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Within an Inch of His Life

by Emile Gaboriau · English · Gutenberg #3336 · 927,840 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Within an Inch of His Life

Author: Emile Gaboriau


        
Release date: April 6, 2006 [eBook #3336]
                Most recently updated: November 26, 2017

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3336

Credits: Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE ***




Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger





WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE

by Emile Gaboriau

     PREPARER’S NOTE

     This text was prepared from a 1913 edition, published by Charles
     Scribner’s Sons, New York.




FIRST PART--FIRE AT VALPINSON



These were the facts:--



I.

In the night from the 22nd to the 23rd of June, 1871, towards one
o’clock in the morning, the Paris suburb of Sauveterre, the principal
and most densely populated suburb of that pretty town, was startled by
the furious gallop of a horse on its ill-paved streets.

A number of peaceful citizens rushed to the windows.

The dark night allowed these only to see a peasant in his shirt sleeves,
and bareheaded, who belabored a large gray mare, on which he rode
bareback, with his heels and a huge stick.

This man, after having passed the suburbs, turned into National Street,
formerly Imperial Street, crossed New-Market Square, and stopped at last
before the fine house which stands at the corner of Castle Street.

This was the house of the mayor of Sauveterre, M. Seneschal, a former
lawyer, and now a member of the general council.

Having alighted, the peasant seized the bell-knob, and began to ring so
furiously, that, in a few moments, the whole house was in an uproar.

A minute later, a big, stout servant-man, his eyes heavy with sleep,
came and opened the door, and then cried out in an angry voice,--

“Who are you, my man? What do you want? Have you taken too much wine?
Don’t you know at whose house you are making such a row?”

“I wish to see the mayor,” replied the peasant instantly. “Wake him up!”

M. Seneschal was wide awake.

Dressed in a large dressing-gown of gray flannel, a candlestick in his
hand, troubled, and unable to disguise his trouble, he had just come
down into the hall, and heard all that was said.

“Here is the mayor,” he said in an ill-satisfied tone. “What do you want
of him at this hour, when all honest people are in bed?”

Pushing the servant aside, the peasant came up to him, and said, making
not the slightest attempt at politeness,--

“I come to tell you to send the fire-engine.”

“The engine!”

“Yes; at once. Make haste!”

The mayor shook his head.

“Hm!” he said, according to a habit he had when he was at a loss what to
do; “hm, hm!”

And who would not have been embarrassed in his place?

To get the engine out, and to assemble the firemen, he had to rouse the
whole town; and to do this in the middle of the night was nothing less
than to frighten the poor people of Sauveterre, who had heard the drums
beating the alarm but too often during the war with the Germans, and
then again during the reign of the Commune. Therefore M. Seneschal
asked,--

“Is it a serious fire?”

“Serious!” exclaimed the peasant. “How could it be otherwise with such a
wind as this,--a wind that would blow off the horns of our oxen.”

“Hm!” uttered the mayor again. “Hm, hm!”

It was not exactly the first time, since he was mayor of Sauveterre,
that he was thus roused by a peasant, who came and cried under his
window, “Help! Fire, fire!”

At first, filled with compassion, he had hastily called out the firemen,
put himself at their head, and hurried to the fire.

And when they reached it, out of breath, and perspiring, after having
made two or three miles at double-quick, they found what? A wretched
heap of straw, worth about ten dollars, and almost consumed by the fire.
They had had their trouble for nothing.

The peasants in the neighborhood had cried, “Wolf!” so often, when there
was no reason for it, that, even when the wolf really was there, the
townspeople were slow in believing it.

“Let us see,” said M. Seneschal: “what is burning?”

The peasant seemed to be furious at all these delays, and bit his long
whip.

“Must I tell you again and again,” he said, “that every thing is on
fire,--barns, outhouses, haystacks, the houses, the old castle, and
every thing? If you wait much longer, you won’t find one stone upon
another in Valpinson.”

The effect produced by this name was prodigious.

“What?” asked the mayor in a half-stifled voice, “Valpinson is on fire?”

“Yes.”

“At Count Claudieuse’s?”

“Of course.”

“Fool! Why did you not say so at once?” exclaimed the mayor.

He hesitated no longer.

“Quick!” he said to his servant, “go and get me my clothes. Wait, no!
my wife can help me. There is no time to be lost. You run to Bolton, the
drummer, you know, and tell him from me to beat the alarm instantly all
over town. Then you run to Capt. Parenteau’s, and explain
to him what you have heard. Ask him to get the keys of the
engine-house.--Wait!--when you have done that, come back and put the
horse in.--Fire at Valpinson! I shall go with the engine. Go, run,
knock at every door, cry, ‘Fire! Fire!’ Tell everybody to come to the
New-Market Square.”

When the servant had run off as fast as he could, the mayor turned to
the peasant, and said,--

“And you, my good man, you get on your horse, and reassure the count.
Tell them all to take courage, not to give up; we are coming to help
them.”

But the peasant did not move.

“Before going back to Valpinson,” he said, “I have another commission to
attend to in town.”

“Why? What is it?”

“I am to get the doctor to go back with me.”

“The doctor! Why? Has anybody been hurt?”

“Yes, master, Count Claudieuse.”

“How imprudent! I suppose he rushed into danger as usually.”

“Oh, no! He has been shot twice!”

The mayor of Sauveterre nearly dropped his candlestick.

“Shot! Twice!” he said. “Where? When? By whom?”

“Ah! I don’t know.”

“But”--

“All I can tell you is this. They have carried him into a little barn
that was not on fire yet. There I saw him myself lying on the straw,
pale like a linen sheet, his eyes closed, and bloody all over.”

“Great God! They have not killed him?”

“He was not dead when I left.”

“And the countess?”

“Our lady,” replied the peasant with an accent of profound veneration,
“was in the barn on her knees by the count’s side, washing his wounds
with fresh water. The two little ladies were there too.”

M. Seneschal trembled with excitement.

“It is a crime that has been committed, I suppose.”

“Why, of course!”

“But who did it? What was the motive?”

“Ah! that is the question.”

“The count is very passionate, to be sure, quite violent, in fact; but
still he is the best and fairest of men, everybody knows that.”

“Everybody knows it.”

“He never did any harm to anybody.”

“That is what all say.”

“As for the countess”--

“Oh!” said the peasant eagerly, “she is the saint of saints.”

The mayor tried to come to some conclusion.

“The criminal, therefore, must be a stranger. We are overrun with
vagabonds and beggars on the tramp. There is not a day on which a lot of
ill-looking fellows do not appear at my office, asking for help to get
away.”

The peasant nodded his head, and said,--

“That is what I think. And the proof of it is, that, as I came along, I
made up my mind I would first get the doctor, and then report the crime
at the police office.”

“Never mind,” said the mayor. “I will do that myself. In ten minutes
I shall see the attorney of the Commonwealth. Now go. Don’t spare your
horse, and tell your mistress that we are all coming after you.”

In his whole official career M. Seneschal had never been so terribly
shocked. He lost his head, just as he did on that unlucky day, when, all
of a sudden, nine hundred militia-men fell upon him, and asked to be
fed and lodged. Without his wife’s help he would never have been able to
dress himself. Still he was ready when his servant returned.

The good fellow had done all he had been told to do, and at that moment
the beat of the drum was heard in the upper part of the town.

“Now, put the horse in,” said M. Seneschal: “let me find the carriage at
the door when I come back.”

In the streets he found all in an uproar. At every window a head popped
out, full of curiosity or terror; on all sides house doors were opened,
and promptly closed again.

“Great God!” he thought, “I hope I shall find Daubigeon at home!” M.
Daubigeon, who had been first in the service of the empire, and then in
the service of the republic, was one of M. Seneschal’s best friends.
He was a man of about forty years, with a cunning look in his eye, a
permanent smile on his face, and a confirmed bachelor, with no small
pride in his consistency. The good people of Sauveterre thought he did
not look stern and solemn enough for his profession. To be sure he was
very highly esteemed; but his optimism was not popular; they reproached
him for being too kind-hearted, too reluctant to press criminals whom he
had to prosecute, and thus prone to encourage evil-doers.

He accused himself of not being inspired with the “holy fire,” and, as
he expressed it in his own way, “of robbing Themis of all the time he
could, to devote it to the friendly Muses.” He was a passionate lover of
fine books, rare editions, costly bindings, and fine illustrations; and
much the larger part of his annual income of about ten thousand francs
went to buying books. A scholar of the old-fashioned type, he professed
boundless admiration for Virgil and Juvenal, but, above all, for Horace,
and proved his devotion by constant quotations.

Roused, like everybody else in the midst of his slumbers, this excellent
man hastened to put on his clothes, when his old housekeeper came in,
quite excited, and told him that M. Seneschal was there, and wanted to
see him.

“Show him in!” he said, “show him in!”

And, as soon as the mayor entered, he continued:--

“For you will be able to tell me the meaning of all this noise, this
beating of drums,--

“‘Clamorque, virum, clangorque tubarum.’”

“A terrible misfortune has happened,” answered the mayor. From the tone
of his voice one might have imagined it was he himself who had been
afflicted; and the lawyer was so strongly impressed in this way, that he
said,--

“My dear friend, what is the matter? _Quid?_ Courage, my friend, keep
cool! Remember that the poet advises us, in misfortune never to lose our
balance of mind:--

     “‘AEquam, memento, rebus in arduis,
     Sevare mentem.’”

“Incendiaries have set Valpinson on fire!” broke in the mayor.

“You do not say so? Great God!

     “‘Jupiter,
     Quod verbum audio.’”

“More than that. Count Claudieuse has been shot, and by this time he is
probably dead.”

“Oh!”

“You hear the drummer is beating the alarm. I am going to the fire; and
I have only come here to report the matter officially to you, and to ask
you to see to it that justice be done promptly and energetically.”

There was no need of such a serious appeal to stop at once all the
lawyer’s quotations.

“Enough!” he said eagerly. “Come, let us take measures to catch the
wretches.”

When they reached National Street, it was as full as at mid-day; for
Sauveterre is one of those rare provincial towns in which an excitement
is too rare a treat to be neglected. The sad event had by this time
become fully known everywhere. At first the news had been doubted; but
when the doctor’s cab had passed the crowd at full speed, escorted by
a peasant on horseback, the reports were believed. Nor had the firemen
lost time. As soon as the mayor and M. Daubigeon appeared on New-Market
Square, Capt. Parenteau rushed up to them, and, touching his helmet with
a military salute, said,--

“My men are ready.”

“All?”

“There are hardly ten absentees. When they heard that Count and Countess
Claudieuse were in need--great heavens!--you know, they all were ready
in a moment.”

“Well, then, start and make haste,” commanded M. Seneschal. “We shall
overtake you on the way: M. Daubigeon and I are going to pick up M.
Galpin, the magistrate.”

They had not far to go.

The magistrate had already been looking for them all over town: he was
just appearing on the Square, and saw them at once.

In striking contrast with the commonwealth attorney, M. Galpin was a
professional man in the full sense of the word, and perhaps a little
more. He was the magistrate all over, from head to foot, and from the
gaiters on his ankles to the light blonde whiskers on his face. Although
he was quite young, yet no one had ever seen him smile, or heard him
make a joke. He was so very stiff that M. Daubigeon suggested he had
been impaled alive on the sword of justice.

At Sauveterre M. Galpin was looked upon as a superior man. He certainly
believed it himself: hence he was very impatient at being confined to so
narrow a sphere of action, and thought his brilliant ability wasted
upon the prosecution of a chicken-thief or a poacher. But his
almost desperate efforts to secure a better office had always been
unsuccessful. In vain he had enlisted a host of friends in his behalf.
In vain he had thrown himself into politics, ready to serve any party
that would serve him.

But M. Galpin’s ambition was not easily discouraged, and lately after a
journey to Paris, he had thrown out hints at a great match, which would
shortly procure him that influence in high places which so far he had
been unable to obtain. When he joined M. Daubigeon and the mayor, he
said,--

“Well, this is a horrible affair! It will make a tremendous noise.” The
mayor began to give him the details, but he said,--

“Don’t trouble yourself. I know all you know. I met the peasant who had
been sent in, and I have examined him.”

Then, turning to the commonwealth attorney, he added,--

“I think we ought to proceed at once to the place where the crime has
been committed.”

“I was going to suggest it to you,” replied M. Daubigeon.

“The gendarmes ought to be notified.”

“M. Seneschal has just sent them word.”

The magistrate was so much excited, that his cold impassiveness actually
threatened to give way for once.

“There has been an attempt at murder.”

“Evidently.”

“Then we can act in concert, and side by side, each one in his own line
of duty, you examining, and I preparing for the trial.”

An ironical smile passed over the lips of the commonwealth attorney.

“You ought to know me well enough,” he said, “to be sure that I have
never interfered with your duties and privileges. I am nothing but a
good old fellow, a friend of peace and of studies.

“‘Sum piger et senior, Pieridumque comes.’”

“Then,” exclaimed M. Seneschal, “nothing keeps us here any longer. I am
impatient to be off; my carriage is ready; let us go!”



II.

In a straight line it is only a mile from Sauveterre to Valpinson; but
that mile is as long as two elsewhere. M. Seneschal, however, had a good
horse, “the best perhaps in the county,” he said, as he got into his
carriage. In ten minutes they had overtaken the firemen, who had left
some time before them. And yet these good people, all of them master
workmen of Sauveterre, masons, carpenters, and tilers, hurried along as
fast as they could. They had half a dozen smoking torches with them to
light them on the way: they walked, puffing and groaning, on the bad
road, and pulling the two engines, together with the heavy cart on which
they had piled up their ladders and other tools.

“Keep up, my friends!” said the mayor as he passed them,--“keep up!”
 Three minutes farther on, a peasant on horseback appeared in the dark,
riding along like a forlorn knight in a romance. M. Daubigeon ordered
him to halt. He stopped.

“You come from Valpinson?” asked M. Seneschal.

“Yes,” replied the peasant.

“How is the count?”

“He has come to at last.”

“What does the doctor say?”

“He says he will live. I am going to the druggist to get some
medicines.” M. Galpin, to hear better, was leaning out of the carriage.
He asked,--

“Do they accuse any one?”

“No.”

“And the fire?”

“They have water enough,” replied the peasant, “but no engines: so what
can they do? And the wind is rising again! Oh, what a misfortune!”

