Within an Inch of His Life by Émile Gaboriau (page 3)

while the four others clung to her dress.

All these misfortunes were traced back to Jacques, who was loaded with curses; and the people now thought of receiving his mother, the marchioness, with fierce hootings.

“There she is, there she is!” they said in the crowd, when she appeared in the station, leaning upon M. Folgat’s arm.

But they did not say another word, so great was their surprise at her appearance. Immediately two parties were formed. “She puts a bold face on it,” said some; while others declared, “She is quite sure of her son’s innocence.”

At all events, she had presence of mind enough to see what an impression she produced, and how well she had done to follow M. Folgat’s advice. It gave her additional strength. As she distinguished in the crowd some people whom she knew, she went up to them, and, smiling, said,–

“Well, you know what has happened to us. It is unheard of! Here is the liberty of a man like my son at the mercy of the first foolish notion that enters the head of a magistrate. I heard the news yesterday by telegram, and came down at once with this gentleman, a friend of ours, and one of the first lawyers of Paris.”

M. Folgat looked embarrassed: he would have liked more considerate words. Still he could not help supporting the marchioness in what she had said.

“These gentlemen of the court,” he said in measured tones, “will perhaps be sorry for what they have done.”

Fortunately a young man, whose whole livery consisted in a gold-laced cap, came up to them at this moment.

“M. de Chandore’s carriage is here,” he said.

“Very well,” replied the marchioness.

And bowing to the good people of Sauveterre, who were quite dumfounded by her assurance, she said,–

“Pardon me if I leave you so soon; but M. de Chandore expects us. I shall, however, be happy to call upon you soon, on my son’s arm.”

The house of the Chandore family stands on the other side of the New- Market Place, at the very top of the street, which is hardly more than a line of steps, which the mayor persistently calls upon the municipal council to grade, and which the latter as persistently refuse to improve. The building is quite new, massive but ugly, and has at the side a pretentious little tower with a peaked roof, which Dr. Seignebos calls a perpetual menace of the feudal system.

It is true the Chandores once upon a time were great feudal lords, and for a long time exhibited a profound contempt for all who could not boast of noble ancestors and a deep hatred of revolutionary ideas. But if they had ever been formidable, they had long since ceased to be so. Of the whole great family,–one of the most numerous and most powerful of the province,–only one member survived, the Baron de Chandore, and a girl, his granddaughter, betrothed to Jacques de Boiscoran. Dionysia was an orphan. She was barely three years old, when within five months, she lost her father, who fell in a duel, and her mother, who had not the strength to survive the man whom she had loved. This was certainly for the child a terrible misfortune; but she was not left uncared for nor unloved. Her grandfather bestowed all his affections upon her; and the two sisters of her mother, the Misses Lavarande, then already no longer young, determined never to marry, so as to devote themselves exclusively to their niece. From that day the two good ladies had wished to live in the baron’s house; but from the beginning he had utterly refused to listen to their propositions, asserting that he was perfectly able himself to watch over the child, and wanted to have her all to himself. All he would grant was, that the ladies might spend the day with Dionysia whenever they chose.

Hence arose a certain rivalry between the aunts and the grandfather, which led both parties to most amazing exaggerations. Each one did what could be done to engage the affections of the little girl; each one was willing to pay any price for the most trifling caress. At five years Dionysia had every toy that had ever been invented. At ten she was dressed like the first lady of the land, and had jewelry in abundance.

The grandfather, in the meantime, had been metamorphosed from head to foot. Rough, rigid, and severe, he had suddenly become a “love of a father.” The fierce look had vanished from his eyes, the scorn from his lips; and both had given way to soft glances and smooth words. He was seen daily trotting through the streets, and going from shop to shop on errands for his grandchild. He invited her little friends, arranged picnics for her, helped her drive her hoops, and if needs be, led in a cotillion.

If Dionysia looked displeased, he trembled. If she coughed, he turned pale. Once she was sick: she had the measles. He staid up for twelve nights in succession, and sent to Paris for doctors, who laughed in his face.

And yet the two old ladies found means to exceed his folly.

If Dionysia learned any thing at all, it was only because she herself insisted upon it: otherwise the writing-master and the music-master would have been sent away at the slightest sign of weariness.

Sauveterre saw it, and shrugged its shoulders.

“What a wretched education!” the ladies said. “Such weakness is absolutely unheard of. They tender the child a sorry service.”

There was no doubt that such almost incredible spoiling, such blind devotion, and perpetual worship, came very near making of Dionysia the most disagreeable little person that ever lived. But fortunately she had one of those happy dispositions which cannot be spoiled; and besides, she was perhaps saved from the danger by its very excess. As she grew older she would say with a laugh,–

“Grandpapa Chandore, my aunts Lavarande, and I, we do just what we choose.”

That was only a joke. Never did a young girl repay such sweet affection with rarer and nobler qualities.

She was thus leading a happy life, free from all care, and was just seventeen years old, when the great event of her life took place. M. de Chandore one morning met Jacques de Boiscoran, whose uncle had been a friend of his, and invited him to dinner. Jacques accepted the invitation, and came. Dionysia saw him, and loved him.

Now, for the first time in her life, she had a secret unknown to Grandpapa Chandore and to her aunts; and for two years the birds and the flowers were the only confidants of this love of hers, which grew up in her heart, sweet like a dream, idealized by absence, and fed by memory.

For Jacques’s eyes remained blind for two years.

But the day on which they were opened he felt that his fate was sealed. Nor did he hesitate a moment; and in less than a month after that, the Marquis de Boiscoran came down to Sauveterre, and in all form asked Dionysia’s hand for his son.

Ah! that was a heavy blow for Grandpapa Chandore.

He had, of course, often thought of the future marriage of his grandchild; he had even at times spoken of it, and told her that he was getting old, and should feel very much relieved when he should have found her a good husband. But he talked of it as a distant thing, very much as we speak of dying. M. de Boiscoran brought his true feelings out. He shuddered at the idea of giving up Dionysia, of seeing her prefer another man to himself, and of loving her children best of all. He was quite inclined to throw the ambassador out of the window.

Still he checked his feelings, and replied that he could give no reply till he had consulted his granddaughter.

Poor grandpapa! At the very first words he uttered, she exclaimed,–

“Oh, I am so happy! But I expected it.”

M. de Chandore bent his head to conceal a tear which burned in his eyes. Then he said very low,–

“Then the thing is settled.”

At once, rather comforted by the joy that was sparkling in his grandchild’s eyes, he began reproaching himself for his selfishness, and for being unhappy, when his Dionysia seemed to be so happy. Jacques had, of course, been allowed to visit the house as a lover; and the very day before the fire at Valpinson, after having long and carefully counted the days absolutely required for all the purchases of the trousseau, and all the formalities of the event, the wedding- day had been finally fixed.

Thus Dionysia was struck down in the very height of her happiness, when she heard, at the same time, of the terrible charges brought against M. de Boiscoran, and of his arrest.

At first, thunderstruck, she had lain nearly ten minutes unconscious in the arms of her aunts, who, like the grandfather, were themselves utterly overcome with terror. But, as soon as she came to, she exclaimed,–

“Am I mad to give way thus? Is it not evident that he is innocent?”

Then she had sent her telegram to the marquis, knowing well, that, before taking any measures, it was all important to come to an understanding with Jacques’s family. Then she had begged to be left alone; and she had spent the night in counting the minutes that must pass till the hour came when the train from Paris would bring her help.

At eight o’clock she had come down to give orders herself that a carriage should be sent to the station for the marchioness, adding that they must drive back as fast as they could. Then she had gone into the sitting-room to join her grandfather and her aunts. They talked to her; but her thoughts were elsewhere.

At last a carriage was heard coming up rapidly, and stopping before the house. She got up, rushed into the hall, and cried,–

“Here is Jacques’s mother!”

III.

We cannot do violence to our natural feelings without paying for it. The marchioness had nearly fainted when she could at last take refuge in the carriage: she was utterly overcome by the great effort she had made to present to the curious people of Sauveterre a smiling face and calm features.

“What a horrible comedy!” she murmured, as she sank back on the cushions.

“Admit, at least, madam,” said the lawyer, “that it was necessary. You have won over, perhaps, a hundred persons to your son’s side.”

She made no reply. Her tears stifled her. What would she not have given for a few moments’ solitude, to give way to all the grief of her heart, to all the anxiety of a mother! The time till she reached the house seemed to her an eternity; and, although the horse was driven at a furious rate, she felt as if they were making no progress. At last the carriage stopped.

The little servant had jumped down, and opened the door, saying,–

“Here we are.”

The marchioness got out with M. Folgat’s assistance; and her foot was hardly on the ground, when the house-door opened, and Dionysia threw herself into her arms, too deeply moved to speak. At last she broke forth,–

“Oh, my mother, my mother! what a terrible misfortune!”

In the passage M. de Chandore was coming forward. He had not been able to follow his granddaughter’s rapid steps.

