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

“A few minutes later, and nothing was left of them but a few blackened fragments, which I crumbled in my hands, and scattered to the winds. Immovable, like a statue, the Countess Claudieuse had watched my operations.

“‘And that is all,’ she said, ‘that remains of five years of our life, of our love, and of your vows,—ashes.’

“I replied by a commonplace remark. I was in a hurry to be gone.

“She felt this, and cried with great vehemence,—

“‘Ah! I inspire you with horror.’

“‘We have just committed a marvellous imprudence,’ I said.

“‘Ah! what does it matter?’

“Then, in a hoarse voice, she added,—

“‘Happiness awaits you, and a new life full of intoxicating hopes: it is quite natural that you should tremble. I, whose life is ended, and who have nothing to look for,—I, in whom you have killed every hope,—I am not afraid.’

“I saw her anger rising within her, and said very quietly,—

“‘I hope you do not repent of your generosity, Genevieve.’

“‘Perhaps I do,’ she replied, in an accent which made me tremble. ‘How you must laugh at me! What a wretched thing a woman is who is abandoned, who resigns, and sheds tears!’

“Then she went on fiercely,—

“‘Confess that you have never loved me really!’

“‘Ah, you know very well the contrary!’

“‘Still you abandon me for another,—for that Dionysia!’

“‘You are married: you cannot be mine.’

“‘Then if I were free—if I had been a widow’—

“‘You would be my wife you know very well.’

“She raised her arms to heaven, like a drowning person; and, in a voice which I thought they could hear at the house, she cried,—

“‘His wife! If I were a widow, I would be his wife! O God! Luckily, that thought, that terrible thought, never occurred to me before.’”

All of a sudden, at these words, the eminent advocate of Sauveterre rose from his chair, and, placing himself before Jacques de Boiscoran, he asked, looking at him with one of those glances which seem to pierce our innermost heart,—

“And then?”

Jacques had to summon all the energy that was left him to be able to continue with a semblance of calmness, at least,—

“Then I tried every thing in the world to quiet the countess, to move her, and bring her back to the generous feelings of former days. I was so completely upset that I hardly knew what I was saying. I hated her bitterly, and still I could not help pitying her. I am a man; and there is no man living who would not feel deeply moved at seeing himself the object of such bitter regrets and such terrible despair. Besides, my happiness and Dionysia’s honor were at stake. How do I know what I said? I am not a hero of romance. No doubt I was mean. I humbled myself, I besought her, I told falsehoods, I vowed to her that it was my family, mainly, who made me marry. I hoped I should be able, by great kindness and caressing words, to soften the bitterness of the parting. She listened to me, remaining as impassive as a block of ice; and, when I paused, she said with a sinister laugh,—

“‘And you tell me all that! Your Dionysia! Ah! if I were a woman like other women, I would say nothing to-day, and, before the year was over, you would again be at my feet.’

“She must have been thinking of our meeting at the cross-roads. Or was this the last outburst of passion at the moment when the last ties were broken off? I was going to speak again; but she interrupted me bruskly, saying,—

“‘Oh, that is enough! Spare me, at least, the insult of your pity! I’ll see. I promise nothing. Good-by!’

“And she escaped toward the house, while I remained rooted to the spot, almost stupefied, and asking myself if she was not, perhaps at that moment, telling Count Claudieuse every thing. It was at that moment that I drew from my gun, almost mechanically, the burnt cartridge and put in a fresh one. Then, as nothing stirred, I went off with rapid strides.”

“What time was it?” asked M. Magloire.

“I could not tell you precisely. My state of mind was such, that I had lost all idea of time. I went back through the forest of Rochepommier.”

“And you saw nothing?”

“No.”

“Heard nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Still, from your statement, you could not have been far from Valpinson when the fire broke out.”

“That is true, and, in the open country, I should certainly have seen the fire; but I was in a dense wood: the trees cut off all view.”

“And these same trees prevented the sound of the two shots fired at Count Claudieuse from reaching your ear?”

“They might have helped to prevent it; but there was no need for that. I was walking against the wind, which was very high; and it is an established fact, that, under such circumstances, the sound of a gun is not heard beyond fifty yards.”

M. Magloire once more could hardly restrain his impatience; and, utterly unconscious that he was even harsher than the magistrate, he said,—

“And you think your statement explains every thing?”

“I believe that my statement, which is founded upon the most exact truth, explains the charges brought against me by M. Galpin. It explains how I tried to keep my visit to Valpinson secret; how I was met in going and in coming back, and at hours which correspond with the time of the fire. It explains, finally, how I came at first to deny. It explains how one of my cartridge-cases was found near the ruins, and why I had to wash my hands when I reached home.”

Nothing seemed to be able to shake the lawyer’s conviction. He asked,—

“And the day after, when they came to arrest you, what was your first impression?”

“I thought at once of Valpinson.”

“And when you were told that a crime had been committed?”

“I said to myself, ‘The countess wants to be a widow.’”

All of M. Magloire’s blood seemed to rise in his face. He cried,—

“Unhappy man! How can you dare accuse the Countess Claudieuse of such a crime?”

Indignation gave Jacques strength to reply,—