He rode off as fast as he could, while M. Seneschal was whipping his
poor horse, which, unaccustomed as it was to such treatment, instead
of going any faster, only reared, and jumped from side to side. The
excellent man was in despair. He looked upon this crime as if it had
been committed on purpose to disgrace him, and to do the greatest
possible injury to his administration.

“For after all,” he said, for the tenth time to his companions, “is it
natural, I ask you, is it sensible, that a man should think of attacking
the Count and the Countess Claudieuse, the most distinguished and the
most esteemed people in the whole county, and especially a lady whose
name is synonymous with virtue and charity?”

And, without minding the ruts and the stones in the road, M. Seneschal
went on repeating all he knew about the owners of Valpinson.

Count Trivulce Claudieuse was the last scion of one of the oldest
families of the county. At sixteen, about 1829, he had entered the navy
as an ensign, and for many years he had appeared at Sauveterre only
rarely, and at long intervals. In 1859 he had become a captain, and was
on the point of being made admiral, when he had all of a sudden sent in
his resignation, and taken up his residence at the Castle of Valpinson,
although the house had nothing to show of its former splendor but two
towers falling to pieces, and an immense mass of ruin and rubbish. For
two years he had lived here alone, busy with building up the old house
as well as it could be done, and by great energy and incessant labor
restoring it to some of its former splendor. It was thought he would
finish his days in this way, when one day the report arose that he was
going to be married. The report, for once, proved true.

One fine day Count Claudieuse had left for Paris; and, a few days later,
his friends had been informed by letter that he had married the daughter
of one of his former colleagues, Miss Genevieve de Tassar. The amazement
had been universal. The count looked like a gentleman, and was very well
preserved; but he was at least forty-seven years old, and Miss Genevieve
was hardly twenty. Now, if the bride had been poor, they would have
understood the match, and approved it: it is but natural that a poor
girl should sacrifice her heart to her daily bread. But here it was not
so. The Marquis de Tassar was considered wealthy; and report said that
his daughter had brought her husband fifty thousand dollars.

Next they had it that the bride was fearfully ugly, infirm, or at least
hunchback, perhaps idiotic, or, at all events, of frightful temper.

By no means. She had come down; and everybody was amazed at her noble,
quiet beauty. She had conversed with them, and charmed everybody.

Was it really a love-match, as people called it at Sauveterre? Perhaps
so. Nevertheless there was no lack of old ladies who shook their heads,
and said twenty-seven years difference between husband and wife was too
much, and such a match could not turn out well.

All these dark forebodings came to nought. The fact was, that, for miles
and miles around, there was not a happier couple to be found than the
Count and the Countess Claudieuse; and two children, girls, who had
appeared at an interval of four years, seemed to have secured the
happiness of the house forever.

It is true the count retained somewhat of the haughty manners, the
reserve, and the imperious tone, which he had acquired during the time
that he controlled the destinies of certain important colonies. He was,
moreover, naturally so passionate, that the slightest excitement made
him turn purple in his face. But the countess was as gentle and as
sweet as he was violent; and as she never failed to step in between her
husband and the object of his wrath, as both he and she were naturally
just, kind to excess, and generous to all, they were beloved by
everybody. There was only one point on which the count was rather
unmanageable, and that was the game laws. He was passionately fond of
hunting, and watched all the year round with almost painful restlessness
over his preserves, employing a number of keepers, and prosecuting
poachers with such energy, that people said he would rather miss a
hundred napoleons than a single bird.

The count and the countess lived quite retired, and gave their whole
time, he to agricultural pursuits, and she to the education of her
children. They entertained but little, and did not come to Sauveterre
more than four times a year, to visit the Misses Lavarande, or the old
Baron de Chandore. Every summer, towards the end of July, they went to
Royan, where they had a cottage. When the season opened, and the count
went hunting, the countess paid a visit to her relatives in Paris, with
whom she usually stayed a few weeks.

It required a storm like that of 1870 to overthrow so peaceful an
existence. When the old captain heard that the Prussians were on French
soil, he felt all the instincts of the soldier and the Frenchman awake
in his heart. He could not be kept at home, and went to headquarters.
Although a royalist at heart, he did not hesitate a moment to offer
his sword to Gambetta, whom he detested. They made him colonel of a
regiment; and he fought like a lion, from the first day to the last,
when he was thrown down and trod under foot in one of those fearful
routs in which a part of Chanzy’s army was utterly destroyed. When the
armistice was signed, he returned to Valpinson; but no one except his
wife ever succeeded in making him say a word about the campaign. He was
asked to become a candidate for the assembly, and would have certainly
been elected; but he refused, saying that he knew how to fight, but not
how to talk.

The commonwealth attorney and the magistrate listened but very
carelessly to these details, with which they were perfectly familiar.
Suddenly M. Galpin asked,--

“Are we not getting near? I look and look; but I see no trace of a
fire.”

“We are in a deep valley,” replied the mayor. “But we are quite near
now, and, at the top of that hill before us, you will see enough.”

This hill is well known in the whole province, and is frequently called
the Sauveterre Mountain. It is so steep, and consists of such hard
granite, that the engineers who laid out the great turnpike turned miles
out of their way to avoid it. It overlooks the whole country; and, when
M. Seneschal and his companions had reached the top, they could not
control their excitement.

“Horresco!” murmured the attorney.

The burning house itself was hid by high trees; but columns of fire rose
high above the tops, and illumined the whole region with their sombre
light. The whole country was in a state of excitement. The short, square
tower of Brechy sent the alarm from its big bell; and in the deep shade
on all sides was heard the strange sound of the huge shells which
the people here use for signals, and for the summoning of laborers at
mealtimes. Hurried steps were heard on all the high-roads and by-roads;
and peasants were continuously rushing by, with a bucket in each hand.

“It is too late for help,” said M. Galpin.

“Such a fine property!” said the mayor, “and so well managed!” And
regardless of danger, he dashed forward, down the hill; for Valpinson
lies in a deep valley, half a mile from the river. Here all was terror,
disorder, and confusion; and yet there was no lack of hands or of
good-will. At the first alarm, all the people of the neighborhood had
hurried up, and there were more coming every moment; but there was no
one there to assume the command. They were mainly engaged in saving the
furniture. The boldest tried to get into the rooms, and in a kind of
rage, threw every thing they could lay hold on out of the window. Thus
the courtyard was already half full of beds and mattresses, chairs and
tables, books, linen, and clothes.

An immense clamor greeted the mayor and his companions.

“Here comes the mayor!” cried the peasants, encouraged by his presence,
and all ready to obey him.

M. Seneschal took in the whole situation at a glance.

“Yes, here I am, my friends,” he said, “and I thank you for your zeal.
Now we must try not to waste our efforts. The farm buildings and
the workshops are lost: we must give them up. Let us try to save the
dwelling-house. The river is not far. We must form a chain. Everybody in
line,--men and women! And now for water, water! Here come the engines!”

They really came thundering up: the firemen appeared on the scene. Capt.
Parenteau took the command. At last the mayor was at leisure to inquire
after Count Claudieuse.

“Master is down there,” replied an old woman, pointing at a little
cottage with a thatched roof. “The doctor has had him carried there.”

“Let us go and see how he is,” said the mayor to his two companions.
They stopped at the door of the only room of the cottage. It was a large
room with a floor of beaten clay; while overhead the blackened beams
were full of working tools and parcels of seeds. Two beds with twisted
columns and yellow curtains filled one side: on that on the left hand
lay a little girl, four years old, fast asleep, and rolled up in a
blanket, watched over by her sister, who was two or three years older.
On the other bed, Count Claudieuse was lying, or rather sitting; for
they had supported his back by all the pillows that had been saved from
the fire. His chest was bare, and covered with blood; and a man, Dr.
Seignebos, with his coat off, and his sleeves rolled up above the
elbows, was bending over him, and holding a sponge in one hand and a
probe in the other, seemed to be engaged in a delicate and dangerous
operation.

The countess, in a light muslin dress, was standing at the foot of her
husband’s bed, pale but admirably composed and resigned. She was holding
a lamp, and moved it to and fro as the doctor directed. In a corner two
servant-women were sitting on a box, and crying, their aprons turned
over their heads.

At last the mayor of Sauveterre overcame his painful impressions, and
entered the room. Count Claudieuse was the first to perceive him, and
said,--

“Ah, here is our good M. Seneschal. Come nearer, my friend; come nearer.
You see the year 1871 is a fatal year. It will soon leave me nothing but
a few handfuls of ashes of all I possessed.”

“It is a great misfortune,” replied the excellent mayor; “but, after
all, it is less than we apprehended. God be thanked, you are safe!”

“Who knows? I am suffering terribly.”

The countess trembled.

“Trivulce!” she whispered in a tone of entreaty. “Trivulce!”

Never did lover glance at his beloved with more tenderness than Count
Claudieuse did at his wife.

“Pardon me, my dear Genevieve, pardon me, if I show any want of
courage.”

A sudden nervous spasm seized him; and then he exclaimed in a loud
voice, which sounded like a trumpet,--

“Sir! But sir! Thunder and lightning! You kill me!”

“I have some chloroform here,” replied the physician coldly.

“I do not want any.”

“Then you must make up your mind to suffer, and keep quiet now; for
every motion adds to your pain.”

Then sponging a jet of blood which spurted out from under his knife, he
added,--

“However, you shall have a few minutes rest now. My eyes and my hand are
exhausted. I see I am no longer young.”

Dr. Seignebos was sixty years old. He was a small, thin man, with a bald
head and a bilious complexion, carelessly dressed, and spending his life
in taking off, wiping, and putting back again his large gold spectacles.
His reputation was widespread; and they told of wonderful cures which
he had accomplished. Still he had not many friends. The common people
disliked his bitterness; the peasants, his strictness in demanding his
fees; and the townspeople, his political views.

There was a story that one evening, at a public dinner, he had gotten up
and said, “I drink to the memory of the only physician of whose pure and
chaste renown I am envious,--the memory of my countryman, Dr. Guillotin
of Saintes!”

Had he really offered such a toast? The fact is, he pretended to be a
fierce radical, and was certainly the soul and the oracle of the small
socialistic clubs in the neighborhood. People looked aghast when he
began to talk of the reforms which he thought necessary; and they
trembled when he proclaimed his convictions, that “the sword and the
torch ought to search the rotten foundations of society.”

These opinions, certain utilitarian views of like eccentricity, and
still stranger experiments which he openly carried on before the whole
world, had led people more than once to doubt the soundness of his mind.
The most charitable said, “He is an oddity.” This eccentric man had
naturally no great fondness for M. Seneschal, the mayor, a former
lawyer, and a legitimist. He did not think much of the commonwealth
attorney, a useless bookworm. But he detested M. Galpin. Still he bowed
to the three men; and, without minding his patient, he said to them,--

“You see, gentlemen, Count Claudieuse is in a bad plight. He has been
fired at with a gun loaded with small shot; and wounds made in that way
are very puzzling. I trust no vital part has been injured; but I cannot
answer for any thing. I have often in my practice seen very small
injuries, wounds caused by a small-sized shot, which, nevertheless,
proved fatal, and showed their true character only twelve or fifteen
hours after the accident had happened.”

He would have gone on in this way, if the magistrate had not suddenly
interrupted him, saying,--

“Doctor, you know I am here because a crime has been committed. The
criminal has to be found out, and to be punished: hence I request your
assistance, from this moment, in the name of the Law.”



III.

By this single phrase M. Galpin made himself master of the situation,
and reduced the doctor to an inferior position, in which, it is true, he
had the mayor and the commonwealth attorney to bear him company. There
was nothing now to be thought of, but the crime that had been committed,
and the judge who was to punish the author. But he tried in vain to
assume all the rigidity of his official air and that contempt for human
feelings which has made justice so hateful to thousands. His whole being
was impregnated with intense satisfaction, up to his beard, cut and
trimmed like the box-hedges of an old-fashioned garden.

“Well, doctor,” he asked, “first of all, have you any objection to my
questioning your patient?”

“It would certainly be better for him to be left alone,” growled Dr.
Seignebos. “I have made him suffer enough this last hour; and I shall
directly begin again cutting out the small pieces of lead which have
honeycombed his flesh. But if it must be”--

“It must be.”

“Well, then, make haste; for the fever will set in presently.”

M. Daubigeon could not conceal his annoyance. He called out,--

“Galpin, Galpin!”

The other man paid no attention. Having taken a note-book and a pencil
from his pocket, he drew up close to the sick man’s bed, and asked him
in an undertone,--

“Are you strong enough, count, to answer my questions?”

“Oh, perfectly!”

“Then, pray tell me all you know of the sad events of to-night.”

With the aid of his wife and Dr. Seignebos, the count raised himself on
his pillows, and began thus,--

“Unfortunately, the little I know will be of no use in aiding justice to
discover the guilty man. It may have been eleven o’clock, for I am not
even quite sure of the hour, when I had gone to bed, and just blown out
my candle: suddenly a bright light fell upon the window. I was amazed,
and utterly confused; for I was in that state of sleepiness which is not
yet sleep, but very much like it. I said to myself, ‘What can this be?’
but I did not get up: I only was roused by a great noise, like the crash
of a falling wall; and then I jumped out of bed, and said to myself,
‘The house is on fire!’ What increased my anxiety was the fact, which
I at once recollected, that there were in the courtyard, and all around
the house, some sixteen thousand bundles of dry wood, which had been
cut last year. Half dressed, I rushed downstairs. I was very much
bewildered, I confess, and could hardly succeed in opening the outer
door: still I did open it at last. But I had barely put my foot on
the threshold, when I felt in my right side, a little above the hip, a
fierce pain, and heard at the same time, quite close to me, a shot.”

The magistrate interrupted him by a gesture.

“Your statement, count, is certainly remarkably clear. But there is one
point we must try to establish. Were you really fired at the moment you
showed yourself at the door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then the murderer must have been quite near on the watch. He must have
known that the fire would bring you out; and he was lying in wait for
you.”

“That was and still is my impression,” declared the count.

M. Galpin turned to M. Daubigeon.

“Then,” he said to him, “the murder is the principal fact with which we
have to do; and the fire is only an aggravating circumstance,--the
means which the criminal employed in order to succeed the better in
perpetrating his crime.”

Then, returning to the count, he said,--

“Pray go on.”