“Let us go in,” he said to the two ladies: “don’t stand there!”

For at all the windows curious eyes were peeping through the blinds.

He drew them into the sitting-room. Poor M. Folgat was sorely embarrassed what to do with himself. No one seemed to be aware of his existence. He followed them, however. He entered the room, and standing by the door, sharing the general excitement, he was watching by turns, Dionysia, M. de Chandore, and the two spinsters.

Dionysia was then twenty years old. It could not be said that she was uncommonly beautiful; but no one could ever forget her again who had once seen her. Small in form, she was grace personified; and all her movements betrayed a rare and exquisite perfection. Her black hair fell in marvellous masses over her head, and contrasted strangely with her blue eyes and her fair complexion. Her skin was of dazzling whiteness. Every thing in her features spoke of excessive timidity. And yet, from certain movements of her lips and her eyebrows, one might have suspected no lack of energy.

Grandpapa Chandore looked unusually tall by her side. His massive frame was imposing. He did not show his seventy-two years, but was as straight as ever, and seemed to be able to defy all the storms of life. What struck strangers most, perhaps, was his dark-red complexion, which gave him the appearance of an Indian chieftain, while his white beard and hair brought the crimson color still more prominently out. In spite of his herculean frame and his strange complexion, his face bore the expression of almost child-like goodness. But the first glance at his eyes proved that the gentle smile on his lips was not to be taken alone. There were flashes in his gray eyes which made people aware that a man who should dare, for instance, to offend Dionysia, would have to pay for it pretty dearly.

As to the two aunts, they were as tall and thin as a couple of willow- rods, pale, discreet, ultra-aristocratic in their reserve and their coldness; but they bore in their faces an expression of happy peace and sentimental tenderness, such as is often seen in old maids whose temper has not been soured by celibacy. They dressed absolutely alike, as they had done now for forty years, preferring neutral colors and modest fashions, such as suited their simple taste.

They were crying bitterly at that moment; and M. Folgat felt instinctively that there was no sacrifice of which they were not capable for their beloved niece’s sake.

“Poor Dionysia!” they whispered.

The girl heard them, however; and, drawing herself up, she said,–

“But we are behaving shamefully. What would Jacques say, if he could see us from his prison! Why should we be so sad? Is he not innocent?”

Her eyes shone with unusual brilliancy: her voice had a ring which moved Manuel Folgat deeply.

“I can at least, in justice to myself,” she went on saying, “assure you that I have never doubted him for a moment. And how should I ever have dared to doubt? The very night on which the fire broke out, Jacques wrote me a letter of four pages, which he sent me by one of his tenants, and which reached me at nine o’clock. I showed it to grandpapa. He read it, and then he said I was a thousand times right, because a man who had been meditating such a crime could never have written that letter.”

“I said so, and I still think so,” added M. de Chandore; “and every sensible man will think so too; but”–

His granddaughter did not let him finish.

“It is evident therefore, that Jacques is the victim of an abominable intrigue; and we must unravel it. We have cried enough: now let us act!”

Then, turning to the marchioness, she said,–

“And my dear mother, I sent for you, because we want you to help us in this great work.”

“And here I am,” replied the old lady, “not less certain of my son’s innocence than you are.”

Evidently M. de Chandore had been hoping for something more; for he interrupted her, asking,–

“And the marquis?”

“My husband remained in Paris.”

The old gentleman’s face assumed a curious expression.

“Ah, that is just like him,” he said. “Nothing can move him. His only son is wickedly accused of a crime, arrested, thrown into prison. They write to him; they hope he will come at once. By no means. Let his son get out of trouble as he can. He has his /faiences/ to attend to. Oh, if I had a son!”

“My husband,” pleaded the marchioness, “thinks he can be more useful to Jacques in Paris than here. There will be much to be done there.”

“Have we not the railway?”

“Moreover,” she went on, “he intrusted me to this gentleman.” She pointed out M. Folgat.

“M. Manuel Folgat, who has promised us the assistance of his experience, his talents, and his devotion.”

When thus formally introduced, M. Folgat bowed, and said,–

“I am all hope. But I think with Miss Chandore, that we must go to work without losing a second. Before I can decide, however, upon what is to be done, I must know all the facts.”

“Unfortunately we know nothing,” replied M. de Chandore,–“nothing, except that Jacques is kept in close confinement.”

“Well, then, we must try to find out. You know, no doubt, all the law officers of Sauveterre?”

“Very few. I know the commonwealth attorney.”

“And the magistrate before whom the matter has been brought.”

The older of the two Misses Lavarande rose, and exclaimed,–

“That man, M. Galpin, is a monster of hypocrisy and ingratitude. He called himself Jacques’s friend; and Jacques liked him well enough to induce us, my sister and myself, to give our consent to a marriage between him and one of our cousins, a Lavarande. Poor child. When she learned the sad truth, she cried, ‘Great God! God be blessed that I escaped the disgrace of becoming the wife of such a man!’ “

“Yes,” added the other old lady, “if all Sauveterre thinks Jacques guilty, let them also say, ‘His own friend has become his judge.’ “

M. Folgat shook his head, and said,–

“I must have more minute information. The marquis mentioned to me a M. Seneschal, mayor of Sauveterre.”

M. de Chandore looked at once for his hat, and said,–

“To be sure! He is a friend of ours; and, if any one is well informed, he is. Let us go to him. Come.”

M. Seneschal was indeed a friend of the Chandores, the Lavarandes, and also of the Boiscorans. Although he was a lawyer he had become attached to the people whose confidential adviser he had been for more than twenty years. Even after having retired from business, M. Seneschal had still retained the full confidence of his former clients. They never decided on any grave question, without consulting him first. His successor did the business for them; but M. Seneschal directed what was to be done.

Nor was the assistance all on one side. The example of great people like M. de Chandore and Jacques’s uncle had brought many a peasant on business into M. Seneschal’s office; and when he was, at a later period of his life, attacked by the fever of political ambition, and offered to “sacrifice himself for his country” by becoming mayor of Sauveterre, and a member of the general council, their support had been of great service to him.

Hence he was well-nigh overcome when he returned, on that fatal morning, to Sauveterre. He looked so pale and undone, that his wife was seriously troubled.

“Great God, Augustus! What has happened?” she asked.

“Something terrible has happened,” he replied in so tragic a manner, that his wife began to tremble.

To be sure, Mrs. Seneschal trembled very easily. She was a woman of forty-five or fifty years, very dark, short, and fat, trying hard to breathe in the corsets which were specially made for her by the Misses Mechinet, the clerk’s sisters. When she was young, she had been rather pretty: now she still kept the red cheeks of her younger days, a forest of jet black hair, and excellent teeth. But she was not happy. Her life had been spent in wishing for children, and she had none.

She consoled herself, it is true, by constantly referring to all the most delicate details on the subject, mentioning not to her intimate friends only, but to any one who would listen, her constant disappointments, the physicians she had consulted, the pilgrimages she had undertaken, and the quantities of fish she had eaten, although she abominated fish. All had been in vain, and as her hopes fled with her years, she had become resigned, and indulged now in a kind of romantic sentimentality, which she carefully kept alive by reading novels and poems without end. She had a tear ready for every unfortunate being, and some words of comfort for every grief. Her charity was well known. Never had a poor woman with children appealed to her in vain. In spite of all that, she was not easily taken in. She managed her household with her hand as well as with her eye; and no one surpassed her in the extent of her washings, or the excellence of her dinners.

She was quite ready, therefore, to sigh and to sob when her husband told her what had happened during the night. When he had ended, she said,–

“That poor Dionysia is capable of dying of it. In your place, I would go at once to M. de Chandore, and inform him in the most cautious manner of what has happened.”

“I shall take good care not to do so,” replied M. Seneschal; “and I tell you expressly not to go there yourself.”

For he was by no means a philosopher; and, if he had been his own master, he would have taken the first train, and gone off a hundred miles, so as not to see the grief of the Misses Lavarande and Grandpapa Chandore. He was exceedingly fond of Dionysia: he had been hard at work for years to settle and to add to her fortune, as if she had been his own daughter, and now to witness her grief! He shuddered at the idea. Besides, he really did not know what to believe, and influenced by M. Galpin’s assurance, misled by public opinion, he had come to ask himself if Jacques might not, after all, have committed the crimes with which he was charged.

Fortunately his duties were on that day so numerous and so troublesome, that he had no time to think. He had to provide for the recovery and the transportation of the remains of the two unfortunate victims of the fire; he had to receive the mother of one, and the widow and children of the other, and to listen to their complaints, and try to console them by promising the former a small pension, and the latter some help in the education of their children. Then he had to give directions to have the wounded men brought home; and, after that, he had gone out in search of a house for Count Claudieuse and his wife, which had given him much trouble. Finally, a large part of the afternoon had been taken up by an angry discussion with Dr. Seignebos. The doctor, in the name of outraged society, as he called it, and in the name of justice and humanity, demanded the immediate arrest of Cocoleu, that wretch whose unconscious statement formed the basis of the accusation. He demanded with a furious oath that the epileptic idiot should be sent to the hospital, and kept there so as to be professionally examined by experts. The mayor had for some time refused to grant the request, which seemed to him unreasonable; but he doctor had talked so loud and insisted so strongly, that at last he had sent two gendarmes to Brechy with orders to bring back Cocoleu.

