horrors of my situation to the full. Ah, do not apologize! It does not matter. Let me speak.”

He walked up and down a few times in his cell, passing his hand repeatedly over his brow, as if to recall his memory. Then he began, in a calmer tone of voice,—

“It was in the first days of the month of August, in 1866, and at Boiscoran, where I was on a visit to my uncle, that I saw the Countess Claudieuse for the first time. Count Claudieuse and my uncle were, at that time, on very bad terms with each other, thanks to that unlucky little stream which crosses our estates; and a common friend, M. de Besson, had undertaken to reconcile them at a dinner to which he had invited both. My uncle had taken me with him. The countess had come with her husband. I was just twenty years old; she was twenty-six. When I saw her, I was overcome. It seemed to me that I had never in all my life met a woman so perfectly beautiful and graceful; that I had never seen so charming a face, such beautiful eyes, and such a sweet smile.

“She did not seem to notice me. I did not speak to her; and still I felt within me a kind of presentiment that this woman would play a great, a fatal part in my life.

“This impression was so strong, that, as we left the house, I could not keep from mentioning it to my uncle. He only laughed, and said that I was a fool, and that, if my existence should ever be troubled by a woman, it would certainly not be by the Countess Claudieuse.

“He was apparently right. It was hard to imagine that any thing should ever again bring me in contact with the countess. M. de Besson’s attempt at reconciliation had utterly failed; the countess lived at Valpinson; and I went back to Paris.

“Still I was unable to shake off the impression; and the memory of the dinner at M. de Besson’s house was still in my mind, when a month later, at a party at my mother’s brother’s, M. de Chalusse, I thought I recognized the Countess Claudieuse. It was she. I bowed, and, seeing that she recognized me, I went up to her, trembling, and she allowed me to sit down by her.

“She told me then that she had come up to Paris for a month, as she did every year, and that she was staying at her father’s, the Marquis de Tassar. She had come to this party much against her inclination, as she disliked going out. She did not dance; and thus I talked to her till the moment when she left.

“I was madly in love when we parted; and still I made no effort to see her again. It was mere chance again which brought us together.

“One day I had business at Melun, and, reaching the station rather late, I had but just time to jump into the nearest car. In the compartment was the countess. She told me—and that is all I ever recollected of the conversation—that she was on her way to Fontainebleau to see a friend, with whom she spent every Tuesday and Saturday. Usually she took the nine o’clock train.