“When I felt I was wounded,” continued Count Claudieuse, “my first
impulse was instinctively to rush forward to the place from which the
gun seemed to have been fired at me. I had not proceeded three yards,
when I felt the same pain once more in the shoulder and in the neck.
This second wound was more serous than the first; for I lost my
consciousness, my head began to swim and I fell.”

“You had not seen the murderer?”

“I beg your pardon. At the moment when I fell, I thought I saw a man
rush forth from behind a pile of fagots, cross the courtyard, and
disappear in the fields.”

“Would you recognize him?”

“No.”

“But you saw how he was dressed: you can give me a description?”

“No, I cannot. I felt as if there was a veil before my eyes; and he
passed me like a shadow.”

The magistrate could hardly conceal his disappointment.

“Never mind,” he said, “we’ll find him out. But go on, sir.”

The count shook his head.

“I have nothing more to say,” he replied. “I had fainted; and when I
recovered my consciousness, some hours later, I found myself here lying
on this bed.”

M. Galpin noted down the count’s answers with scrupulous exactness: when
he had done, he asked again,--

“We must return to the details of the attack, and examine them minutely.
Now, however, it is important to know what happened after you fell. Who
could tell us that?”

“My wife, sir.”

“I thought so. The countess, no doubt, got up when you rose.”

“My wife had not gone to bed.”

The magistrate turned suddenly to the countess; and at a glance he
perceived that her costume was not that of a lady who had been suddenly
roused from slumber by the burning of her house.

“I see,” he said to himself.

“Bertha,” the count went on to state, “our youngest daughter, who is
lying there on that bed, under the blanket, has the measles, and is
suffering terribly. My wife was sitting up with her. Unfortunately the
windows of her room look upon the garden, on the side opposite to that
where the fire broke out.”

“How, then, did the countess become aware of the accident?” asked the
magistrate.

Without waiting for a more direct question, the countess came forward
and said,--

“As my husband has just told you, I was sitting up with my little
Bertha. I was rather tired; for I had sat up the night before also, and
I had begun to nod, when a sudden noise aroused me. I was not quite sure
whether I had really heard such a noise; but just then a second shot
was heard. I left the room more astonished than frightened. Ah, sir! The
fire had already made such headway, that the staircase was as light as
in broad day. I went down in great haste. The outer door was open. I
went out; and there, some five or six yards from me, I saw, by the
light of the flames, the body of my husband lying on the ground. I threw
myself upon him; but he did not even hear me; his heart had ceased to
beat. I thought he was dead; I called for help; I was in despair.”

M. Seneschal and M. Daubigeon trembled with excitement.

“Well, very well!” said M. Galpin, with an air of satisfaction,--“very
well done!”

“You know,” continued the countess, “how hard it is to rouse
country-people. It seems to me I remained ever so long alone there,
kneeling by the side of my husband. At last the brightness of the fire
awakened some of the farm-hands, the workmen, and our servants. They
rushed out, crying, ‘Fire!’ When they saw me, they ran up and helped
me carry my husband to a place of safety; for the danger was increasing
every minute. The fire was spreading with terrific violence, thanks to
a furious wind. The barns were one vast mass of fire; the outbuildings
were burning; the distillery was in a blaze; and the roof of the
dwelling-house was flaming up in various places. And there was not one
cool head among them all. I was so utterly bewildered, that I forgot all
about my children; and their room was already in flames, when a brave,
bold fellow rushed in, and snatched them from the very jaws of death. I
did not come to myself till Dr. Seignebos arrived, and spoke to me words
of hope. This fire will probably ruin us; but what matters that, so long
as my husband and my children are safe?”

Dr. Seignebos had more than once given utterance to his contemptuous
impatience: he did not appreciate these preliminary steps. The others,
however, the mayor, the attorney, and even the servants, had hardly
been able to suppress their excitement. He shrugged his shoulders, and
growled between his teeth,--

“Mere formalities! How petty! How childish!”

After having taken off his spectacles, wiped them and replaced them
twenty times, he had sat down at the rickety table in the corner of the
room, and amused himself with arranging the fifteen or twenty shot he
had extracted from the count’s wounds, in long lines or small circles.
But, when the countess uttered her last words, he rose, and, turning to
M. Galpin, said in a curt tone,--

“Now, sir, I hope you will let me have my patient again.”

The magistrate was not a little incensed: there was reason enough,
surely; and, frowning fiercely, he said,--

“I appreciate, sir, the importance of your duties; but mine are, I
think, by no means less solemn nor less urgent.”

“Oh!”

“Consequently you will be pleased, sir, to grant me five minutes more.”

“Ten, if it must be, sir. Only I warn you that every minute henceforth
may endanger the life of my patient.”

They had drawn near to each other, and were measuring each other with
defiant looks, which betrayed the bitterest animosity. They would surely
not quarrel at the bedside of a dying man? The countess seemed to fear
such a thing; for she said reproachfully,--

“Gentlemen, I pray, gentlemen”--

Perhaps her intervention would have been of no avail, if M. Seneschal
and M. Daubigeon had not stepped in, each addressing one of the two
adversaries. M. Galpin was apparently the most obstinate of the two;
for, in spite of all, he began once more to question the count, and
said,--

“I have only one more question to ask you, sir: Where and how were you
standing, where and how do you think the murderer was standing, at the
moment when the crime was committed?”

“Sir,” replied the count, evidently with a great effort, “I was
standing, as I told you, on the threshold of my door, facing the
courtyard. The murderer must have been standing some twenty yards off,
on my right, behind a pile of wood.”

When he had written down the answer of the wounded man, the magistrate
turned once more to the physician, and said,--

“You heard what was said, sir. It is for you now to aid justice by
telling us at what distance the murderer must have been when he fired.”

“I don’t guess riddles,” replied the physician coarsely.

“Ah, have a care, sir!” said M. Galpin. “Justice, whom I here represent,
has the right and the means to enforce respect. You are a physician,
sir; and your science is able to answer my question with almost
mathematical accuracy.”

The physician laughed, and said,--

“Ah, indeed! Science has reached that point, has it? Which science?
Medical jurisprudence, no doubt,--that part of our profession which is
at the service of the courts, and obeys the judges’ behests.”

“Sir!”

But the doctor was not the man to allow himself to be defeated a second
time. He went on coolly,--

“I know what you are going to say; there is no handbook of medical
jurisprudence which does not peremptorily settle the question you ask
me. I have studied these handbooks, these formidable weapons which you
gentlemen of the bar know so well how to handle. I know the opinions
of a Devergie and an Orfila, I know even what Casper and Tardieu, and
a host of others teach on that subject. I am fully aware that these
gentlemen claim to be able to tell you by the inch at what distance
a shot has been fired. But I am not so skilful. I am only a poor
country-practitioner, a simple healer of diseases. And before I give an
opinion which may cost a poor devil his life, innocent though he be, I
must have time to reflect, to consult data, and to compare other cases
in my practice.”

He was so evidently right in reality, if not in form, that even M.
Galpin gave way.

“It is merely as a matter of information that I request your opinion,
sir,” he replied. “Your real and carefully-considered professional
opinion will, of course, be given in a special statement.”

“Ah, if that is the case!”

“Pray, inform me, then unofficially, what you think of the nature of the
wounds of Count Claudieuse.”

Dr. Seignebos settled his spectacles ceremoniously on his nose, and then
replied,--

“My impression, so far as I am now able to judge, is that the count has
stated the facts precisely as they were. I am quite ready to believe
that the murderer was lying in ambush behind one of the piles of wood,
and at the distance which he has mentioned. I am also able to affirm
that the two shots were fired at different distances,--one much nearer
than the other. The proof of it lies in the nature of the wounds, one of
which, near the hip may be scientifically called”--

“But we know at what distance a ball is spent,” broke in M. Seneschal,
whom the doctor’s dogmatic tone began to annoy.

“Ah, do we know that, indeed? You know it, M. Seneschal? Well, I declare
I do not know it. To be sure, I bear in mind, what you seem to forget,
that we have no longer, as in former days, only three or four kinds
of guns. Did you think of the immense variety of fire-arms, French and
English, American and German, which are nowadays found in everybody’s
hands? Do you not see, you who have been a lawyer and a magistrate, that
the whole legal question will be based upon this grave and all-important
point?”

Thereupon the physician resumed his instruments, resolved to give no
other answer, and was about to go to work once more when fearful
cries were heard without; and the lawyers, the mayor, and the countess
herself, rushed at once to the door.

These cries were, unfortunately, not uttered without cause. The roof of
the main building had just fallen in, burying under its ruins the
poor drummer who had a few hours ago beaten the alarm, and one of the
firemen, the most respected carpenter in Sauveterre, and a father of
five children.

Capt. Parenteau seemed to be maddened by this disaster; and all vied
with each other in efforts to rescue the poor fellows, who were uttering
shrieks of horror that rose high above the crash of falling timbers. But
all their endeavors were unavailing. One of the gendarmes and a farmer,
who had nearly succeeded in reaching the sufferers, barely escaped being
burnt themselves, and were only rescued after having been dangerously
injured. Then only it seemed as if all became fully aware of the
abominable crime committed by the incendiary. Then only the clouds
of smoke and the columns of fire, which rose high into the air, were
accompanied by fierce cries of vengeance rising heavenwards.

“Death to the incendiary! Death!”

At the moment M. Seneschal felt himself inspired with a sudden thought.
He knew how cautious peasants are, and how difficult it is to make them
tell what they know. He climbed, therefore, upon a heap of fallen beams,
and said in a clear, loud voice,--

“Yes, my friends, you are right: death to the incendiary! Yes, the
unfortunate victims of the basest of all crimes must be avenged. We must
find out the incendiary; we must! You want it to be done, don’t you?
Well, it depends only on you. There must be some one among you who knows
something about this matter. Let him come forward and tell us what he
has seen or heard. Remember that the smallest trifle may be a clew
to the crime. You would be as bad as the incendiary himself, if you
concealed him. Just think it over, consider.”

Loud voices were heard in the crowd; then suddenly a voice said,--

“There is one here who can tell.”

“Who?”

“Cocoleu. He was there from the beginning. It was he who went and
brought the children of the countess out of their room. What has become
of him?--Cocoleu, Cocoleu!”

One must have lived in the country, among these simple-minded peasants,
to understand the excitement and the fury of all these men and women as
they crowded around the ruins of Valpinson. People in town do not mind
brigands, in general: they have their gas, their strong doors, and
the police. They are generally little afraid of fire. They have their
fire-alarms; and at the first spark the neighbor cries, “Fire!” The
engines come racing up; and water comes forth as if by magic. But it
is very different in the country: here every man is constantly under
a sense of his isolation. A simple latch protects his door; and no one
watches over his safety at night. If a murderer should attack him, his
cries could bring no help. If fire should break out, his house would be
burnt down before the neighbors could reach it; and he is happy who can
save his own life and that of his family. Hence all these good people,
whom the mayor’s words had deeply excited, were eager to find out the
only man who knew anything about this calamity, Cocoleu.

He was well known among them, and for many years.

There was not one among them who had not given him a piece of bread, or
a bowl of soup, when he was hungry; not one of them had ever refused
him a night’s rest on the straw in his barn, when it was raining or
freezing, and the poor fellow wanted a shelter.

For Cocoleu was one of those unfortunate beings who labor under a
grievous physical or moral deformity.

Some twenty years ago, a wealthy land-owner in Brechy had sent to the
nearest town for half a dozen painters, whom he kept at his house nearly
a whole summer, painting and decorating his newly-built house. One of
these men had seduced a girl in the neighborhood, whom he had bewitched
by his long white blouse, his handsome brown mustache, his good spirits,
gay songs, and flattering speeches. But, when the work was done, the
tempter had flown away with the others, without thinking any more of the
poor girl than of the last cigar which he had smoked.

And yet she was expecting a child. When she could no longer conceal
her condition, she was turned out of the house in which she had been
employed; and her family, unable to support themselves, drove her away
without mercy. Overcome with grief, shame, and remorse, poor Colette
wandered from farm to farm, begging, insulted, laughed at, beaten even
at times. Thus it came about, that in a dark wood, one dismal winter
evening, she gave life to a male child. No one ever understood how
mother and child managed to survive. But both lived; and for many a year
they were seen in and around Sauveterre, covered with rags, and living
upon the dear-bought generosity of the peasants.

Then the mother died, utterly forsaken by human help, as she had lived.
They found her body, one morning, in a ditch by the wayside.

The child survived alone. He was then eight years old, quite strong
and tall for his age. A farmer took pity on him, and took him home.
The little wretch was not fit for anything: he could not even keep
his master’s cows. During his mother’s lifetime, his silence, his wild
looks, and his savage appearance, had been attributed to his wretched
mode of life. But when people began to be interested in him, they found
out that his intellect had never been aroused. He was an idiot, and,
besides, subject to that terrible nervous affection which at times
shakes the whole body and disfigures the face by the violence of
uncontrollable convulsions. He was not a deaf-mute; but he could
only stammer out with intense difficulty a few disjointed syllables.
Sometimes the country people would say to him,--

“Tell us your name, and you shall have a cent.”

Then it took him five minutes’ hard work to utter, amid a thousand
painful contortions, the name of his mother.

“Co-co-co-lette.”

Hence came his name Cocoleu. It had been ascertained that he was utterly
unable to do anything; and people ceased to interest themselves in his
behalf. The consequence was, that he became a vagabond as of old.

It was about this time that Dr. Seignebos, on one of his visits, met him
one day on the public road.

This excellent man had, among other extraordinary notions, the
conviction that idiocy is nothing more than a defective state of
the brains, which may be remedied by the use of certain well-known
substances, such as phosphorus, for instance. He lost no time in seizing
upon this admirable opportunity to test his theory. Cocoleu was sent
for, and installed in his house. He subjected him to a treatment which
he kept secret; and only a druggist at Sauveterre, who was also
well known as entertaining very extraordinary notions, knew what
had happened. At the end of eighteen months, Cocoleu had fallen off
terribly: he talked perhaps, a little more fluently; but his intellect
had not been perceptibly improved.

Dr. Seignebos was discouraged. He made up a parcel of things which he
had given to his patient, put it into his hands, pushed him out of his
door, and told him never to come back again.

The doctor had rendered Cocoleu a sad service. The poor idiot had lost
the habit of privation: he had forgotten how to go from door to door,
asking for alms; and he would have perished, if his good fortune had not
led him to knock at the door of the house at Valpinson.