They had returned several hours later with empty hands. The idiot had disappeared; and no one in the whole district had been able to give any information as to this whereabouts.

“And you think that is natural?” exclaimed Dr. Seignebos, whose eyes were glaring at the mayor from under his spectacles. “To me that looks like an absolute proof that a plot has been hatched to ruin M. de Boiscoran.”

“But can’t you be quiet?” M. Seneschal said angrily. “Do you think Cocoleu is lost? He will turn up again.”

The doctor had left him without insisting any longer; but before going home, he had dropped in at his club, and there, in the presence of twenty people he had declared that he had positive proof of a plot formed against M. de Boiscoran, whom the Monarchists had never forgiven for having left them; and that the Jesuits were certainly mixed up with the business.

This interference was more injurious than useful to Jacques; and the consequences were soon seen. That same evening, when M. Galpin crossed the New-Market Place, he was wantonly insulted. Very naturally he went, almost in a fury, to call upon the mayor, to hold him responsible for this insult offered to Justice in his person, and asking for energetic punishment. M. Seneschal promised to take the proper measures, and went to the commonwealth attorney to act in concert with him. There he learned what had happened at Boiscoran, and the terrible result of the examination.

So he had come home, quite sorrowful, distressed at Jacques’s situation, and very much disturbed by the political aspect which the matter was beginning to wear. He had spent a bad night, and in the morning had displayed such fearful temper, that his wife had hardly dared to say a word to him. But even that was not all. At two o’clock precisely, the funeral of Bolton and Guillebault was to take place; and he had promised Capt. Parenteau that he would be present in his official costume, and accompanied by the whole municipal council. He had already given orders to have his uniform gotten ready, when the servant announced visitors,–M. de Chandore and friend.

“That was all that was wanting!” he exclaimed

But, thinking it over, he added,–

“Well, it had to come sooner r later. Show them in!”

M. Seneschal was too good to be so troubled in advance, and to prepare himself for a heart-rending scene. He was amazed at the easy, almost cheerful manner with which M. de Chandore presented to him his companion.

“M. Manuel Folgat, my dear Seneschal, a famous lawyer from Paris, who has been kind enough to come down with the Marchioness de Boiscoran.”

“I am a stranger here, M. Seneschal,” said Folgat: “I do not know the manner of thinking, the customs, the interests, the prejudices, of this country; in fact, I am totally ignorant, and I know I would commit many a grievous blunder, unless I could secure the assistance of an able and experienced counsellor. M. de Boiscoran and M. de Chandore have both encouraged me to hope that I might find such a man in you.”

“Certainly, sir, and with all my heart,” replied M. Seneschal, bowing politely, and evidently flattered by this deference on the part of a great Paris lawyer.

He had offered his guests seats. He had sat down himself, and resting his elbow on the arm of his big office-chair, he rubbed his clean- shaven chin with his hand.

“This is a very serious matter, gentlemen,” he said at last.

“A criminal charge is always serious,” replied M. Folgat.

“Upon my word,” cried M. de Chandore, “you are not in doubt about Jacques’s innocence?”

M. Seneschal did not say, No. He was silent, thinking of the wise remarks made by his wife the evening before.

“How can we know,” he began at last, “what may be going on in young brains of twenty-five when they are set on fire by the remembrance of certain insults! Wrath is a dangerous counsellor.”

Grandpapa Chandore refused to hear any more.

“What! do you talk to me of wrath?” he broke in; “and what do you see of wrath in this Valpinson affair? I see nothing in it, for my part, but the very meanest crime, long prepared and coolly carried out.”

The mayor very seriously shook his head, and said,–

“You do not know all that has happened.”

“Sir,” added M. Folgat, “it is precisely for the purpose of hearing what has happened that we come to you.”

“Very well,” said M. Seneschal.

Thereupon he went to work to describe the events which he had witnessed at Valpinson, and those, which, as he had learned from the commonwealth attorney, had taken place at Boiscoran; and this he did with all the lucidity of an experienced old lawyer who is accustomed to unravel the mysteries of complicated suits. He wound up by saying,–

“Finally, do you know what Daubigeon said to me, whose evidence you will certainly know how to appreciate? He said in so many words, ‘Galpin could not but order the arrest of M. de Boiscoran. Is he guilty? I do not know what to think of it. The accusation is overwhelming. He swears by all the gods that he is innocent; but he will not tell how he spent the night.’ “

M. de Chandore, in spite of his vigor, was near fainting, although his face remained as crimson as ever. Nothing on earth could make him turn pale.

“Great God!” he murmured, “what will Dionysia say?”

Then, turning to M. Folgat, he said aloud,–

“And yet Jacques had something in his mind for that evening.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am sure of it. But for that, he would certainly have come to the house, as he has done every evening for a month. Besides, he said so himself in the letter which he sent Dionysia by one of his tenants, and which she mentioned to you. He wrote, ‘I curse from the bottom of my heart the business which prevents me from spending the evening with you; but I cannot possibly defer it any longer. To-morrow!’ “

“You see,” said M. Seneschal.

“The letter is of such a nature,” continued the old gentleman, “that I repeat, No man who premeditated such a hideous crime could possibly have written it. Nevertheless, I confess to you, that, when I heard the fatal news, this very allusion to some pressing business impressed me painfully.”

But the young lawyer seemed to be far from being convinced.

“It is evident,” he said, “that M. de Boiscoran will on no account let it be known where he went.”

“He told a falsehood, sir,” insisted M. Seneschal. “He commenced by denying that he had gone the way on which the witnesses met him.”

“Very naturally, since he desires to keep the place unknown to which he went.”

“He did not say any more when he was told that he was under arrest.”

“Because he hopes he will get out of this trouble without betraying his secret.”

“If that were so, it would be very strange.”

“Stranger things than that have happened.”

“To allow himself to be accused of incendiarism and murder when he is innocent!”

“To be innocent, and to allow one’s self to be condemned, is still stranger; and yet there are instances”–

The young lawyer spoke in that short, imperious tone which is, so to say, the privilege of his profession, and with such an accent of assurance, that M. de Chandore felt his hopes revive. M. Seneschal was sorely troubled.

“And what do you think, sir?” he asked.

“That M. de Boiscoran must be innocent,” replied the young advocate. And, without leaving time for objections, he continued,–

“That is the opinion of a man who is not influenced by any consideration. I come here without any preconceived notions. I do not know Count Claudieuse any more than M. de Boiscoran. A crime has been committed: I am told the circumstances; and I at once come to the conclusion that the reasons which led to the arrest of the accused would lead me to set him at liberty.”

“Oh!”

“Let me explain. If M. de Boiscoran is guilty, he has shown, in the way in which he received M. Galpin at the house, a perfectly unheard- of self-control, and a matchless genius for comedy. Therefore, if he is guilty, he is immensely clever”–

“But.”

“Allow me to finish. If he is guilty, he has in the examination shown a marvellous want of self-control, and, to be brief, a nameless stupidity: therefore, if he is guilty, he is immensely stupid”–

“But.”

“Allow me to finish. Can one and the same person be at once so unusually clever and so unusually stupid? Judge yourself. But again: if M. de Boiscoran is guilty, he ought to be sent to the insane asylum, and not to prison; for any one else but a madman would have poured out the dirty water in which he had washed his blackened hands, and would have buried anywhere that famous breech-loader, of which the prosecution makes such good use.”

“Jacques is safe!” exclaimed M. de Chandore.

M. Seneschal was not so easily won over.

“That is specious pleading,” he said. “Unfortunately, we want something more than a logic conclusion to meet a jury with an abundance of witnesses on the other side.”

“We will find more on our side.”

“What do you propose to do?”

“I do not know. I have just told you my first impression. Now I must study the case, and examine the witnesses, beginning with old Anthony.”

M. de Chandore had risen. He said,–

“We can reach Boiscoran in an hour. Shall I send for my carriage?”

“As quickly as possible,” replied the young lawyer.

M. de Chandore’s servant was back in a quarter of an hour, and announced that the carriage was at the door. M. de Chandore and M. Folgat took their seats; and, while they were getting in, the mayor warned the young Paris lawyer,–

“Above all, be prudent and circumspect. The public mind is already but too much inflamed. Politics are mixed up with the case. I am afraid of some disturbance at the burial of the firemen; and they bring me word that Dr. Seignebos wants to make a speech at the graveyard. Good-by and good luck!”

