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

Oh, no! surely not. My mind is made up. I shall fight to the bitter end. To my last breath I shall defend, not my life, but my honor. Ah, if you but knew! But there are things which cannot be written, and which only a father can be told. I beseech you come to me, let me see you, let me hold your hand in mine. Do not refuse this last and greatest comfort to your unhappy son.”

The marquis had started up.

“Oh, yes, very unhappy indeed!” he cried.

And, bowing to his wife, he said,—

“I interrupted you. Now, pray tell me all.”

Maternal love conquered womanly resentment. Without a shadow of hesitation, and as if nothing had taken place, the marchioness gave her husband the whole of Jacques’s statement as he had made it to M. Magloire.

The marquis seemed to be amazed.

“That is unheard of!” he said.

And, when his wife had finished, he added,—

“That was the reason why Jacques was so very angry when you spoke of inviting the Countess Claudieuse, and why he told you, that, if he saw her enter at one door, he would walk out of the other. We did not understand his aversion.”

“Alas! it was not aversion. Jacques only obeyed at that time the cunning lessons given him by the countess.”

In less than one minute the most contradictory resolutions seemed to flit across the marquis’s face. He hesitated, and at last he said,—

“Whatever can be done to make up for my inaction, I will do. I will go to Sauveterre. Jacques must be saved. M. de Margeril is all-powerful. Go to him. I permit it. I beg you will do it.”

The eyes of the marchioness filled with tears, hot tears, the first she had shed since the beginning of this scene.

“Do you not see,” she asked, “that what you wish me to do is now impossible? Every thing, yes, every thing in the world but that. But Jacques and I—we are innocent. God will have pity on us. M. Folgat will save us.”

XIX.

M. Folgat was already at work. He had confidence in his cause, a firm conviction of the innocence of his client, a desire to solve the mystery, a love of battle, and an intense thirst for success: all these motives combined to stimulate the talents of the young advocate, and to increase his activity.

And, above all this, there was a mysterious and indefinable sentiment with which Dionysia had inspired him; for he had succumbed to her charms, like everybody else. It was not love, for he who says love says hope; and he knew perfectly well that altogether and forever Dionysia belonged to Jacques. It was a sweet and all-powerful sentiment, which made him wish to devote himself to her, and to count for something in her life and in her happiness.

It was for her sake that he had sacrificed all his business, and forgotten his clients, in order to stay at Sauveterre. It was for her sake, above all, that he wished to save Jacques.

He had no sooner arrived at the station, and left the Marchioness de Boiscoran in old Anthony’s care, than he jumped into a cab, and had himself driven to his house. He had sent a telegram the day before; and his servant was waiting for him. In less than no time he had changed his clothes. Immediately he went back to his carriage, and went in search of the man, who, he thought, was most likely to be able to fathom this mystery.

This was a certain Goudar, who was connected with the police department in some capacity or other, and at all events received an income large enough to make him very comfortable. He was one of those agents for every thing whom the police keep employed for specially delicate operations, which require both tact and keen scent, an intrepidity beyond all doubt, and imperturbable self-possession. M. Folgat had had opportunities of knowing and appreciating him in the famous case of the Mutual Discount Society.

He was instructed to track the cashier who had fled, having a deficit of several millions. Goudar had caught him in Canada, after pursuing him for three months all over America; but, on the day of his arrest, this cashier had in his pocket-book and his trunk only some forty thousand francs.

What had become of the millions?

When he was questioned, he said he had spent them. He had gambled in stocks, he had become unfortunate, etc.

Everybody believed him except Goudar.

Stimulated by the promise of a magnificent reward, he began his campaign once more; and, in less than six weeks, he had gotten hold of sixteen hundred thousand francs which the cashier had deposited in London with a woman of bad character.

The story is well known; but what is not known is the genius, the fertility of resources, and the ingenuity of expedients, which Goudar displayed in obtaining such a success. M. Folgat, however, was fully aware of it; for he had been the counsel of the stockholders of the Mutual Discount Society; and he had vowed, that, if ever the opportunity should come, he would employ this marvellously able man.

Goudar, who was married, and had a child, lived out of the world on the road to Versailles, not far from the fortifications. He occupied with his family a small house which he owned,—a veritable philosopher’s home, with a little garden in front, and a vast garden behind, in which he raised vegetables and admirable fruit, and where he kept all kinds of animals.

When M. Folgat stepped out of his carriage before this pleasant home, a young woman of twenty-five or twenty-six, of surpassing beauty, young and fresh, was playing in the front garden with a little girl of three or four years, all milk and roses.

“M. Goudar, madam?” asked M. Folgat, raising his hat.

The young woman blushed slightly, and answered modestly, but without embarrassment, and in a most pleasing voice,—

“My husband is in the garden; and you will find him, if you will walk down this path around the house.”

The young man followed the direction, and soon saw his man at a distance. His head covered with an old straw hat, without a coat, and in slippers, with a huge blue apron such as gardeners wear, Goudar had climbed up a ladder, and was busy dropping into a horsehair bag the magnificent Chasselas grapes of his trellises. When he heard the sand grate under the footsteps of the newcomer, he turned his head, and at once said,—

“Why, M. Folgat? Good morning, sir!”

The young advocate was not a little surprised to see himself recognized so instantaneously. He should certainly never have recognized the detective. It was more than three years since they had seen each other; and how often had they seen each other then? Twice, and not an hour each time.

It is true