Count Claudieuse and his wife were touched by his wretchedness, and
determined to take charge of him. They gave him a room and a bed at one
of the farmhouses; but they could never induce him to stay there. He
was by nature a vagabond; and the instinct was too strong for him. In
winter, frost and snow kept him in for a little while; but as soon as
the first leaves came out, he went wandering again through forest and
field, remaining absent often for weeks altogether.

At last, however, something seemed to have been aroused in him, which
looked like the instinct of a domesticated animal. His attachment to
the countess resembled that of a dog, even in the capers and cries with
which he greeted her whenever he saw her. Often, when she went out, he
accompanied her, running and frolicking around her just like a dog. He
was also very fond of little girls, and seemed to resent it when he was
kept from them: for people were afraid his nervous attacks might affect
the children.

With time he had also become capable of performing some simple service.
He could be intrusted with certain messages: he could water the flowers,
summon a servant, or even carry a letter to the post-office at Brechy.
His progress in this respect was so marked, that some of the more
cunning peasants began to suspect that Cocoleu was not so “innocent,”
 after all, as he looked, and that he was cleverly playing the fool in
order to enjoy life easily.

“We have him at last,” cried several voices at once. “Here he is; here
he is!”

The crowd made way promptly; and almost immediately a young man
appeared, led and pushed forward by several persons. Cocoleu’s clothes,
all in disorder, showed clearly that he had offered a stout resistance.
He was a youth of about eighteen years, very tall, quite beardless,
excessively thin, and so loosely jointed, that he looked like a
hunchback. A mass of reddish hair came down his low, retreating
forehead. His small eyes, his enormous mouth bristling with sharp teeth,
his broad flat nose, and his immense ears, gave to his face a strange
idiotic expression, and to his whole appearance a most painful brutish
air.

“What must we do with him?” asked the peasants of the mayor.

“We must take him before the magistrate, my friends,” replied M.
Seneschal,--“down there in that cottage, where you have carried the
count.”

“And we’ll make him talk,” threatened his captors. “You hear! Go on,
quick!”



IV.

M. Galpin and the doctor had both considered it a point of honor who
should show the most perfect indifference; and thus they had betrayed
by no sign their curiosity to know what was going on out doors. Dr.
Seignebos was on the point of resuming the operation; and, as coolly as
if he had been in his own rooms at home, he was washing the sponge which
he had just used, and wiping his instruments. The magistrate, on the
other hand, was standing in the centre of the room, his arms crossed,
his eyes fixed upon the infinite, apparently. It may be he was thinking
of his star which had at last brought him that famous criminal case for
which he had ardently longed many a year.

Count Claudieuse, however, was very far from sharing their reserve. He
was tossing about on his bed; and as soon as the mayor and his friend
reappeared, looking quite upset, he exclaimed,--

“What does that uproar mean?”

And, when he had heard of the calamity, he added,--

“Great God! And I was complaining of my losses. Two men killed! That is
a real misfortune. Poor men! to die because they were so brave,--Bolton
hardly thirty years old; Guillebault, a father of a family, who leaves
five children, and not a cent!”

The countess, coming in at that moment, heard his last words.

“As long as we have a mouthful of bread,” she said in a voice full of
deep emotion, “neither Bolton’s mother, nor Guillebault’s children,
shall ever know what want is.”

She could not say another word; for at that moment the peasants crowded
into the room, pushing the prisoner before them.

“Where is the magistrate?” they asked. “Here is a witness!”

“What, Cocoleu!” exclaimed the count.

“Yes, he knows something: he said so himself. We want him to tell it to
the magistrate. We want the incendiary to be caught.”

Dr. Seignebos had frowned fiercely. He execrated Cocoleu, whose sight
recalled to him that great failure which the good people of Sauveterre
were not likely to forget soon.

“You do not really mean to examine him?” he asked, turning to M. Galpin.

“Why not?” answered the magistrate dryly.

“Because he is an imbecile, sir, an idiot. Because he cannot possibly
understand your questions, or the importance of his answers.”

“He may give us a valuable hint, nevertheless.”

“He? A man who has no sense? You don’t really think so. The law cannot
attach any importance to the evidence of a fool.”

M. Galpin betrayed his impatience by an increase of stiffness, as he
replied,--

“I know my duty, sir.”

“And I,” replied the physician,--“I also know what I have to do. You
have summoned me to assist you in this investigation. I obey; and I
declare officially, that the mental condition of this unfortunate man
makes his evidence utterly worthless. I appeal to the commonwealth
attorney.”

He had hoped for a word of encouragement from M. Daubigeon; but nothing
came. Then he went on,--

“Take care, sir, or you may get yourself into trouble. What would you do
if this poor fellow should make a formal charge against any one? Could
you attach any weight to his word?”

The peasants were listening with open mouths. One of them said,--

“Oh! Cocoleu is not so innocent as he looks.”

“He can say very well what he wants to say, the scamp!” added another.

“At all events, I am indebted to him for the life of my children,” said
the count gently. “He thought of them when I was unconscious, and when
no one else remembered them. Come, Cocoleu, come nearer, my friend,
don’t be afraid: there is no one here to hurt you.”

It was very well the count used such kind words; for Cocoleu was
thoroughly terrified by the brutal treatment he had received, and was
trembling in all his limbs.

“I am--not--a--afraid,” he stammered out.

“Once more I protest,” said the physician.

He had found out that he stood not alone in his opinion. Count
Claudieuse came to his assistance, saying,--

“I really think it might be dangerous to question Cocoleu.”

But the magistrate was master of the situation, and conscious of all the
powers conferred upon him by the laws of France in such cases.

“I must beg, gentlemen,” he said, in a tone which did not allow of any
reply,--“I must beg to be permitted to act in my own way.”

And sitting down, he asked Cocoleu,--

“Come, my boy, listen to me, and try to understand what I say. Do you
know what has happened at Valpinson?”

“Fire,” replied the idiot.

“Yes, my friend, fire, which burns down the house of your
benefactor,--fire, which has killed two good men. But that is not all:
they have tried to murder the count. Do you see him there in his bed,
wounded, and covered with blood? Do you see the countess, how she
suffers?”

Did Cocoleu follow him? His distorted features betrayed nothing of what
might be going on within him.

“Nonsense!” growled the doctor, “what obstinacy! What folly!”

M. Galpin heard him, and said angrily,--

“Sir, do not force me to remind you that I have not far from here, men
whose duty it is to see that my authority is respected here.”

Then, turning again to the poor idiot, he went on,--

“All these misfortunes are the work of a vile incendiary. You hate him,
don’t you; you detest him, the rascal!”

“Yes,” said Cocoleu.

“You want him to be punished, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Well, then you must help me to find him out, so that the gendarmes may
catch him, and put him in jail. You know who it is; you have told these
people and”--

He paused, and after a moment, as Cocoleu kept silent, he asked,--

“But, now I think of it, whom has this poor fellow talked to?”

Not one of the peasants could tell. They inquired; but no answer came.
Perhaps Cocoleu had never said what he was reported to have said.

“The fact is,” said one of the tenants at Valpinson, “that the poor
devil, so to say, never sleeps, and that he is roaming about all night
around the house and the farm buildings.”

This was a new light for M. Galpin; suddenly changing the form of his
interrogatory, he asked Cocoleu,--

“Where did you spend the night?”

“In--in--the--court--yard.”

“Were you asleep when the fire broke out?”

“No.”

“Did you see it commence?”

“Yes.”

“How did it commence?”

The idiot looked fixedly at the Countess Claudieuse with the timid and
abject expression of a dog who tries to read something in his master’s
eyes.

“Tell us, my friend,” said the Countess gently,--“tell us.”

A flash of intelligence shone in Cocoleu’s eyes.

“They--they set it on fire,” he stammered.

“On purpose?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“A gentleman.”

There was not a person present at this extraordinary scene who did not
anxiously hold his breath as the word was uttered. The doctor alone kept
cool, and exclaimed,--

“Such an examination is sheer folly!”

But the magistrate did not seem to hear his words; and, turning to
Cocoleu, he asked him, in a deeply agitated tone of voice--

“Did you see the gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“Very--very--well.”

“What is his name?”

“Oh, yes!”

“What is his name? Tell us.”

Cocoleu’s features betrayed the fearful anguish of his mind.
He hesitated, and at last he answered, making a violent
effort,--“Bois--Bois--Boiscoran!”

The name was received with murmurs of indignation and incredulous
laughter. There was not a shadow of doubt or of suspicion. The peasants
said,--

“M. de Boiscoran an incendiary! Who does he think will believe that
story?”

“It is absurd!” said Count Claudieuse.

“Nonsense!” repeated the mayor and his friend.

Dr. Siegnebos had taken off his spectacles, and was wiping them with an
air of intense satisfaction.

“What did I tell you?” he exclaimed. “But the gentleman did not
condescend to attach any importance to my suggestions.”

The magistrate was by far the most excited man in the crowd. He had
turned excessively pale, and made, visibly, the greatest efforts to
preserve his equanimity. The commonwealth attorney leaned over towards
him, and whispered,--

“If I were in your place, I would stop here, and consider the answer as
not given.”

But M. Galpin was one of those men who are blinded by self-conceit,
and who would rather be cut to pieces than admit that they have been
mistaken. He answered,--

“I shall go on.”

Then turning once more to Cocoleu, in the midst of so deep a silence
that the buzzing of a fly would have been distinctly heard, he asked,--

“Do you know, my boy, what you say? Do you know that you are accusing a
man of a horrible crime?”

Whether Cocoleu understood, or not, he was evidently deeply agitated.
Big drops of perspiration rolled slowly down his temples; and nervous
shocks agitated his limbs, and convulsed his features.

“I, I--am--telling the--truth!” he said at last.

“M. de. Boiscoran has set Valpinson on fire?”

“Yes.”

“How did he do it?”

Cocoleu’s restless eyes wandered incessantly from the count, who looked
indignant, to the countess, who seemed to listen with painful surprise.
The magistrate repeated,--

“Speak!”

After another moment’s hesitation, the idiot began to explain what
he had seen; and it took him many minutes to state, amid countless
contortions, and painful efforts to speak, that he had seen M. de
Boiscoran pull out some papers from his pocket, light them with a
match, put them under a rick of straw near by, and push the burning mass
towards two enormous piles of wood which were in close contact with a
vat full of spirits.

“This is sheer nonsense!” cried the doctor, thus giving words to what
they all seemed to feel.

But M. Galpin had mastered his excitement. He said solemnly,--

“At the first sign of applause or of displeasure, I shall send for the
gendarmes, and have the room cleared.”

Then, turning once more to Cocoleu, he said,--

“Since you saw M. de Boiscoran so distinctly, tell us how he was
dressed.”

“He had light trousers on,” replied the idiot, stammering still most
painfully, “a dark-brown shooting-jacket, and a big straw hat. His
trousers were stuffed into his boots.”

Two or three peasants looked at each other, as if they had at last hit
upon a suspicious fact. The costume which Cocoleu had so accurately
described was well known to them all.

“And when he had kindled the fire,” said the magistrate again, “what did
he do next?”

“He hid behind the woodpile.”

“And then?”

“He loaded his gun, and, when master came out, he fired.”

Count Claudieuse was so indignant that he forgot the pain which his
wounds caused him, and raised himself on his bed.

“It is monstrous,” he exclaimed, “to allow an idiot to charge an
honorable man with such a crime! If he really saw M. de Boiscoran set
the house on fire, and hide himself in order to murder me, why did he
not come and warn me?”

Mr. Galpin repeated the question submissively, to the great amazement of
the mayor and M. Daubigeon.

“Why did you not give warning?” he asked Cocoleu.

But the efforts which the unfortunate man had made during the last
half-hour had exhausted his little strength. He broke out into stupid
laughter; and almost instantly one of his fearful nervous attacks
overcame him: he fell down yelling, and had to be carried away.

The magistrate had risen, pale and deeply excited, but evidently
meditating on what was to be done next. The commonwealth attorney asked
him in an undertone what he was going to do; and the lawyer replied,--

“Prosecute!”

“What?”

“Can I do otherwise in my position? God is my witness that I tried
my best, by urging this poor idiot, to prove the absurdity of his
accusation. But the result has disappointed me.”

“And now?”

“Now I can no longer hesitate. There have been ten witnesses present at
the examination. My honor is at stake. I must establish either the guilt
or the innocence of the man whom Cocoleu accuses.” Immediately, walking
up to the count’s bed, he asked,--

“Will you have the kindness, Count Claudieuse, to tell me what your
relations are to M. de Boiscoran?”

Surprise and indignation caused the wounded man to blush deeply.

“Can it be possible, sir, that you believe the words of that idiot?”

“I believe nothing,” answered the magistrate. “My duty is to unravel the
truth; and I mean to do it.”

“The doctor has told you what the state of Cocoleu’s mind is?”

“Count, I beg you will answer my question.”

Count Claudieuse looked angry; but he replied promptly,--

“My relations with M. de Boiscoran are neither good nor bad. We have
none.”

“It is reported, I have heard it myself, that you are on bad terms.”

“On no terms at all. I never leave Valpinson, and M. de Boiscoran spends
nine months of the year in Paris. He has never called at my house, and I
have never been in his.”

“You have been overheard speaking of him in unmeasured terms.”

“That may be. We are neither of the same age, nor have we the same
tastes or the same opinions. He is young: I am old. He likes Paris and
the great world: I am fond of solitude and hunting. I am a Legitimist:
he used to be an Orleanist, and now he is a Republican. I believe that
the descendant of our old kings alone can save the country; and he
is convinced that the happiness of France is possible only under a
Republic. But two men may be enemies, and yet esteem each other. M. de
Boiscoran is an honorable man; he has done his duty bravely in the war,
he has fought well, and has been wounded.”

M. Galpin noted down these answers with extreme care. When he had done
so, he continued,--

“The question is not one of political opinions only. You have had
personal difficulties with M. de Boiscoran.”

“Of no importance.”

“I beg pardon: you have been at law.”

“Our estates adjoin each other. There is an unlucky brook between us,
which is a source of constant trouble to the neighbors.”

M. Galpin shook his head, and added,--

“These are not the only difficulties you have had with each other.
Everybody in the country knows that you have had violent altercations.”

Count Claudieuse seemed to be in great distress.