The driver whipped the horse, and, as the carriage was going down through the suburbs, M. de Chandore said,–

“I cannot understand why Anthony did not come to me immediately after his master had been arrested. What can have happened to him?”

IV.

M. Seneschal’s horse was perhaps one of the very best in the whole province; but M. de Chandore’s was still better. In less than fifty minutes they had driven the whole distance to Boiscoran; and during this time M. de Chandore and M. Folgat had not exchanged fifty words.

When they reached Boiscoran, the courtyard was silent and deserted. Doors and windows were hermetically closed. On the steps of the porch sat a stout young peasant, who, at the sight of the newcomers, rose, and carried his hand to his cap.

“Where is Anthony?” asked M. de Chandore.

“Up stairs, sir.”

The old gentleman tried to open the door: it resisted.

“O sir! Anthony has barricaded the door from the inside.”

“A curious idea,” said M. de Chandore, knocking with the butt-end of his whip.

He was knocking fiercer and fiercer, when at last Anthony’s voice was heard from within,–

“Who is there?”

“It is I, Baron Chandore.”

The bars were removed instantly, and the old valet showed himself in the door. He looked pale and undone. The disordered condition of his beard, his hair, and his dress, showed that he had not been to bed. And this disorder was full of meaning in a man who ordinarily prided himself upon appearing always in the dress of an English gentleman.

M. de Chandore was so struck by this, that he asked, first of all,–

“What is the matter with you, my good Anthony?”

Instead of replying, Anthony drew the baron and his companion inside; and, when he had fastened the door again, he crossed his arms, and said,–

“The matter is–well, I am afraid.”

The old gentleman and the lawyer looked at each other. They evidently both thought the poor man had lost his mind. Anthony saw it, and said quickly,–

“No, I am not mad, although, certainly, there are things passing here which could make one doubtful of one’s own senses. If I am afraid, it is for good reasons.”

“You do not doubt your master?” asked M. Folgat.

The servant cast such fierce, threatening glances at the lawyer, that M. de Chandore hastened to interfere.

“My dear Anthony,” he said, “this gentleman is a friend of mine, a lawyer, who has come down from Paris with the marchioness to defend Jacques. You need not mistrust him, nay, more than that, you must tell him all you know, even if”–

The trusty old servant’s face brightened up, and he exclaimed,–

“Ah! If the gentleman is a lawyer. Welcome, sir. Now I can say all that weighs on my heart. No, most assuredly I do not think Master Jacques guilty. It is impossible he should be so: it is absurd to think of it. But what I believe, what I am sure of, is this,–there is a plot to charge him with all the horrors of Valpinson.”

“A plot?” broke in M. Folgat, “whose? how? and what for?”

“Ah! that is more than I know. But I am not mistaken; and you would think so too, if you had been present at the examination, as I was. It was fearful, gentlemen, it was unbearable, so that even I was stupefied for a moment, and thought my master was guilty, and advised him to flee. The like has never been heard of before, I am sure. Every thing went against him. Every answer he made sounded like a confession. A crime had been committed at Valpinson; he had been seen going there and coming back by side paths. A fire had been kindled; his hands bore traces of charcoal. Shots had been fired; they found one of his cartridge-cases close to the spot where Count Claudieuse had been wounded. There it was I saw the plot. How could all these circumstances have agreed so precisely if they had not been pre- arranged, and calculated beforehand? Our poor M. Daubigeon had tears in his eyes; and even that meddlesome fellow, Mechinet, the clerk, was quite overcome. M. Galpin was the only one who looked pleased; but then he was the magistrate, and he put the questions. He, my master’s friend!–a man who was constantly coming here, who ate our bread, slept in our beds, and shot our game. Then it was, ‘My dear Jacques,’ and ‘My dear Boiscoran’ always, and no end of compliments and caresses; so that I often thought one of these days I should find him blackening my master’s boots. Ah! he took his revenge yesterday; and you ought to have seen with what an air he said to master, ‘We are friends no longer.’ The rascal! No, we are friends no longer; and, if God was just, you ought to have all the shot in your body that has wounded Count Claudieuse.”

M. de Chandore was growing more and more impatient. As soon, therefore, as Anthony’s breath gave out a moment, he said,–

“Why did you not come and tell me all that immediately?”

The old servant ventured to shrug his shoulders slightly, and replied,–

“How could I? When the examination was over, that man, Galpin, put the seals everywhere,–strips of linen, fastened on with sealing-wax, as they do with dead people. He put one on every opening, and on some of them two. He put three on the outer door. Then he told me that he appointed me keeper of the house, that I would be paid for it, but that I would be sent to the galleys if any one touched the seals with the tip of the finger. When he had handed master over to the gendarmes, that man, Galpin, went away, leaving me here alone, dumfounded, like a man who has been knocked in the head. Nevertheless, I should have come to you, sir, but I had an idea, and that gave me the shivers.”

Grandpapa Chandore stamped his foot, and said,–

“Come to the point, to the point!”

“It was this: you must know, gentlemen, that, in the examination, that breech-loading gun played a prominent part. That man, Galpin looked at it carefully, and asked master when he had last fired it off. Master said, ‘About five days ago. You hear, I say, five days.’ Thereupon, that man, Galpin, puts the gun down, without looking at the barrels.”

“Well?” asked M. Folgat.

“Well, sir, I–Anthony–I had the evening before–I say the evening before–cleaned the gun, washed it, and”–

“Upon my word,” cried M. de Chandore, “why did you not say so at once? If the barrels are clean, that is an absolute proof that Jacques is innocent.”

The old servant shook his head, and said,–

“To be sure, sir. But are they clean?”

“Oh!”

“Master may have been mistaken as to the time when he last fired the gun, and then the barrels would be soiled; and, instead of helping him, my evidence might ruin him definitely. Before I say any thing, I ought to be sure.”

“Yes,” said Folgat, approvingly, “and you have done well to keep silence, my good man, and I cannot urge you too earnestly not to say a word of it to any one. That fact may become a decisive argument for the /defence/.”

“Oh! I can keep my tongue, sir. Only you may imagine how impatient it has made me to see these accursed seals which prevent me from going to look at the gun. Oh, if I had dared to break one of them!”

“Poor fellow!”

“I thought of doing it; but I checked myself. Then it occurred to me that other people might think of the same thing. The rascals who have formed this abominable plot against Master Jacques are capable of any thing, don’t you think so? Why might not they come some night, and break the seals? I put the steward on guard in the garden, beneath the windows. I put his son as a sentinel into the courtyard; and I have myself stood watch before the seals with arms in my hands all the time. Let the rascals come on; they will find somebody to receive them.”

In spite of all that is said, lawyers are better than their reputation. Lawyers, accused of being sceptics above all men, are, on the contrary, credulous and simple-minded. Their enthusiasm is sincere; and, when we think they play a part, they are in earnest. In the majority of cases, they fancy their own side the just one, even though they should be beaten. Hour by hour, ever since his arrival at Sauveterre, M. Folgat’s faith in Jacques’s innocence had steadily increased. Old Anthony’s tale was not made to shake his growing conviction. He did not admit the existence of a plot, however; but he was not disinclined to believe in the cunning calculations of some rascal, who, availing himself of circumstances known to him alone, tried to let all suspicion fall upon M. de Boiscoran, instead of himself.

But there were many more questions to be asked; and Anthony was in such a state of feverish excitement, that it was difficult to induce him to answer. For it is not so easy to examine a man, however inclined he may be to answer. It requires no small self-possession, much care, and an imperturbable method, without which the most important facts are apt to be overlooked. M. Folgat began, therefore, after a moment’s pause, once more, saying,–

“My good Anthony, I cannot praise your conduct in this matter too highly. However, we have not done with it yet. But as I have eaten nothing since I left Paris last night, and as I hear the bell strike twelve o’clock”–

M. de Chandore seemed to be heartily ashamed, and broke in,–

“Ah, forgetful old man that I am! Why did I not think of it? But you will pardon me, I am sure. I am so completely upset. Anthony, what can you let us have?”

“The housekeeper has eggs, potted fowl, ham”–

“Whatever can be made ready first will be the best,” said the young lawyer.

“In a quarter of an hour the table shall be set,” replied the servant.

He hurried away, while M. de Chandore invited M. Folgat into the sitting-room. The poor grandfather summoned all his energy to keep up appearances.

“This fact about the gun will save him, won’t it?” he asked.

“Perhaps so,” replied the famous advocate.

And they were silent,–the grandfather thinking of the grief of his grandchild, and cursing the day on which he had opened his house to Jacques, and with him to such heart-rending anguish; the lawyer arranging in his mind the facts he had learned, and preparing the questions he was going to ask. They were both so fully absorbed by their thoughts, that they started when Anthony reappeared, and said,–

“Gentlemen, breakfast is ready!”

The table had been set in the dining-room; and, when the two gentlemen had taken their seats, old Anthony placed himself, his napkin over his arm, behind them; but M. de Chandore called him, saying,–

“Put another plate, Anthony, and breakfast with us.”