“It is true: we have used hard words. M. de Boiscoran had two wretched
dogs that were continually escaping from his kennels, and came hunting
in my fields. You cannot imagine how much game they destroyed.”

“Exactly so. And one day you met M. de Boiscoran, and you warned him
that you would shoot his dogs.”

“I must confess I was furious. But I was wrong, a thousand times wrong:
I did threaten”--

“That is it. You were both of you armed. You threatened one another: he
actually aimed at you. Don’t deny it. A number of persons have seen it;
and I know it. He has told me so himself.”



V.

There was not a person in the whole district who did not know of what
a fearful disease poor Cocoleu was suffering; and everybody knew, also,
that it was perfectly useless to try and help him. The two men who had
taken him out had therefore laid him simply on a pile of wet straw, and
then they had left him to himself, eager as they were to see and hear
what was going on.

It must be said, in justice to the several hundred peasants who were
crowding around the smoking ruins of Valpinson, that they treated the
madman who had accused M. de Boiscoran of such a crime, neither with
cruel jokes nor with fierce curses. Unfortunately, first impulses,
which are apt to be good impulses, do not last long. One of those idle
good-for-nothings, drunkards, envious scamps who are found in every
community, in the country as well as in the city, cried out,--

“And why not?”

These few words opened at once a door to all kinds of bold guesses.

Everybody had heard something about the quarrel between Count Claudieuse
and M. de Boiscoran. It was well known, moreover, that the provocation
had always come from the count, and that the latter had invariably given
way in the end. Why, therefore, might not M. de Boiscoran, impatient at
last, have resorted to such means in order to avenge himself on a man
whom they thought he must needs hate, and whom he probably feared at the
same time?

“Perhaps he would not do it, because he is a nobleman, and because he is
rich?” they added sneeringly.

The next step was, of course, to look out for circumstances which might
support such a theory; and the opportunity was not lacking. Groups were
formed; and soon two men and a woman declared aloud that they could
astonish the world if they chose to talk. They were urged to tell what
they knew; and, of course, they refused. But they had said too much
already. Willing or not willing, they were carried up to the house,
where, at that very moment, M. Galpin was examining Count Claudieuse.
The excited crowd made such a disturbance, that M. Seneschal, trembling
at the idea of a new accident, rushed out to the door.

“What is it now?” he asked.

“More witnesses,” replied the peasants. “Here are some more witnesses.”

The mayor turned round, and, after having exchanged glances with M.
Daubigeon, he said to the magistrate,--

“They are bringing you some more witnesses, sir.”

No doubt M. Galpin was little pleased at the interruption; but he knew
the people well enough to bear in mind, that, unless he took them at the
moment when they were willing to talk, he might never be able to get any
thing out of them at any other time.

“We shall return some other time to our conversation,” he said to Count
Claudieuse.

Then, replying to M. Seneschal, he said,--

“Let the witnesses come in, but one by one.”

The first who entered was the only son of a well-to-do farmer in
the village of Brechy, called Ribot. He was a young fellow of about
twenty-five, broad-shouldered, with a very small head, a low brow, and
formidable crimson ears. For twenty miles all around, he was reputed to
be an irresistible beau,--a reputation of which he was very proud.
After having asked him his name, his first names, and his age, M. Galpin
said,--

“What do you know?”

The young man straightened himself, and with a marvellously conceited
air, which set all the peasants a-laughing, he replied,--

“I was out that night on some little private business of my own. I was
on the other side of the chateau of Boiscoran. Somebody was waiting for
me, and I was behind time: so I cut right across the marsh. I knew the
rains of the last days would have filled all the ditches; but, when a
man is out on such important business as mine was, he can always find
his way”--

“Spare us those tedious details,” said the magistrate coldly. The
handsome fellow looked surprised, rather than offended, by the
interruption, and then went on,--

“As your Honor desires. Well, it was about eight o’clock, or a little
more, and it was growing dark, when I reached the Seille swamps. They
were overflowing; and the water was two inches above the stones of
the canal. I asked myself how I should get across without spoiling my
clothes, when I saw M. de Boiscoran coming towards me from the other
side.”

“Are you quite sure it was he?”

“Why, I should think so! I talked to him. But stop, he was not afraid of
getting wet. Without much ado, he rolled up his trousers, stuffed them
into the tops of his tall boots, and went right through. Just then he
saw me, and seemed to be surprised. I was as much so as he was. ‘Why,
is it you, sir?’ I said. He replied ‘Yes: I have to see somebody at
Brechy.’ That was very probably so; still I said again, ‘But you
have chosen a queer way.’ He laughed. ‘I did not know the swamps were
overflowed,’ he answered, ‘and I thought I would shoot some snipes.’ As
he said this, he showed me his gun. At that moment I had nothing to say;
but now, when I think it over, it looks queer to me.”

M. Galpin had written down the statement as fast as it was given. Then
he asked,--

“How was M. de Boiscoran dressed?”

“Stop. He had grayish trousers on, a shooting-jacket of brown velveteen,
and a broad-brimmed panama hat.”

The count and the countess looked distressed and almost overcome; nor
did the mayor and his friend seem to be less troubled. One circumstance
in Ribot’s evidence seemed to have struck them with peculiar force,--the
fact that he had seen M. de Boiscoran push his trousers inside his
boots.

“You can go,” said M. Galpin to the young man. “Let another witness come
in.”

The next one was an old man of bad reputation, who lived alone in an old
hut two miles from Valpinson. He was called Father Gaudry. Unlike young
Ribot, who had shown great assurance, the old man looked humble and
cringing in his dirty, ill-smelling rags. After having given his name,
he said,--

“It might have been eleven o’clock at night, and I was going through the
forest of Rochepommier, along one of the little by-paths”--

“You were stealing wood!” said the magistrate sternly.

“Great God, what an idea!” cried the old man, raising his hands to
heaven. “How can you say such a thing! I steal wood! No, my dear sir,
I was very quietly going to sleep in the forest, so as to be up
with daylight, and gather champignons and other mushrooms to sell at
Sauveterre. Well, I was trotting along, when, all of a sudden, I hear
footsteps behind me. Naturally, I was frightened.”

“Because you were stealing!”

“Oh, no! my dear sir; only, at night, you understand. Well, I hid behind
a tree; and almost at the same moment I saw M. de Boiscoran pass by. I
recognized him perfectly in spite of the dark; for he seemed to be in
a great rage, talked loud to himself, swore, gesticulated, and tore
handfuls of leaves from the branches.”

“Did he have a gun?”

“Yes, my dear sir; for that was the very thing that frightened me so. I
thought he was a keeper.”

The third and last witness was a good old woman, Mrs. Courtois, whose
little farm lay on the other side of the forest of Rochepommier. When
she was asked, she hesitated a moment, and then she said,--

“I do not know much; but I will tell you all I do know. As we expected
to have a house full of workmen a few days hence, and as I was going to
bake bread to-morrow, I was going with my ass to the mill on Sauveterre
Mountain to fetch flour. The miller had not any ready; but he told me,
if I could wait, he would let me have some: and so I staid to supper.
About ten o’clock, they gave me a bag full of flour. The boys put it
on my ass, and I went home. I was about half-way, and it was, perhaps,
eleven o’clock, when, just at the edge of the forest of Rochepommier, my
ass stumbled, and the bag fell off. I had a great deal of trouble, for I
was not strong enough to lift it alone; and just then a man came out
of the woods, quite near me. I called to him, and he came. It was M. de
Boiscoran: I ask him to help me; and at once, without losing a moment,
he puts his gun down, lifts the bag from the ground, and puts it on my
ass. I thank him. He says, ‘Welcome,’ and--that is all.”

The mayor had been all this time standing in the door of the chamber,
performing the humble duty of a doorkeeper, and barring the entrance to
the eager and curious crowd outside. When Mrs. Courtois retired, quite
bewildered by her own words, and regretting what she had said, he called
out,--

“Is there any one else who knows any thing?”

As nobody appeared, he closed the door, and said curtly,--

“Well, then, you can go home now, my friends. Let the law have free
course.”

The law, represented by the magistrate, was a prey at that moment to the
most cruel perplexity. M. Galpin was utterly overcome by consternation.
He sat at the little table, on which he had been writing, his head
resting on his hands, thinking, apparently, how he could find a way out
of this labyrinth.

All of a sudden he rose, and forgetting, for a moment, his customary
rigidity, he let his mask of icy impassiveness drop off his face, and
said,--

“Well?” as if, in his despair, he had hoped for some help or advice in
his troubles,--“well?”

No answer came.

All the others were as much troubled as he was. They all tried to shake
off the overwhelming impression made by this accumulation of evidence;
but in vain. At last, after a moment’s silence, the magistrate said with
strange bitterness,--

“You see, gentlemen, I was right in examining Cocoleu. Oh! don’t attempt
to deny it: you share my doubts and my suspicions, I see it. Is there
one among you who would dare assert that the terrible excitement of this
poor man has not restored to him for a time the use of his reason? When
he told you that he had witnessed the crime, and when he gave the name
of the criminal, you looked incredulous. But then other witnesses
came; and their united evidence, corresponding without a missing link,
constitutes a terrible presumption.”

He became animated again. Professional habits, stronger than every thing
else, obtained once more the mastery.

“M. de Boiscoran was at Valpinson to-night: that is clearly established.
Well, how did he get here? By concealing himself. Between his own house
and Valpinson there are two public roads,--one by Brechy, and another
around the swamps. Does M. de Boiscoran take either of the two? No.
He cuts straight across the marshes, at the risk of sinking in, or of
getting wet from head to foot. On his return he chooses, in spite of the
darkness, the forest of Rochepommier, unmindful of the danger he runs to
lose his way, and to wander about in it till daybreak. What was he doing
this for? Evidently, in order not to be seen. And, in fact, whom does
he meet?--a loose fellow, Ribot, who is himself in hiding on account
of some love-intrigue; a wood-stealer, Gaudry, whose only anxiety is to
avoid the gendarmes; an old woman, finally, Mrs. Courtois, who has
been belated by an accident. All his precautions were well chosen; but
Providence was watching.”

“O Providence!” growled Dr. Seignebos,--“Providence!”

But M. Galpin did not even hear the interruption. Speaking faster and
faster, he went on,--

“Would it at least be possible to plead in behalf of M. de Boiscoran a
difference in time? No. At what time was he seen to come to this
place? At nightfall. ‘It was half-past eight,’ says Ribot, ‘when M. de
Boiscoran crossed the canal at the Seille swamps.’ He might, therefore,
have easily reached Valpinson at half-past nine. At that hour the crime
had not yet been committed. When was he seen returning home? Gaudry and
the woman Courtois have told you the hour,--after eleven o’clock. At
that time Count Claudieuse had been shot, and Valpinson was on fire. Do
we know any thing of M. de Boiscoran’s temper at that time? Yes, we do.
When he came this way he was quite cool. He is very much surprised at
meeting Ribot; but he explains to him very fully how he happens to be at
that place, and also why he has a gun.

“He says he is on his way to meet somebody at Brechy, and he thought he
would shoot some birds. Is that admissible? Is it even likely? However,
let us look at him on his way back. Gaudry says he was walking very
fast: he seemed to be furious, and was pulling handfuls of leaves from
the branches. What does Mrs. Courtois say? Nothing. When she calls him,
he does not venture to run; that would have been a confession, but he is
in a great hurry to help her. And then? His way for a quarter of an hour
is the same as the woman’s: does he keep her company? No. He leaves her
hastily. He goes ahead, and hurries home; for he thinks Count Claudieuse
is dead; he knows Valpinson is in flames; and he fears he will hear the
bells ring, and see the fire raging.”

It is not often that magistrates allow themselves such familiarity; for
judges, and even lawyers, generally fancy they are too high above common
mortals, on such occasions, to explain their views, to state their
impressions, and to ask, as it were, for advice. Still, when the inquiry
is only begun, there are, properly speaking, no fixed rules prescribed.
As soon as a crime has been reported to a French magistrate, he is at
liberty to do any thing he chooses in order to discover the guilty one.
Absolutely master of the case, responsible only to his conscience, and
endowed with extraordinary powers, he proceeds as he thinks best. But,
in this affair at Valpinson, M. Galpin had been carried away by the
rapidity of the events themselves. Since the first question addressed to
Cocoleu, up to the present moment, he had not had time to consider.
And his proceedings had been public; thus he felt naturally tempted to
explain them.

“And you call this a legal inquiry?” asked Dr. Seignebos.

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

“An inquiry founded upon what?” he went on with such vehemence that no
one dared interrupt him,--“founded upon the evidence of an unfortunate
creature, whom I, a physician, testify to be not responsible for what he
says. Reason does not go out and become lighted again, like the gas in
a street-lamp. A man is an idiot, or he is not an idiot. He has always
been one; and he always will be one. But you say the other statements
are conclusive. Say, rather, that you think they are. Why? Because you
are prejudiced by Cocoleu’s accusation. But for it, you would never
have troubled yourselves about what M. De Boiscoran did, or did not. He
walked about the whole evening. He has a right to do so. He crossed the
marsh. What hindered him? He went through the woods. Why should he not?
He is met with by people. Is not that quite natural? But no: an idiot
accuses him, and forthwith all he does looks suspicious. He talks. It is
the insolence of a hardened criminal. He is silent. It is the remorse
of a guilty man trembling with fear. Instead of naming M. de Boiscoran,
Cocoleu might just as well have named me, Dr. Seignebos. At once, all
my doings would have appeared suspicious; and I am quite sure a thousand
evidences of my guilt would have been discovered. It would have been an
easy matter. Are not my opinions more radical even than those of M. de
Boiscoran? For there is the key to the whole matter. M. de Boiscoran is
a Republican; M. de Boiscoran acknowledges no sovereignty but that of
the people”--

“Doctor,” broke in the commonwealth attorney,--“doctor, you are not
thinking of what you say.”

“I do think of it, I assure you”--

But he was once more interrupted, and this time by Count Claudieuse, who
said,--

“For my part, I admit all the arguments brought up by the magistrate.
But, above all probabilities, I put a fact,--the character of the
accused. M. de Boiscoran is a man of honor and an excellent man. He is
incapable of committing a mean and odious crime.”