“Oh, sir,” protested the old servant,–“sir”–

“Sit down,” repeated the baron: “if you eat after us, you will make us lose time, and an old servant like you is a member of the family.”

Anthony obeyed, quite overcome, but blushing with delight at the honor that was done him; for the Baron de Chandore did not usually distinguish himself to familiarity. When the ham and eggs of the housekeeper had been disposed of, M. Folgat said,–

“Now let us go back to business. Keep cool, my dear Anthony, and remember, that, unless we get the court to say that there is no case, your answers may become the basis of our defence. What were M. de Boiscoran’s habits when he was here?”

“When he was here, sir, he had, so to say, no habits. We came here very rarely, and only for a short time.”

“Never mind: what was he doing here?”

“He used to rise late; he walked about a good deal; he sometimes went out hunting; he sketched; he read, for master is a great reader, and is as fond of his books as the marquis, his father, is of his porcelains.”

“Who came here to see him?”

“M. Galpin most frequently, Dr. Seignebos, the priest from Brechy, M. Seneschal, M. Daubigeon.”

“How did he spend his evenings?”

“At M. de Chandore’s, who can tell you all about it.”

“He had no other relatives in this country?”

“No.”

“You do not know that he had any lady friend?”

Anthony looked as if he would have blushed.

“Oh, sir!” he said, “you do not know, I presume, that master is engaged to Miss Dionysia?”

The Baron de Chandore was not a baby, as he liked to call it. Deeply interested as he was, he got up, and said,–

“I want to take a little fresh air.”

And he went out, understanding very well that his being Dionysia’s grandfather might keep Anthony from telling the truth.

“That is a sensible man,” thought M. Folgat.

Then he added aloud,–

“Now we are alone, my dear Anthony, you can speak frankly. Did M. de Boiscoran keep a mistress?”

“No, sir.”

“Did he ever have one?”

“Never. They will tell you, perhaps, that once upon a time he was rather pleased with a great, big red-haired woman, the daughter of a miller in the neighborhood, and that the gypsy of a woman came more frequently to the chateau than was needful,–now on one pretext, and now on another. But that was mere childishness. Besides, that was five years ago, and the woman has been married these three years to a basket-maker at Marennes.”

“You are quite sure of what you say?”

“As sure as I am of myself. And you would be as sure of it yourself, if you knew the country as I know it, and the abominable tongues the people have. There is no concealing any thing from them. I defy a man to talk three times to a woman without their finding it out, and making a story of it. I say nothing of Paris”–

M. Folgat listened attentively. He asked,–

“Ah! was there any thing of the kind in Paris?”

Anthony hesitated; at last he said,–

“You see, master’s secrets are not my secrets, and, after the oath I have sworn,”–

“It may be, however, that his safety depends upon your frankness in telling me all,” said the lawyer. “You may be sure he will not blame you for having spoken.”

For several seconds the old servant remained undecided; then he said,–

“Master, they say, has had a great love-affair.”

“When?”

“I do not know when. That was before I entered his service. All I know is, that, for the purpose of meeting the person, master had bought at Passy, at the end of Vine Street, a beautiful house, in the centre of a large garden, which he had furnished magnificently.”

“Ah!”

“That is a secret, which, of course, neither master’s father nor his mother knows to this day; and I only know it, because one day master fell down the steps, and dislocated his foot, so that he had to send for me to nurse him. He may have bought the house under his own name; but he was not known by it there. He passed for an Englishmen, a Mr. Burnett; and he had an English maid-servant.”

“And the person?”

“Ah, sir! I not only do not know who she is, but I cannot even guess it, she took such extraordinary precautions! Now that I mean to tell you every thing, I will confess to you that I had the curiosity to question the English maid. She told me that she was no farther than I was, that she knew, to be sure, a lady was coming there from time to time; but that she had never seen even the end of her nose. Master always arranged it so well, that the girl was invariably out on some errand or other when the lady came and when she went away. While she was in the house, master waited upon her himself. And when they wanted to walk in the garden, they sent the servant away, on some fool’s errand, to Versailles or to Fontainebleau; and she was mad, I tell you.”

M. Folgat began to twist his mustache, as he was in the habit of doing when he was specially interested. For a moment, he thought he saw the woman–that inevitable woman who is always at the bottom of every great event in man’s life; and just then she vanished from his sight; for he tortured his mind in vain to discover a possible if not probable connection between the mysterious visitor in Vine Street and the events that had happened at Valpinson. He could not see a trace. Rather discouraged, he asked once more,–

“After all, my dear Anthony, this great love-affair of your master’s has come to an end?”

“It seems so, sir, since Master Jacques was going to marry Miss Dionysia.”

That reason was perhaps not quite as conclusive as the good old servant imagined; but the young advocate made no remark.

“And when do you think it came to an end?”

“During the war, master and the lady must have been parted; for master did not stay in Paris. He commanded a volunteer company; and he was even wounded in the head, which procured him the cross.”

“Does he still own the house in Vine Street?”

“I believe so.”

“Why?”

“Because, some time ago, when master and I went to Paris for a week, he said to me one day, ‘The War and the commune have cost me dear. My cottage has had more than twenty shells, and it has been in turn occupied by /Francs-tireurs/, Communists and Regulars. The walls are broken; and there is not a piece of furniture uninjured. My architect tells me, that all in all, the repairs will cost me some ten thousand dollars.’ “

“What? Repairs? Then he thought of going back there?”

“At that time, sir, master’s marriage had not been settled. Yet”–

“Still that would go to prove that he had at that time met the mysterious lady once more, and that the war had not broken off their relations.”

“That may be.”

“And has he never mentioned the lady again?”

“Never.”

At this moment M. de Chandore’s cough was heard in the hall,–that cough which men affect when they wish to announce their coming. Immediately afterwards he reappeared; and M. Folgat said to him, to show that his presence was no longer inconvenient,–

“Upon my word, sir, I was just on the point of going in search of you, for fear that you felt really unwell.”

“Thank you,” replied the old gentleman, “the fresh air has done me good.”

He sat down; and the young advocate turned again to Anthony, saying,–

“Well, let us go on. How was he the day before the fire?”

“Just as usual.”

“What did he do before he went out?”

“He dined as usual with a good appetite; then he went up stairs and remained there for an hour. When he came down, he had a letter in his hand, which he gave to Michael, our tenant’s son, and told him to carry it to Sauveterre, to Miss Chandore.”

“Yes. In that letter, M. de Boiscoran told Miss Dionysia that he was retained here by a matter of great importance.”

“Ah!”

“Have you any idea what that could have been?”

“Not at all, sir, I assure you.”

“Still let us see. M. de Boiscoran must have had powerful reasons to deprive himself of the pleasure of spending the evening with Miss Dionysia?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“He must also have had his reasons for taking to the marshes, on his way out, instead of going by the turnpike, and for coming back through the woods.”

Old Anthony was literally tearing his hair, as he exclaimed,–

“Ah, sir! These are the very words M. Galpin said.”

“Unfortunately every man in his senses will say so.”

“I know, sir: I know it but too well. And Master Jacques himself knew it so well that at first he tried to find some pretext; but he has never told a falsehood. And he who is such a clever man could not find a pretext that had any sense in it. He said he had gone to Brechy to see his wood-merchant”–

“And why should he not?”

Anthony shook his head, and said,–

“Because the wood-merchant at Brechy is a thief, and everybody knows that master has kicked him out of the house some three years ago. We sell all our wood at Sauveterre.”

M. Folgat had taken out a note-book, and wrote down some of Anthony’s statements, preparing thus the outline of his defence. This being done, he commenced again,–

“Now we come to Cocoleu.”

“Ah the wretch!” cried Anthony.

“You know him?”

“How could I help knowing him, when I lived all my life here at Boiscoran in the service of master’s uncle?”

“Then what kind of a man is he?”

“An idiot, sir or, as they here call it, an innocent, who has Saint Vitus dance into the bargain, and epilepsy moreover.”

“Then it is perfectly notorious that he is imbecile?”

“Yes, sir, although I have heard people insist that he is not quite so stupid as he looks, and that, as they say here, he plays the ass in order to get his oats”–

M. de Chandore interrupted him, and said,–

“On this subject Dr. Seignebos can give you all the information you may want: he kept Cocoleu for nearly two years at his own house.”

“I mean to see the doctor,” replied M. Folgat. “But first of all we must find this unfortunate idiot.”

“You heard what M. Seneschal said: he has put the gendarmes on his track.”

Anthony made a face, and said,–

“If the gendarmes should take Cocoleu, Cocoleu must have given himself up voluntarily.”

“Why so?”

“Because, gentlemen, there is no one who knows all the by-ways and out-of-the-way corners of the country so well as that idiot; for he has been hiding all his life like a savage in all the holes and hiding-places that are about here; and, as he can live perfectly well on roots and berries, he may stay away three months without being seen by any one.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed M. Folgat angrily.