The others assented. M. Seneschal added,--

“And I, I will tell you another thing. What would have been the purpose
of such a crime? Ah, if M. de Boiscoran had nothing to lose! But do you
know among all your friends a happier man than he is?--young, handsome,
in excellent health, immensely wealthy, esteemed and popular with
everybody. Finally, there is another fact, which is a family secret, but
which I may tell you, and which will remove at once all suspicions,--M.
de Boiscoran is desperately in love with Miss Dionysia de Chandore. She
returns his love; and the day before yesterday the wedding-day was fixed
on the 20th of the next month.”

In the meantime the hours had sped on. It was half-past three by the
clock of the church in Brechy. Day was breaking; and the light of the
lamps was turning pale. The morning mists began to disappear; and the
sunlight fell upon the window-panes. But no one noticed this: all these
men gathered around the bed of the wounded man were too deeply excited.
M. Galpin had listened to the objection made by the others, without a
word or a gesture. He had so far recovered his self-control, that it
would have been difficult to see what impressions they made upon his
mind. At last, shaking his head gravely, he said,--

“More than you, gentlemen, I feel a desire to believe M. de Boiscoran
innocent. M. Daubigeon, who knows what I mean, will tell you so. In my
heart I pleaded his cause long before you. But I am the representative
of the law; and my duty is above my affections. Does it depend on me to
set aside Cocoleu’s accusation, however stupid, however absurd, it
may be? Can I undo the three statements made by the witnesses, and
confirming so strongly the suspicions aroused by the first charge?”

Count Claudieuse was distressed beyond expression. At last he said,--

“The worst thing about it is, that M. de Boiscoran thinks I am his
enemy. I should not wonder if he went and imagined that these charges
and vile suspicions have been suggested by my wife or by myself. If I
could only get up! At least, let M. de Boiscoran know distinctly that I
am ready to answer for him, as I would answer for myself. Cocoleu, the
wretched idiot! Ah, Genevieve, my darling wife! Why did you induce him
to talk? If you had not insisted, he would have kept silent forever.”

The countess succumbed at last to the anxieties of this terrible night.
At first she had been supported by that exaltation which is apt to
accompany a great crisis; but latterly she had felt exhausted. She had
sunk upon a stool, near the bed on which her two daughters were lying;
and, her head hid in the pillow, she seemed to sleep. But she was not
asleep. When her husband reproached her thus, she rose, pale, with
swollen eyes and distorted features, and said in a piercing voice,--

“What? They have tried to kill my Trivulce; our children have been near
unto death in the flames; and I should have allowed any means to be
unused by which the guilty one may be found out? No! I have only done
what it was my duty to do. Whatever may come of it, I regret nothing.”

“But, Genevieve, M. de Boiscoran is not guilty: he cannot possibly be
guilty. How could a man who has the happiness of being loved by Dionysia
de Chandore, and who counts the days to his wedding,--how could he
devise such a hideous crime?”

“Let him prove his innocence,” replied the countess mercilessly.

The doctor smacked his lips in the most impertinent manner.

“There is a woman’s logic for you,” he murmured.

“Certainly,” said M. Seneschal, “M. de Boiscoran’s innocence will be
promptly established. Nevertheless, the suspicion will remain. And our
people are so constituted, that this suspicion will overshadow his whole
life. Twenty years hence, they will meet him, and they will say, ‘Oh,
yes! the man who set Valpinson on fire!’”

It was not M. Galpin this time who replied, but the commonwealth
attorney. He said sadly,--

“I cannot share your views; but that does not matter. After what has
passed, our friend, M. Galpin cannot retrace his steps: his duty makes
that impossible, and, even more so, what is due to the accused. What
would all these people say, who have heard Cocoleu’s deposition, and the
evidence given by the witnesses, if the inquiry were stopped? They
would certainly say M. de Boiscoran was guilty, but that he was not held
responsible because he was rich and noble. Upon my honor I believe him
to be innocent. But precisely because this is my conviction, I maintain
that his innocence must be clearly established. No doubt he has the
means of doing so. When he met Ribot, he told him he was on his way to
see somebody at Brechy.”

“But suppose he never went there?” objected M. Seneschal. “Suppose he
did not see anybody there? Suppose it was only a pretext to satisfy
Ribot’s impertinent curiosity?”

“Well, then, he would only have to tell the truth in court. And
look! Here’s an important proof which almost by itself relieves M. de
Boiscoran. Would he not have loaded his gun with a ball, if he should
ever have really thought of murdering the count? But it was loaded with
nothing but small-shot.”

“And he would never have missed me at ten yards’ distance,” said the
count.

Suddenly somebody was heard knocking furiously at the door.

“Come in!” cried M. Seneschal.

The door opened and three peasants appeared, looking bewildered, but
evidently well pleased.

“We have just,” said one of them, “found something curious.”

“What?” asked M. Galpin.

“It looks very much like a case; but Pitard says it is the paper of a
cartridge.”

Count Claudieuse raised himself on his pillows, and said eagerly,--

“Let me see! I have during these last days fired several times quite
near to the house to frighten the birds away that eat my fruit. I want
to see if the paper is mine.”

The peasant gave it to him.

It was a very thin lead form, such as contain the cartridges used
in American breech-loading guns. What was singular was that it was
blackened by burnt powder; but it had not been torn, nor had it blazed
up in the discharge. It was so perfectly uninjured, that one could read
the embossed letters of the name of the manufacturer, Clebb.

“That cartridge never belonged to me,” said the count.

But as he uttered these words he turned deadly pale, so pale, that his
wife came close to him, and looked at him with a glance full of terrible
anguish.

“Well?”

He made no reply.

But at that moment such silence was so eloquent, that the countess felt
sickened, and whispered to him,--

“Then Cocoleu was right, after all!”

Not one feature of this dramatic scene had escaped M. Galpin’s eye.
He had seen on every face signs of a kind of terror; still he made no
remark. He took the metal case from the count’s hands, knowing that it
might become an important piece of evidence; and for nearly a minute he
turned it round and round, looking at it from all sides, and examining
it in the light with the utmost attention.

Then turning to the peasants, who were standing respectfully and
uncovered close by the door, he asked them,--

“Where did you find this cartridge, my friends?”

“Close by the old tower, where they keep the tools, and where the ivy is
growing all over the old castle.”

M. Seneschal had in the meantime succeeded in recovering his
self-control, and said now,--

“Surely the murderer cannot have fired from there. You cannot even see
the door of the house from the old tower.”

“That may be,” replied the magistrate; “but the cartridge-case does not
necessarily fall to the ground at the place where the gun is discharged.
It falls as soon as the gun is cocked to reload.”

This was so true, that even Dr. Seignebos had nothing to say.

“Now, my friends,” said M. Galpin, “which of you has found the
cartridge-case?”

“We were all together when we saw it, and picked it up.”

“Well, then, all three of you must give me your names and your domicile,
so that I can send for you when you are wanted.”

This was done; and, when all formalities were attended to, they went
off with numberless bows and doffings of hats. Just at that moment the
furious gallop of a horse was heard approaching the house; the next
moment the man who had been sent to Sauveterre for medicines came in. He
was furious.

“That rascal of a druggist!” he said. “I thought he would never open his
shop!”

Dr. Seignebos had eagerly seized the things that were sent him, then,
bowing with mock respect to the magistrate, he said,--

“I know very well, sir, how pressing the necessity is to have the head
of the culprit cut off; but I think it is almost as pressing to save the
life of the murdered man. I have probably delayed the binding up of the
count’s wounds longer than I ought to have done; and I beg you will now
leave me alone, so as to enable me to do my duty to him.”



VI.

There was nothing more to be done for the magistrate, the commonwealth
attorney, or the mayor. The doctor might assuredly have used more polite
language; but people were accustomed to his brutal ways; for it is
surprising with what readiness men are tolerated in France, under the
pretext that they are as they are, and that they must be taken as they
are. The three gentlemen, therefore, left the room, after having bid
farewell to the countess, and after having promised to send the count
news of all that might be discovered.

The fire was going out for want of fuel. A few hours had sufficed to
destroy all that the hard work and incessant cares of many years had
accomplished. This charming and much envied estate presented now nothing
but a few half calcined walls, heaps of black and gray ashes, and still
glowing timbers, from which columns of smoke were slowly rising upward.
Thanks to Capt. Parenteau, all that they had been able to save had been
carried to a distance, and safely stored away under the shelter of the
ruins of the old castle. There, furniture and other articles were piled
up pell-mell. There, carts and agricultural machines were standing
about, empty casks, and sacks of oats and rye. There, also, the cattle
were gathered, that had been drawn from their stalls with infinite
labor, and at great risk of life,--horses, oxen, some sheep, and a
dozen cows, who lowed piteously. Few of the people had left as yet. With
greater zeal than ever the firemen, aided by the peasants, deluged the
remains of the dwelling-house with water. They had nothing to fear
from the fire; but they desired to keep the bodies of their unfortunate
companions from being entirely consumed.

“What a terrible scourge fire is!” said M. Seneschal.

Neither M. Galpin nor the mayor made any answer. They also felt their
hearts oppressed by the sad sight before them, in spite of all the
intense excitement before; for a fire is nothing as long as the feverish
excitement, and the hope of saving something, continue to keep us up,
and as long as the red flames illumine the horizon; but the next day,
when all is over, then we realize the extent of the misfortune.

The firemen recognized the mayor, and greeted him with cheers. He went
rapidly towards them; and, for the first time since the alarm had been
raised, the magistrate and the attorney were alone. They were standing
close by each other, and for a moment kept silent, while each one tried
to read in the other’s eyes the secret of his thoughts. At last M.
Daubigeon asked,--

“Well?”

M. Galpin trembled.

“This is a fearful calamity,” he said.

“What is your opinion?”

“Ah! do I know it myself? I have lost my head: the whole thing looks to
me like a nightmare.”

“You cannot really believe that M. de Boiscoran is guilty?”

“I believe nothing. My reason tells me he is innocent. I feel he must be
innocent; and yet I see terrible evidence rising against him.”

The attorney was overwhelmed.

“Alas!” he said, “why did you, contrary to everybody’s opinion, insist
upon examining Cocoleu, a poor idiotic wretch?”

But the magistrate remonstrated--

“You do not mean to reproach me, sir, for having followed the impulses
of my conscience?”

“I reproach you for nothing.”

“A horrible crime has been committed; and my duty compelled me to do all
that lies in the power of man to discover the culprit.”

“Yes; and the man who is accused of the crime is your friend, and only
yesterday you spoke of his friendship as your best chance of success in
life.”

“Sir?”

“Are you surprised to find me so well informed? Ah, you do not know
that nothing escapes the idle curiosity of a village. I know that your
dearest hope was to become a member of M. de Boiscoran’s family, and
that you counted upon him to back you in your efforts to obtain the hand
of one of his cousins.”

“I do not deny that.”

“Unfortunately, you have been tempted by the prestige you might gain
in a great and famous trial. You have laid aside all prudence; and your
projects are forgotten. Whether M. de Boiscoran is innocent or guilty,
his family will never forgive you your interference. If he is guilty,
they will blame you for having handed him over to justice: if he is
innocent, they will blame you even more for having suspected him.”

M. Galpin hung his head as if to conceal his trouble. Then he asked,--

“And what would you do in my place?”

“I would withdraw from the case, although it is rather late.”

“If I did so, I should risk my career.”

“Even that would be better for you than to engage in an affair in which
you cannot feel the calmness nor the impartiality which are the first
and indispensable virtues of an upright magistrate.”

The latter was becoming impatient. He exclaimed,--

“Sir, do you think I am a man to be turned aside from my duty by
considerations of friendship or personal interest?”

“I said nothing of the kind.”

“Did you not see just now how I carried on the inquiry? Did you see me
start when Cocoleu first mentioned M. de Boiscoran’s name? If he had
denounced any one else, I should probably have let the matter rest
there. But precisely because M. de Boiscoran is a friend of mine,
and because I have great expectations from him, I have insisted and
persisted, and I do so still.”

The commonwealth attorney shrugged his shoulders.

“That is it exactly,” he said. “Because M. de Boiscoran is a friend of
yours, you are afraid of being accused of weakness; and you are going
to be hard, pitiless, unjust even, against him. Because you had great
expectations from him, you will insist upon finding him guilty. And you
call yourself impartial?”

M. Galpin assumed all his usual rigidity, and said solemnly,--

“I am sure of myself!”

“Have a care!”

“My mind is made up, sir.”

It was time for M. Seneschal to join them again: he returned,
accompanied by Capt. Parenteau.

“Well, gentlemen,” he asked, “what have you resolved?”

“We are going to Boiscoran,” replied the magistrate.

“What! Immediately?”

“Yes: I wish to find M. de Boiscoran in bed. I am so anxious about it,
that I shall do without my clerk.”

Capt. Parenteau bowed, and said,--

“Your clerk is here, sir: he was but just inquiring for you.” Thereupon
he called out as loud as he could,--

“Mechinet, Mechinet!”

A small gray-haired man, jovial and cheerful, came running up, and at
once proceeded to tell at full length how a neighbor had told him what
had happened, and how the magistrate had left town, whereupon he, also,
had started on foot, and come after him as fast as he could.

“Now will you go to Boiscoran?” asked the mayor.

“I do not know yet. Mechinet will have to look for some conveyance.”

Quick like lightning, the clerk was starting off, when M. Seneschal held
him back, saying,--

“Don’t go. I place my horse and my carriage at your disposal. Any one of
these peasants can drive you. Capt. Parenteau and I will get into some
farmer’s wagon, and thus get back to Sauveterre; for we ought to be back
as soon as possible. I have just heard alarming news. There may be some
disorder. The peasant-women who attend the market have brought in most
exciting reports, and exaggerated the calamities of last night. They
have started reports that ten or twelve men have been killed, and that
the incendiary, M. de Boiscoran, has been arrested. The crowd has gone
to poor Guillebault’s widow; and there have been demonstrations before
the houses of several of the principal inhabitants of Sauveterre.”

In ordinary times, M. Seneschal would not have intrusted his famous
horse, Caraby, for any thing in the world, to the hands of a stranger.
He considered it the best horse in the province. But he was evidently
terribly upset, and betrayed it in his manner, and by the very efforts
he made to regain his official dignity and self-possession.

He made a sign, and his carriage was brought up, all ready. But, when he
asked for somebody to drive, no one came forward. All these good people
who had spent the night abroad were in great haste to return home, where
their cattle required their presence. When young Ribot saw the others
hesitate, he said,--

“Well, I’ll drive the justice.”