“I know only one man,” continued Anthony, “who could find out Cocoleu, and that is our tenant’s son Michael,–the young man you saw down stairs.”

“Send for him,” said M. de Chandore.

Michael appeared promptly, and, when he had heard what he was expected to do, he replied,–

“The thing can be done, certainly; but it is not very easy. Cocoleu has not the sense of a man; but he has all the instincts of a brute. However, I’ll try.”

There was nothing to keep either M. de Chandore or M. Folgat any longer at Boiscoran; hence, after having warned Anthony to watch the seals well, and get a glimpse, if possible, of Jacques’s gun, when the officers should come for the different articles, they left the chateau. It was five o’clock when they drove into town again. Dionysia was waiting for them in the sitting-room. She rose as they entered, looking quite pale, with dry, brilliant eyes.

“What? You are alone here!” said M. de Chandore. “Why have they left you alone?”

“Don’t be angry, grandpapa. I have just prevailed on the marchioness, who was exhausted with fatigue to lie down for an hour or so before dinner.”

“And your aunts?”

“They have gone out, grandpapa. They are probably, by this time at M. Galpin’s.”

M. Folgat started, and said,–

“Oh!”

“But that is foolish in them!” exclaimed the old gentleman.

The young girl closed his lips by a single word. She said,–

“I asked them to go.”

V.

Yes, the step taken by the Misses Lavarande was foolish. At the point which things had reached now, their going to see M. Galpin was perhaps equivalent to furnishing him the means to crush Jacques. But whose fault was it, but M. de Chandore’s and M. Folgat’s? Had they not committed an unpardonable blunder in leaving Sauveterre without any other precaution than to send word through M. Seneschal’s servant, that they would be back for dinner, and that they need not be troubled about them?

Not be troubled? And that to the Marchioness de Boiscoran and Dionysia, to Jacques’s mother and Jacques’s betrothed.

Certainly, at first, the two wretched women preserved their self- control in a manner, trying to set each other an example of courage and confidence. But, as hour after hour passed by, their anxiety became intolerable; and gradually, as they confided their apprehensions to each other, their grief broke out openly. They thought of Jacques being innocent, and yet treated like one of the worst criminals, alone in the depth of his prison, given up to the most horrible inspirations of despair. What could have been his feelings during the twenty-four hours which had brought him no news from his friends? Must he not fancy himself despised and abandoned.

“That is an intolerable thought!” exclaimed Dionysia at lat. “We must get to him at any price.”

“How?” asked the marchioness.

“I do not know; but there must be some way. There are things which I would not have ventured upon as long as I was alone; but, with you by my side, I can risk any thing. Let us go to the prison.”

The old lady promptly put a shawl around her shoulders, and said,–

“I am ready; let us go.”

They had both heard repeatedly that Jacques was kept in close confinement; but neither of them realized fully what that meant. They had no idea of this atrocious measure, which is, nevertheless, rendered necessary by the peculiar forms of French law-proceedings,–a measure which, so to say, immures a man alive, and leaves him in his cell alone with the crime with which he is charged, and utterly at the mercy of another man, whose duty it is to extort the truth from him. The two ladies only saw the want of liberty, a cell with its dismal outfittings, the bars at the window, the bolts at the door, the jailer shaking his bunch of keys at his belt, and the tramp of the solitary sentinel in the long passages.

“They cannot refuse me permission,” said the old lady, “to see my son.”

“They cannot,” repeated Dionysia. “And, besides, I know the jailer, Blangin: his wife was formerly in our service.”

When the young girl, therefore, raised the heavy knocker at the prison-door, she was full of cheerful confidence. Blangin himself came to the door; and, at the sight of the two poor ladies, his broad face displayed the utmost astonishment.

“We come to see M. de Boiscoran,” said Dionysia boldly.

“Have you a permit, ladies?” asked the keeper.

“From whom?”

“From M. Galpin.”

“We have no permit.”

“Then I am very sorry to have to tell you, ladies, that you cannot possibly see M. de Boiscoran. He is kept in close confinement, and I have the strictest orders.”

Dionysia looked threatening, and said sharply,–

“Your orders cannot apply to this lady, who is the Marchioness de Boiscoran.”

“My orders apply to everybody, madam.”

“You would not, I am sure, keep a poor, distressed mother from seeing her son!”

“Ah! but–madam–it does not rest with me. I? Who am I? Nothing more than one of the bolts, drawn or pushed at will.”

For the first time, it entered the poor girl’s head that her effort might fail: still she tried once more, with tears in her eyes,–

“But I, my dear M. Blangin, think of me! You would not refuse me? Don’t you know who I am? Have you never heard your wife speak of me?”

The jailer was certainly touched. He replied,–

“I know how much my wife and myself are indebted to your kindness, madam. But–I have my orders, and you surely would not want me to lose my place, madam?”

“If you lose your place, M. Blangin, I, Dionysia de Chandore, promise you another place twice as good.”

“Madame!”

“You do not doubt my word, M. Blangin, do you?”

“God forbid, madam! But it is not my place only. If I did what you want me to do, I should be severely punished.”

The marchioness judged from the jailer’s tone that Dionysia was not likely to prevail over him, and so she said,–

“Don’t insist, my child. Let us go back.”

“What? Without finding out what is going on behind these pitiless walls; without knowing even whether Jacques is dead or alive?”

There was evidently a great struggle going on in the jailer’s heart. All of a sudden he cast a rapid glance around, and then said, speaking very hurriedly,–

“I ought not to tell you–but never mind–I cannot let you go away without telling you that M. de Boiscoran is quite well.”

“Ah!”

“Yesterday, when they brought him here, he was, so to say, overcome. He threw himself upon his bed, and he remained there without stirring for over two hours. I think he must have been crying.”

A sob, which Dionysia could not suppress, made Blangin start.

“Oh, reassure yourself, madame!” he added quickly. “That state of things did not last long. Soon M. de Boiscoran got up, and said, ‘Why, I am a fool to despair!’ “

“Did you hear him say so?” asked the old lady.

“Not I. It was Trumence who heard it.”

“Trumence?”

“Yes, one of our jail-birds. Oh! he is only a vagabond, not bad at all; and he has been ordered to stand guard at the door of M. de Boiscoran’s cell, and not for a moment to lose sight of it. It was M. Galpin who had that idea, because the prisoners sometimes in their first despair,–a misfortune happens so easily,–they become weary of life–Trumence would be there to prevent it.”

The old lady trembled with horror. This precautionary measure, more than any thing else, gave her the full measure of her son’s situation.

“However,” M. Blangin went on, “there is nothing to fear. M. de Boiscoran became quite calm again, and even cheerful, if I may say so. When he got up this morning, after having slept all night like a dormouse, he sent for me, and asked me for paper, ink, and pen. All the prisoners ask for that the second day. I had orders to let him have it, and so I gave it to him. When I carried him his breakfast, he handed me a letter for Miss Chandore.”

“What?” cried Dionysia, “you have a letter for me, and you don’t give it to me?”

“I do not have it now, madam. I had to hand it, as is my duty, to M. Galpin, when he came accompanied by his clerk, Mechinet, to examine M. de Boiscoran.”

“And what did he say?”

“He opened the letter, read it, put it into his pocket, and said, ‘Well.’ “

Tears of anger this time sprang from Dionysia’s eyes; and she cried,–

“What a shame? This man reads a letter written by Jacques to me! That is infamous!”

And, without thinking of thanking Blangin, she drew off the old lady, and all the way home did not say a word.

“Ah, poor child, you did not succeed,” exclaimed the two old aunts, when they saw their niece come back.

But, when they had heard every thing, they said,–

“Well, we’ll go and see him, this little magistrate, who but the day before yesterday was paying us abject court to obtain the hand of our cousin. And we’ll tell him the truth; and, if we cannot make him give us back Jacques, we will at least trouble him in his triumph, and take down his pride.”

How could poor Dionysia help adopting the notions of the old ladies, when their project offered such immediate satisfaction to her indignation, and at the same time served her secret hopes?

“Oh, yes! You are right, dear aunts,” she said. “Quick, don’t lose any time; go at once!”

Unable to resist her entreaties, they started instantly, without listening to the timid objections made by the marchioness. But the good ladies were sadly mistaken as to the state of mind of M. Galpin. The ex-lover of one of their cousins was not bedded on roses by any means. At the beginning of this extraordinary affair he had taken hold of it with eagerness, looking upon it as an admirable opportunity, long looked for, and likely to open wide the doors to his burning ambition. Then having once begun, and the investigation being under way, he had been carried away by the current, without having time to reflect. He had even felt a kind of unhealthy satisfaction at seeing the evidence increasing, until he felt justified and compelled to order his former friend to be sent to prison. At that time he was fairly dazzled by the most magnificent expectations. This preliminary inquiry, which in a few hours already had led to the discovery of a culprit the most unlikely of all men in the province, could not fail to establish his superior ability and matchless skill.