And, taking hold of the whip and the reins, he took his seat on the
front-bench, while the magistrate, the commonwealth attorney, and the
clerk filled the vehicle.

“Above all, take care of Caraby,” begged M. Seneschal, who at the last
moment felt almost overcome with anxiety for his favorite.

“Don’t be afraid, sir,” replied the young man, as he started the horse.
“If I strike too hard, M. Mechinet will stop me.”

This Mechinet, the magistrate’s clerk, was almost a power in Sauveterre;
and the greatest personages there paid their court to him. His official
duties were of very humble nature, and ill paid; but he knew how to eke
out his income by other occupations, of which the court took no notice;
and these added largely both to his importance in the community and to
his modest income.

As he was a skilful lithographer, he printed all the visiting-cards
which the people of Sauveterre ordered at the principal printing-office
of Sauveterre, where “The Independent” was published. An able
accountant, he kept books and made up accounts for some of the
principal merchants in town. Some of the country people who were fond of
litigation came to him for legal advice; and he drew up all kinds of law
papers. For many years now, he had been director of the firemen’s band,
and manager of the Orpheon. He was a correspondent of certain Paris
societies, and thus obtained free admission to the theatre not only, but
also to the sacred precincts behind the scenes. Finally he was always
ready to give writing-lessons, French lessons to little girls, or
music-lessons on the flute and the horn, to amateurs.

These varied talents had drawn upon him the hostility of all the other
teachers and public servants of the community, especially that of the
mayor’s clerk, and the clerks of the bank and great institutions of
Sauveterre. But all these enemies he had gradually conquered by the
unmistakable superiority of his ability; so that they fell in with the
universal habit, and, when any thing special happened, said to each
other,--

“Let us go and consult Mechinet.”

He himself concealed, under an appearance of imperturbable good nature,
the ambition by which he was devoured: he wanted to become rich, and to
rise in the world. In fact, Mechinet was a diplomat, working in secret,
but as cunning as Talleyrand. He had succeeded already in making himself
the one great personage of Sauveterre. The town was full of him; nothing
was done without him; and yet he had not an enemy in the place.

The fact is, people were afraid of him, and dreaded his terrible tongue.
Not that he had ever injured anybody, he was too wise for that; but
they knew the harm he might do, if he chose, as he was master of every
important secret in Sauveterre, and the best informed man in town as
regarded all their little intrigues, their private foibles, and their
dark antecedents.

This gave him quite an exceptional position. As he was unmarried,
he lived with his sisters, the Misses Mechinet, who were the best
dressmakers in town, and, moreover, devout members of all kinds of
religious societies. Through them he heard all that was going on in
society, and was able to compare the current gossip with what he heard
in court, or at the newspaper office. Thus he could say pleasantly,--

“How could any thing escape me, when I have the church and the press,
the court and the theatre, to keep me informed?”

Such a man would have considered himself disgraced if he had not known
every detail of M. de Boiscoran’s private affairs. He did not hesitate,
therefore, while the carriage was rolling along on an excellent road, in
the fresh spring morning, to explain to his companions the “case,” as he
called it, of the accused nobleman.

M. de Boiscoran, called Jacques by his friends, was rarely on his
estate, and then only staid a month or so there. He was living in Paris,
where his family owned a comfortable house in University Street. His
parents were still alive.

His father, the Marquis de Boiscoran, the owner of a large landed
estate, a deputy under Louis Philippe, a representative in 1848, had
withdrawn from public life when the Second Empire was established,
and spent, since that time, all his money, and all his energies, in
collecting rare old books, and especially costly porcelain, on which he
had written a monograph.

His mother, a Chalusse by birth, had enjoyed the reputation of being one
of the most beautiful and most gifted ladies at the court of the Citizen
King. At a certain period in her life, unfortunately, slander had
attacked her; and about 1845 or 1846, it was reported that she had had
a remarkable affair with a young lawyer of distinction, who had since
become one of the austerest and most renowned judges. As she grew old,
the marchioness devoted herself more and more to politics, as other
women become pious. While her husband boasted that he had not read
a newspaper for ten years, she had made her _salon_ a kind of
parliamentary centre, which had its influence on political affairs.

Although Jacques de Boiscoran’s parents were still alive, he possessed
a considerable fortune of his own--five or six thousand dollars a year.
This fortune, which consisted of the Chateau of Boiscoran, the farms,
meadows, and forests belonging to it, had been left to him by one of his
uncles, the oldest brother of his father, who had died a widower, and
childless, in 1868. M. de Boiscoran was at this moment about twenty-six
or twenty-seven years old, dark complexion, tall, strong, well made, not
exactly a handsome man, but having, what was worth more, one of those
frank, intelligent faces which prepossess one at first sight.

His character was less well known at Sauveterre than his person. Those
who had had any business with him described him as an honorable, upright
man: his companions spoke of him as cheerful and gay, fond of pleasure,
and always in good humor. At the time of the Prussian invasion, he had
been made a captain of one of the volunteer companies of the district.
He had led his men bravely under fire, and conducted himself so well on
the battlefield, that Gen. Chanzy had rewarded him, when wounded, with
the cross of the legion of honor.

“And such a man should have committed such a crime at Valpinson,” said
M. Daubigeon to the magistrate. “No, it is impossible! And no doubt he
will very easily scatter all our doubts to the four winds.”

“And that will be done at once,” said young Ribot; “for here we are.”

In many of the provinces of France the name of _chateau_ is given to
almost any little country-house with a weathercock on its pointed roof.
But Boiscoran was a real chateau. It had been built towards the end
of the seventeenth century, in wretched taste, but massively, like a
fortress. Its position is superb. It is surrounded on all sides by woods
and forests; and at the foot of the sloping garden flows a little river,
merrily splashing over its pebbly bed, and called the Magpie on account
of its perpetual babbling.



VII.

It was seven o’clock when the carriage containing the justice drove into
the courtyard at Boiscoran,--a vast court, planted with lime-trees, and
surrounded by farm buildings. The chateau was wide awake. Before her
house-door, the farmer’s wife was cleaning the huge caldron in which she
had prepared the morning soup; the maids were going and coming; and at
the stable a groom was rubbing down with great energy a thorough-bred
horse.

On the front-steps stood Master Anthony, M. de Boiscoran’s own man,
smoking his cigar in the bright sunlight, and overlooking the farm
operations. He was a man of nearly fifty, still very active, who had
been bequeathed to his new master by his uncle, together with his
possessions. He was a widower now; and his daughter was in the
marchioness’ service.

As he had been born in the family, and never left it afterwards, he
looked upon himself as one of them, and saw no difference between his
own interests and those of his master. In fact, he was treated less like
a servant than like a friend; and he fancied he knew every thing about
M. de Boiscoran’s affairs.

When he saw the magistrate and the commonwealth attorney come up to the
door, he threw away his cigar, came down quickly, and, bowing deeply,
said to them with his most engaging smile,--

“Ah, gentlemen! What a pleasant surprise! My master will be delighted.”

With strangers, Anthony would not have allowed himself such familiarity,
for he was very formal; but he had seen M. Daubigeon more than once at
the chateau; and he knew the plans that had been discussed between
M. Galpin and his master. Hence he was not a little amazed at the
embarrassed stiffness of the two gentlemen, and at the tone of voice in
which the magistrate asked him,--

“Has M. de Boiscoran gotten up yet?”

“Not yet,” he replied; “and I have orders not to wake him. He came home
late last night, and wanted to make up this morning.”

Instinctively the magistrate and the attorney looked away, each fearing
to meet the other’s eyes.

“Ah! M. de Boiscoran came home late last night?” repeated M. Galpin.

“Towards midnight, rather after midnight than before.”

“And when had he gone out?”

“He left here about eight.”

“How was he dressed?”

“As usually. He had light gray trousers, a shooting-jacket of brown
velveteen, and a large straw hat.”

“Did he take his gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know where he went?”

But for the respect which he felt for his master’s friends, Anthony
would not have answered these questions, which he thought were extremely
impertinent. But this last question seemed to him to go beyond all fair
limits. He replied, therefore, in a tone of injured self-respect,--

“I am not in the habit of asking my master where he goes when he leaves
the house, nor where he has been when he comes back.”

M. Daubigeon understood perfectly well the honorable feelings
which actuated the faithful servant. He said to him with an air of
unmistakable kindness,--

“Do not imagine, my friend, that I ask you these questions from idle
curiosity. Tell me what you know; for your frankness may be more useful
to your master than you imagine.”

Anthony looked with an air of perfect stupefaction, by turns at the
magistrate and the commonwealth attorney, at Mechinet, and finally at
Ribot, who had taken the lines, and tied Caraby to a tree.

“I assure you, gentlemen, I do not know where M. de Boiscoran has spent
the evening.”

“You have no suspicion?”

“No.”

“Perhaps he went to Brechy to see a friend?”

“I do not know that he has any friends in Brechy.”

“What did he do after he came home?”

The old servant showed evident signs of embarrassment.

“Let me think,” he said. “My master went up to his bedroom, and remained
there four or five minutes. Then he came down, ate a piece of a pie, and
drank a glass of wine. Then he lit a cigar, and told me to go to bed,
adding that he would take a little walk, and undress without my help.”

“And then you went to bed?”

“Of course.”

“So that you do not know what your master may have done?”

“I beg your pardon. I heard him open the garden door.”

“He did not appear to you different from usual?”

“No: he was as he always is,--quite cheerful: he was singing.”

“Can you show me the gun he took with him?”

“No. My master probably took it to his room.”

M. Daubigeon was about to make a remark, when the magistrate stopped him
by a gesture, and eagerly asked,--

“How long is it since your master and Count Claudieuse have ceased
seeing each other?”

Anthony trembled, as if a dark presentiment had entered his mind. He
replied,--

“A long time: at least I think so.”

“You are aware that they are on bad terms?”

“Oh!”

“They have had great difficulties between them?”

“Something unpleasant has happened, I know; but it was not much. As they
do not visit each other, they cannot well hate each other. Besides,
I have heard master say a hundred times, that he looked upon Count
Claudieuse as one of the best and most honorable men; that he respected
him highly, and”--

For a minute or so M. Galpin kept silent, thinking whether he had
forgotten any thing. Then he asked suddenly,--

“How far is it from here to Valpinson?”

“Three miles, sir,” replied Anthony.

“If you were going there, what road would you take?”

“The high road which passes Brechy.”

“You would not go across the marsh?”

“Certainly not.”

“Why not?”

“Because the Seille is out of its banks, and the ditches are full of
water.”

“Is not the way much shorter through the forest?”

“Yes, the way is shorter; but it would take more time. The paths are
very indistinct, and overgrown with briers.”

The commonwealth attorney could hardly conceal his disappointment.
Anthony’s answers seemed to become worse and worse.

“Now,” said the magistrate again, “if fire should break out at
Valpinson, would you see it from here?”

“I think not, sir. There are hills and tall woods between.”

“Can you hear the Brechy bells from here?”

“When the wind is north, yes, sir.”

“And last night, how was it?”

“The wind was from the west, as it always is when we have a storm.”

“So that you have heard nothing? You do not know what a terrible
calamity”--

“A calamity? I do not understand you, sir.”

This conversation had taken place in the court-yard: and at this moment
there appeared two gendarmes on horseback, whom M. Galpin had sent for
just before he left Valpinson.

When old Anthony saw them, he exclaimed,--

“Great God! what is the meaning of this? I must wake master.”

The magistrate stopped him, saying harshly,--

“Not a step! Don’t say a word!”

And pointing out Ribot to the gendarmes, he said,--

“Keep that lad under your eyes, and let him have no communication with
anybody.”

Then, turning again to Anthony, he said,--

“Now show us to M. de Boiscoran’s bedroom.”



VIII.

In spite of its grand feudal air, the chateau at Boiscoran was, after
all, little more than a bachelor’s modest home, and in a very bad state
of preservation. Of the eighty or a hundred rooms which it contained,
hardly more than eight or ten were furnished, and this only in the
simplest possible manner,--a sitting-room, a dining-room, a few
guest-chambers: this was all M. de Boiscoran required during his rare
visits to the place. He himself used in the second story a small room,
the door of which opened upon the great staircase.

When they reached this door, guided by old Anthony, the magistrate said
to the servant,--

“Knock!”

The man obeyed: and immediately a youthful, hearty voice replied from
within,--

“Who is there?”

“It is I,” said the faithful servant. “I should like”--

“Go to the devil!” broke in the voice.

“But, sir”--

“Let me sleep, rascal. I have not been able to close an eye till now.”
 The magistrate, becoming impatient, pushed the servant aside, and,
seizing the door-knob tried to open it; it was locked inside. But he
lost no time in saying,--

“It is I, M. de Boiscoran: open, if you please!”

“Ah, dear M. Galpin!” replied the voice cheerfully.

“I must speak to you.”

“And I am at your service, illustrious jurist. Just give me time to veil
my Apollonian form in a pair of trousers, and I appear.”

Almost immediately, the door opened; and M. de Boiscoran presented
himself, his hair dishevelled, his eyes heavy with sleep, but looking
bright in his youth and full health, with smiling lips and open hands.

“Upon my word!” he said. “That was a happy inspiration you had, my dear
Galpin. You come to join me at breakfast?”

And, bowing to M. Daubigeon, he added,--

“Not to say how much I thank you for bringing our excellent commonwealth
attorney with you. This is a veritable judicial visit”--

But he paused, chilled as he was by M. Daubigeon’s icy face, and amazed
at M. Galpin’s refusal to take his proffered hand.

“Why,” he said, “what is the matter, my dear friend?”

The magistrate had never been stiffer in his life, when he replied,--

“We shall have to forget our relations, sir. It is not as a friend I
come to-day, but as a magistrate.”

M. de Boiscoran looked confounded; but not a shadow of trouble appeared
on his frank and open face.

“I’ll be hanged,” he said, “if I understand”--

“Let us go in,” said M. Galpin.

They went in; and, as they passed the door, Mechinet whispered into the
attorney’s ear,--

“Sir, that man is certainly innocent. A guilty man would never have
received us thus.”

“Silence, sir!” said the commonwealth attorney, however much he was
probably of his clerk’s opinion. “Silence!”