But, a few hours later, M. Galpin looked no longer with the same eye upon these events. Reflection had come; and he had begun to doubt his ability, and to ask himself, if he had not, after all, acted rashly. If Jacques was guilty, so much the better. He was sure, in that case, immediately after the verdict, to obtain brilliant promotion. Yes, but if Jacques should be innocent? When that thought occurred to M. Galpin for the first time, it made him shiver to the marrow of his bones. Jacques innocent!–that was his own condemnation, his career ended, his hopes destroyed, his prospects ruined forever. Jacques innocent!– that was certain disgrace. He would be sent away from Sauveterre, where he could not remain after such a scandal. He would be banished to some out-of-the-way village, and without hope of promotion.

In vain he tried to reason that he had only done his duty. People would answer, if they condescended at all to answer, that there are flagrant blunders, scandalous mistakes, which a magistrate must not commit; and that for the honor of justice, and in the interest of the law, it is better, under certain circumstances, to let a guilty man escape, than to punish an innocent one.

With such anxiety on his mind, the most cruel that can tear the heart of an ambitious man, M. Galpin found his pillow stuffed with thorns. He had been up since six o’clock. At eleven, he had sent for his clerk, Mechinet; and they had gone together to the jail to recommence the examination. It was then that the jailer had handed him the prisoner’s letter for Dionysia. It was a short note, such as a sensible man would write who knows full well that a prisoner cannot count upon the secrecy of his correspondence. It was not even sealed, a fact which M. Blangin had not noticed.

“Dionysia, my darling,” wrote the prisoner, “the thought of the terrible grief I cause you is my most cruel, and almost my only sorrow. Need I stoop to assure you that I am innocent? I am sure it is not needed. I am the victim of a fatal combination of circumstances, which could not but mislead justice. But be reassured, be hopeful. When the time comes, I shall be able to set matters right.

“JACQUES.”

“Well,” M. Galpin had really said after reading this letter. Nevertheless it had stung him to the quick.

“What assurance!” he had said to himself.

Still he had regained courage while ascending the steps of the prison. Jacques had evidently not thought it likely that his note would reach its destination directly, and hence it might be fairly presumed that he had written for the eyes of justice as well as for his lady-love. The fact that the letter was not sealed even, gave some weight to this presumption.

“After all we shall see,” said M. Galpin, while Blangin was unlocking the door.

But he found Jacques as calm as if he had been in his chateau at Boiscoran, haughty and even scornful. It was impossible to get any thing out of him. When he was pressed, he became obstinately silent, or said that he needed time to consider. The magistrate had returned home more troubled than ever. The position assumed by Jacques puzzled him. Ah, if he could have retraced his steps!

But it was too late. He had burnt his vessels, and condemned himself to go on to the end. For his own safety, for his future life, it was henceforth necessary that Jacques de Boiscoran should be found guilty; that he should be tried in open court, and there be sentenced. It must be. It was a question of life or death for him.

He was in this state of mind when the two Misses Lavarande called at his house, and asked to see him. He shook himself; and in an instant his over-excited mind presented to him all possible contingencies. What could the two old ladies want of him?

“Show them in,” he said at last.

They came in, and haughtily declined the chairs that were offered.

“I hardly expected to have the honor of a visit from you, ladies,” he commenced.

The older of the two, Miss Adelaide, cut him short, saying,–

“I suppose not, after what has passed.”

And thereupon, speaking with all the eloquence of a pious woman who is trying to wither an impious man, she poured upon him a stream of reproaches for what she called his infamous treachery. What? How could he appear against Jacques, who was his friend, and who had actually aided him in obtaining the promise of a great match. By that one hope he had become, so to say, a member of the family. Did he not know that among kinsmen it was a sacred duty to set aside all personal feelings for the purpose of protecting that sacred patrimony called family honor?

M. Galpin felt like a man upon whom a handful of stones falls from the fifth story of a house. Still he preserved his self-control, and even asked himself what advantage he might obtain from this extraordinary scene. Might it open a door for reconciliation?

As soon, therefore, as Miss Adelaide stopped, he began justifying himself, painting in hypocritical colors the grief it had given him, swearing that he was able to control the events, and that Jacques was as dear to him now as ever.

“If he is so dear to you,” broke in Miss Adelaide, “why don’t you set him free?”

“Ah! how can I?”

“At least give his family and his friends leave to see him.”

“The law will not let me. If he is innocent, he has only to prove it. If he is guilty, he must confess. In the first case, he will be set free; in the other case, he can see whom he wishes.”

“If he is so dear to you, how could you dare read the letter he had written to Dionysia?”

“It is one of the most painful duties of my profession to do so.”

“Ah! And does that profession also prevent you from giving us that letter after having read it?”

“Yes. But I may tell you what is in it.”

He took it out of a drawer, and the younger of the two sisters, Miss Elizabeth, copied it in pencil. Then they withdrew, almost without saying good-by.

M. Galpin was furious. He exclaimed,–

“Ah, old witches! I see clearly you do not believe in Jacques’s innocence. Why else should his family be so very anxious to see him? No doubt they want to enable him to escape by suicide the punishment of his crime. But, by the great God, that shall not be, if I can help it!”

M. Folgat was, as we have seen, excessively annoyed at this step taken by the Misses Lavarande; but he did not let it be seen. It was very necessary that he at least should retain perfect presence of mind and calmness in this cruelly tried family. M. de Chandore, on the other hand, could not conceal his dissatisfaction so well; and, in spite of his deference to his grandchild’s wishes, he said,–

“I am sure, my dear child, I don’t wish to blame you. But you know your aunts, and you know, also, how uncompromising they are. They are quite capable of exasperating M. Galpin.”

“What does it matter?” asked the young girl haughtily. “Circumspection is all very well for guilty people; but Jacques is innocent.”

“Miss Chandore is right,” said M. Folgat, who seemed to succumb to Dionysia like the rest of the family. “Whatever the ladies may have done, they cannot make matters worse. M. Galpin will be none the less our bitter enemy.”

Grandpapa Chandore started. He said,–

“But”–

“Oh! I do not blame him,” broke in the young lawyer; “but I blame the laws which make him act as he does. How can a magistrate remain perfectly impartial in certain very important cases, like this one, when his whole future career depends upon his success? A man may be a most upright magistrate, incapable of unfairness, and conscientious in fulfilling all his duties, and yet he is but a man. He has his interest at stake. He does not like the court to find that that there is no case. The great rewards are not always given to the lawyer who has taken most pains to find out the truth.”

“But M. Galpin was a friend of ours, sir.”

“Yes; and that is what makes me fear. What will be his fate on the day when M. Jacques’s innocence is established?”

They were just coming home, quite proud of their achievement, and waving in triumph the copy of Jacques’s letter. Dionysia seized upon it; and, while she read it aside, Miss Adelaide described the interview, stating how haughty and disdainful she had been, and how humble and repentant M. Galpin had seemed to be.

“He was completely undone,” said the two old ladies with one voice: “he was crushed, annihilated.”

“Yes, you have done a nice thing,” growled the old baron; “and you have much reason to boast, forsooth.”

“My aunts have done well,” declared Dionysia. “Just see what Jacques has written! It is clear and precise. What can we fear when he says, ‘Be reassured: when the time comes, I shall be able to set matters right’?”

M. Folgat took the letter, read it, and shook his head. Then he said,–

“There was no need of this letter to confirm my opinion. At the bottom of this affair there is a secret which none of us have found out yet. But M. de Boiscoran acts very rashly in playing in this way with a criminal prosecution. Why did he not explain at once? What was easy yesterday may be less easy to-morrow, and perhaps impossible in a week.”

“Jacques, sir, is a superior man,” cried Dionysia, “and whatever he says is perfectly sure to be the right thing.”

His mother’s entrance prevented the young lawyer from making any reply. Two hours’ rest had restored to the old lady a part of her energy, and her usual presence of mind; and she now asked that a telegram should be sent to her husband.

“It is the least we can do,” said M. de Chandore in an undertone, “although it will be useless, I dare say. Boiscoran does not care that much for his son. Pshaw! Ah! if it was a rare /faience/, or a plate that is wanting in his collection, then would it be a very different story.”

Still the despatch was drawn up and sent, at the very moment when a servant came in, and announced that dinner was ready. The meal was less sad than they had anticipated. Everybody, to be sure, felt a heaviness at heart as he thought that at the same hour a jailer probably brought Jacques his meal to his cell; nor could Dionysia keep from dropping a tear when she saw M. Folgat sitting in her lover’s place. But no one, except the young advocate, thought that Jacques was in real danger.

M. Seneschal, however, who came in just as coffee was handed round, evidently shared M. Folgat’s apprehensions. The good mayor came to hear the news, and to tell his friends how he had spent the day. The funeral of the firemen had passed off quietly, although amid deep emotion. No disturbance had taken place, as was feared; and Dr. Seignebos had not spoken at the graveyard. Both a disturbance and a row would have been badly received, said M. Seneschal; for he was sorry to say, the immense majority of the people of Sauveterre did not doubt M. de Boiscoran’s guilt. In several groups he had heard people say, “And still you will see they will not condemn him. A poor devil who should commit such a horrible crime would be hanged sure enough; but the son of the Marquis de Boiscoran–you will see, he’ll come out of it as white as snow.”

The rolling of a carriage, which stopped at the door, fortunately interrupted him at this point.

“Who can that be?” asked Dionysia, half frightened.

They heard in the passage the noise of steps and voices, something like a scuffle; and almost instantly the tenant’s son Michael pushed open the door of the sitting-room, crying out,–

“I have gotten him! Here he is!”

And with these words he pushed in Cocoleu, all struggling, and looking around him, like a wild beast caught in a trap.

“Upon my word, my good fellow,” said M. Seneschal, “you have done better than the gendarmes!”

The manner in which Michael winked with his eye showed that he had not a very exalted opinion of the cleverness of the gendarmes.

“I promised the baron,” he said, “I would get hold of Cocoleu somehow or other. I knew that at certain times he went and buried himself, like the wild beast that he is, in a hole which he has scratched under a rock in the densest part of the forest of Rochepommier. I had discovered this den of his one day by accident; for a man might pass by a hundred times, and never dream of where it was. But, as soon as the baron told me that the innocent had disappeared, I said to myself, ‘I am sure he is in his hole: let us go and see.’ So I gathered up my legs; I ran down to the rocks: and there was Cocoleu. But it was not so easy to pull him out of his den. He would not come; and, while defending himself, he bit me in the hand, like the mad dog that he is.”

And Michael held up his left hand, wrapped up in a bloody piece of linen.

“It was pretty hard work to get the madman here. I was compelled to tie him hand and foot, and to carry him bodily to my father’s house. There we put him into the little carriage, and here he is. Just look at the pretty fellow!”

He was hideous at that moment, with his livid face spotted all over with red marks, his hanging lips covered with white foam, and his brutish glances.

“Why would you not come?” asked M. Seneschal.

The idiot looked as if he did not hear.

“Why did you bit Michael?” continued the mayor.

Cocoleu made no reply.

“Do you know that M. de Boiscoran is in prison because of what you have said?”

Still no reply.

“Ah!” said Michael, “it is of no use to question him. You might beat him till to-morrow, and he would rather give up the ghost than say a word.”

“I am–I am hungry,” stammered Cocoleu.

M. Folgat looked indignant.

“And to think,” he said, “that, upon the testimony of such a thing, a capital charge has been made!”

Grandpapa Chandore seemed to be seriously embarrassed. He said,–

“But now, what in the world are we to do with the idiot?”

“I am going to take him,” said M. Seneschal, “to the hospital. I will go with him myself, and let Dr. Seignebos know, and the commonwealth attorney.”

Dr. Seignebos was an eccentric man, beyond doubt; and the absurd stories which his enemies attributed to him were not all unfounded. But he had, at all events, the rare quality of professing for his art, as he called it, a respect very nearly akin to enthusiasm. According to his views, the faculty were infallible, as much so as the pope, whom he denied. He would, to be sure, in confidence, admit that some of his colleagues were amazing donkeys; but he would never have allowed any one else to say so in his presence. From the moment that a man possessed the famous diploma which gives him the right over life and death, that man became in his eyes an august personage for the world at large. It was a crime, he thought, not to submit blindly to the decision of a physician. Hence his obstinacy in opposing M. Galpin, hence the bitterness of his contradictions, and the rudeness with which he had requested the “gentlemen of the law” to leave the room in which /his/ patient was lying.

“For these devils,” he said, “would kill one man in order to get the means of cutting off another man’s head.”

And thereupon, resuming his probes and his sponge, he had gone to work once more, with the aid of the countess, digging out grain by grain the lead which had honeycombed the flesh of the count. At nine o’clock the work was done.

“Not that I fancy I have gotten them all out,” he said modestly, “but, if there is any thing left, it is out of reach, and I shall have to wait for certain symptoms which will tell me where they are.”

As he had foreseen, the count had grown rather worse. His first excitement had given way to perfect prostration; and he seemed to be insensible to what was going on around him. Fever began to show itself; and, considering the count’s constitution, it was easily to be foreseen that delirium would set in before the day was out.

“Nevertheless, I think there is hardly any danger,” said the doctor to the countess, after having pointed out to her all the probable symptoms, so as to keep her from being alarmed. Then he recommended to her to let no one approach her husband’s bed, and M. Galpin least of all.

This recommendation was not useless; for almost at the same moment a peasant came in to say that there was a man from Sauveterre at the door who wished to see the count.

“Show him in,” said the doctor; “I’ll speak to him.”

It was a man called Tetard, a former constable, who had given up his place, and become a dealer in stones. But besides being a former officer of justice and a merchant, as his cards told the world, he was also the agent of a fire insurance company. It was in this capacity that he presumed, as he told the countess, to present himself in person. He had been informed that the farm buildings at Valpinson, which were insured in his company, had been destroyed by fire; that they had been purposely set on fire by M. de Boiscoran; and that he wished to confer with Count Claudieuse on the subject. Far from him, he added, to decline the responsibility of his company: he only wished to establish the facts which would enable him to fall back upon M. de Boiscoran, who was a man of fortune, and would certainly be condemned to make compensation for the injury done. For this purpose, certain formalities had to be attended to; and he had come to arrange with Count Claudieuse the necessary measures.”

“And I,” said Dr. Seignebos,–“I request you to take to your heels.” He added with a thundering voice,–

“I think you are very bold to dare to speak in that way of M. de Boiscoran.”

M. Tetard disappeared without saying another word; and the doctor, very much excited by this scene, turned to the youngest daughter of the countess, the one with whom she was sitting up when the fire broke out, and who was now decidedly better: after that nothing could keep him at Valpinson. He carefully pocketed the pieces of lead which he had taken from the count’s wounds, and then, drawing the countess out to the door, he said,–

“Before I go away, madam, I should like to know what you think of these events.”

The poor lady, who looked as pale as death itself, could hardly hold up any longer. There seemed to be nothing alive in her but her eyes, which were lighted up with unusual brilliancy.

“Ah! I do not know, sir,” she replied in a feeble voice. “How can I collect my thoughts after such terrible shocks?”

“Still you questioned Cocoleu.”

“Who would not have done so, when the truth was at stake?”

“And you were not surprised at the name he mentioned?”

“You must have seen, sir.”

“I saw; and that is exactly why I ask you, and why I want to know what you really think of the state of mind of the poor creature.”

“Don’t you know that he is idiotic?”

“I know; and that is why I was so surprised to see you insist upon making him talk. Do you really think, that, in spite of his habitual imbecility, he may have glimpses of sense?”

“He had, a few moments before, saved my children from death.”

“That proves his devotion for you.”

“He is very much attached to me indeed, just like a poor animal that I might have picked up and cared for.”

“Perhaps so. And still he showed more than mere animal instinct.”

“That may well be so. I have more than once noticed flashes of intelligence in Cocoleu.”

The doctor had taken off his spectacles, and was wiping them furiously.

“It is a great pity that one of these flashes of intelligence did not enlighten him when he saw M. de Boiscoran make a fire and get ready to murder Count Claudieuse.”

The countess leaned against the door-posts, as if about to faint.

“But it is exactly to his excitement at the sight of the flames, and at hearing the shots fired, that I ascribe Cocoleu’s return to reason.”

“May be,” said the doctor, “may be.”

Then putting on his spectacles again, he added,–

“That is a question to be decided by the professional men who will have to examine the poor imbecile creature.”

“What! Is he going to be examined?”

“Yes, and very thoroughly, madam, I tell you. And now I have the honor of wishing you good-bye. However, I shall come back to-night, unless you should succeed during the day in finding lodgings in Sauveterre,– an arrangement which would be very desirable for myself, in the first place, and not less so for your husband and your daughter. They are not comfortable in this cottage.”

Thereupon he lifted his hat, returned to town, and immediately asked M. Seneschal in the most imperious manner to have Cocoleu arrested. Unfortunately the gendarmes had been unsuccessful; and Dr. Seignebos, who saw how unfortunate all this was for Jacques, began to get terribly impatient, when on Saturday night, towards ten o’clock, M. Seneschal came in, and said,–

“Cocoleu is found.”

The doctor jumped up, and in a moment his hat on his head, and stick in hand, asked,–

“Where is he?”

“At the hospital. I have seen him myself put into a separate room.”

“I am going there.”

“What, at this hour?”

“Am I not one of the hospital physicians? And is it not open to me by night and by day?”

“The sisters will be in bed.”

The doctor shrugged his shoulders furiously; then he said,–