And grave and sad he went and stood in one of the window embrasures. M.
Galpin remained standing in the centre of the room, trying to see every
thing in it, and to fix it in his memory, down to the smallest details.
The prevailing disorder showed clearly how hastily M. de Boiscoran had
gone to bed the night before. His clothes, his boots, his shirt, his
waistcoat, and his straw hat lay scattered about on the chairs and
on the floor. He wore those light gray trousers, which had been
succcessively seen and recognized by Cocoleu, by Ribot, by Gaudry, and
by Mrs. Courtois.

“Now, sir,” began M. de Boiscoran, with that slight angry tone of voice
which shows that a man thinks a joke has been carried far enough, “will
you please tell me what procures for me the honor of this early visit?”

Not a muscle in M. Galpin’s face was moving. As if the question had been
addressed to some one else, he said coldly,--

“Will you please show us your hands, sir?”

M. de Boiscoran’s cheeks turned crimson; and his eyes assumed an
expression of strange perplexity.

“If this is a joke,” he said, “it has perhaps lasted long enough.”

He was evidently getting angry. M. Daubigeon thought it better to
interfere, and thus he said,--

“Unfortunately, sir, the question is a most serious one. Do what the
magistrate desires.”

More and more amazed, M. de Boiscoran looked rapidly around him. In the
door stood Anthony, his faithful old servant, with anguish on his face.
Near the fireplace, the clerk had improvised a table, and put his paper,
his pens, and his horn inkstand in readiness. Then with a shrug of his
shoulders, which showed that he failed to understand, M. de Boiscoran
showed his hands.

They were perfectly clean and white: the long nails were carefully
cleaned also.

“When did you last wash your hands?” asked M. Galpin, after having
examined them minutely.

At this question, M. de Boiscoran’s face brightened up; and, breaking
out into a hearty laugh, he said,--

“Upon my word! I confess you nearly caught me. I was on the point of
getting angry. I almost feared”--

“And there was good reason for fear,” said M. Galpin; “for a terrible
charge has been brought against you. And it may be, that on your answer
to my question, ridiculous as it seems to you, your honor may depend,
and perhaps your liberty.”

This time there was no mistake possible. M. de Boiscoran felt that kind
of terror which the law inspires even in the best of men, when they find
themselves suddenly accused of a crime. He turned pale, and then he said
in a troubled voice,--

“What! A charge has been brought against me, and you, M. Galpin, come to
my house to examine me?”

“I am a magistrate, sir.”

“But you were also my friend. If anyone should have dared in my presence
to accuse you of a crime, of a mean act, of something infamous, I should
have defended you, sir, with all my energy, without hesitation, and
without a doubt. I should have defended you till absolute, undeniable
evidence should have been brought forward of your culpability; and even
then I should have pitied you, remembering that I had esteemed you so
highly as to favor your alliance with my family. But you--I am accused,
I do not know of what, falsely, wrongly; and at once you hasten hither,
you believe the charge, and consent to become my judge. Well, let it be
so! I washed my hands last night after coming home.”

M. Galpin had not boasted too much in praising his self-possession and
his perfect control over himself. He did not move when the terrible
words fell upon his ear; and he asked again in the same calm tone,--

“What has become of the water you used for that purpose?”

“It is probably still there, in my dressing-room.”

The magistrate at once went in. On the marble table stood a basin full
of water. That water was black and dirty. At the bottom lay particles
of charcoal. On the top, mixed with the soapsuds, were swimming some
extremely slight but unmistakable fragments of charred paper. With
infinite care the magistrate carried the basin to the table at
which Mechinet had taken a seat; and, pointing at it, he asked M. de
Boiscoran,--

“Is that the water in which you washed your hands last night after
coming home?”

“Yes,” replied the other with an air of careless indifference.

“You had been handling charcoal, or some inflammable material.”

“Don’t you see?”

Standing face to face, the commonwealth attorney and clerk exchanged
rapid glances. They had had the same feeling at that moment. If M.
de Boiscoran was innocent, he was certainly a marvellously cool and
energetic man, or he was carrying out a long-premeditated plan of
action; for every one of his answers seemed to tighten the net in which
he was taken. The magistrate himself seemed to be struck by this; but it
was only for a moment, and then, turning to the clerk, he said,--

“Write that down!”

He dictated to him the whole evidence, most minutely and accurately,
correcting himself every now and then to substitute a better word, or to
improve his style. When he had read it over he said,--

“Let us go on, sir. You were out last night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Having left the house at eight, you returned only around midnight.”

“After midnight.”

“You took your gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is it?”

With an air of indifference, M. de Boiscoran pointed at it in the corner
of the fireplace, and said,--

“There it is!”

M. Galpin took it up quickly. It was a superb weapon, double-barrelled,
of unusually fine make, and very elegant. On the beautifully carved
woodwork the manufacturer’s name, Clebb, was engraven.

“When did you last fire this gun?” asked the magistrate.

“Some four or five days ago.”

“What for?”

“To shoot some rabbits who infested my woods.”

M. Galpin raised and lowered the cock with all possible care: he noticed
that it was the Remington patent. Then he opened the chamber, and found
that the gun was loaded. Each barrel had a cartridge in it. Then he
put the gun back in its place, and, pulling from his pocket the leaden
cartridge-case which Pitard had found, he showed it to M. de Boiscoran,
and asked him,--

“Do you recognize this?”

“Perfectly!” replied the other. “It is a case of one of the cartridges
which I have probably thrown away as useless.”

“Do you think you are the only one in this country who has a gun by this
maker?”

“I do not think it: I am quite sure of it.”

“So that you must, as a matter of course, have been at a spot where such
a cartridge-case as this has been found?”

“Not necessarily. I have often seen children pick up these things, and
play with them.”

The clerk, while he made his pen fly across his paper, could not resist
the temptation of making all kinds of faces. He was too well acquainted
with lawyers’ tactics not to understand M. Galpin’s policy perfectly
well, and to see how cunningly it was devised to make every fact
strengthen the suspicion against M. de Boiscoran.

“It is a close game,” he said to himself.

The magistrate had taken a seat.

“If that is so,” he began again, “I beg you will give me an account of
how you spent the evening after eight o’clock: do not hurry, consider,
take your time; for your answers are of the utmost importance.”

M. de Boiscoran had so far remained quite cool; but his calmness
betrayed one of those terrible storms within, which may break forth, no
one knows when. This warning, and, even more so, the tone in which it
was given, revolted him as a most hideous hypocrisy. And, breaking out
all of a sudden, he cried,--

“After all, sir, what do you want of me? What am I accused of?”

M. Galpin did not stir. He replied,--

“You will hear it at the proper time. First answer my question, and
believe me in your own interest. Answer frankly. What did you do last
night?”

“How do I know? I walked about.”

“That is no answer.”

“Still it is so. I went out with no specific purpose: I walked at
haphazard.”

“Your gun on your shoulder?”

“I always take my gun: my servant can tell you so.”

“Did you cross the Seille marshes?”

“No.”

The magistrate shook his head gravely. He said,--

“You are not telling the truth.”

“Sir!”

“Your boots there at the foot of the bed speak against you. Where does
the mud come from with which they are covered?”

“The meadows around Boiscoran are very wet.”

“Do not attempt to deny it. You have been seen there.”

“But”--

“Young Ribot met you at the moment when you were crossing the canal.”

M. de Boiscoran made no reply.

“Where were you going?” asked the magistrate.

For the first time a real embarrassment appeared in the features of the
accused,--the embarrassment of a man who suddenly sees an abyss opening
before him. He hesitated; and, seeing that it was useless to deny, he
said,--

“I was going to Brechy.”

“To whom?”

“To my wood-merchant, who has bought all this year’s wood. I did not
find him at home, and came back on the high road.”

M. Galpin stopped him by a gesture.

“That is not so,” he said severely.

“Oh!”

“You never went to Brechy.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“And the proof is, that, about eleven o’clock, you were hurriedly
crossing the forest of Rochepommier.”

“I?”

“Yes, you! And do not say No; for there are your trousers torn to pieces
by the thorns and briers through which you must have made your way.”

“There are briers elsewhere as well as in the forest.”

“To be sure; but you were seen there.”

“By whom?”

“By Gaudry the poacher. And he saw so much of you, that he could tell
us in what a bad humor you were. You were very angry. You were talking
loud, and pulling the leaves from the trees.”

As he said so, the magistrate got up and took the shooting-jacket, which
was lying on a chair not far from him. He searched the pockets, and
pulled out of one a handful of leaves.

“Look here! you see, Gaudry has told the truth.”

“There are leaves everywhere,” said M. de Boiscoran half aloud.

“Yes; but a woman, Mrs. Courtois, saw you come out of the forest of
Rochepommier. You helped her to put a sack of flour on her ass, which
she could not lift alone. Do you deny it? No, you are right; for, look
here! on the sleeve of your coat I see something white, which, no doubt,
is flour from her bag.”

M. de Boiscoran hung his head. The magistrate went on,--

“You confess, then, that last night, between ten and eleven you were at
Valpinson?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“But this cartridge-case which I have just shown you was picked up at
Valpinson, close by the ruins of the old castle.”

“Well, sir, have I not told you before that I have seen a hundred times
children pick up these cases to play with? Besides, if I had really been
at Valpinson, why should I deny it?”

M. Galpin rose to his full height, and said in the most solemn manner,--

“I am going to tell you why! Last night, between ten and eleven,
Valpinson was set on fire; and it has been burnt to the ground.”

“Oh!”

“Last night Count Claudieuse was fired at twice.”

“Great God!”

“And it is thought, in fact there are strong reasons to think, that you,
Jacques de Boiscoran, are the incendiary and the assassin.”



IX.

M. de Boiscoran looked around him like a man who has suddenly been
seized with vertigo, pale, as if all his blood had rushed to his heart.

He saw nothing but mournful, dismayed faces.

Anthony, his old trusted servant, was leaning against the doorpost, as
if he feared to fall. The clerk was mending his pen in the air, overcome
with amazement. M. Daubigeon hung his head.

“This is horrible!” he murmured: “this is horrible!”

He fell heavily into a chair, pressing his hands on his heart, as if to
keep down the sobs that threatened to rise. M. Galpin alone seemed to
remain perfectly cool. The law, which he imagined he was representing in
all its dignity, knows nothing of emotions. His thin lips even trembled
a little, as if a slight smile was about to burst forth: it was the cold
smile of the ambitious man, who thinks he has played his little part
well.

Did not every thing tend to prove that Jacques de Boiscoran was the
guilty man, and that, in the alternative between a friend, and an
opportunity of gaining high distinction, he had chosen well? After the
silence of a minute, which seemed to be a century, he went and stood,
with arms crossed on his chest, before the accused, and asked him,--

“Do you confess?”

M. de Boiscoran sprang up as if moved by a spring, and said,--

“What? What do you want me to confess?”

“That you have committed the crime at Valpinson.”

The young man pressed his hands convulsively on his brow, and cried
out,--

“But I am mad! I should have committed such a fearful, cowardly crime?
Is that possible? Is that likely? I might confess, and you would not
believe me. No! I am sure you would not believe my own words.”

He would have moved the marble on his mantelpiece sooner than M. Galpin.
The latter replied in icy tones,--

“I am not part of the question here. Why will you refer to relations
which must be forgotten? It is no longer the friend who speaks to you,
not even the man, but simply the magistrate. You were seen”--

“Who is the wretch?”

“Cocoleu!”

M. de Boiscoran seemed to be overwhelmed. He stammered,--

“Cocoleu? That poor epileptic idiot whom the Countess Claudieuse has
picked up?”

“The same.”

“And upon the strength of the senseless words of a poor imbecile I am
charged with incendiarism, with murder?”

Never had the magistrate made such efforts to assume an air of impassive
dignity and icy solemnity, as when he replied,--

“For an hour, at least, poor Cocoleu has been in the full enjoyment of
his faculties. The ways of Providence are inscrutable.”

“But sir”--

“And what does Cocoleu depose? He says he saw you kindle the fire with
your own hands, then conceal yourself behind a pile of wood, and fire
twice at Count Claudieuse.”

“And all that appears quite natural to you?”

“No! At first it shocked me as it shocked everybody. You seem to be
far above all suspicion. But a moment afterwards they pick up the
cartridge-case, which can only have belonged to you. Then, upon my
arrival here, I surprise you in bed, and find the water in which you
have washed your hands black with coal, and little pieces of charred
paper swimming on top of it.”

“Yes,” said M. de Boiscoran in an undertone: “it is fate.”

“And that is not all,” continued the magistrate, raising his voice, “I
examine you, and you admit having been out from eight o’clock till after
midnight. I ask what you have been doing, and you refuse to tell me. I
insist, and you tell a falsehood. In order to overwhelm you, I am forced
to quote the evidence of young Ribot, of Gaudry, and Mrs. Courtois,
who have seen you at the very places where you deny having been. That
circumstance alone condemns you. Why should you not be willing to tell
me what you have been doing during those four hours? You claim to be
innocent. Help me, then, to establish your innocence. Speak, tell me
what you were doing between eight and midnight.”

M. de Boiscoran had no time to answer.

For some time already, half-suppressed cries, and the sound of a large
crowd, had come up from the courtyard. A gendarme came in quite excited;
and, turning to the magistrate and the commonwealth attorney, he said,--

“Gentlemen, there are several hundred peasants, men and women, in the
yard, who clamor for M. de Boiscoran. They threaten to drag him down to
the river. Some of the men are armed with pitchforks; but the women are
the maddest. My comrade and I have done our best to keep them quiet.”

And just then, as if to confirm what he said, the cries came nearer,
growing louder and louder; and one could distinctly hear,--

“Drown Boiscoran! Let us drown the incendiary!”

The attorney rose, and told the gendarme,--

“Go down and tell these people that the authorities are this moment
examining the accused; that they interrupt us; and that, if they keep
on, they will have to do with me.”

The gendarme obeyed his orders. M. de Boiscoran had turned deadly pale.
He said to himself,--

“These unfortunate people believe my guilt!”

“Yes,” said M. Galpin, who had overheard the words; “and you would
comprehend their rage, for which there is good reason, if you knew all
that has happened.”

“What else?”

“Two Sauveterre firemen, one the father of five children, have perished
in the flames. Two other men, a farmer from Brechy, and a gendarme who
tried to rescue them, have been so seriously burned that their lives are
in danger.”

M. de Boiscoran said nothing.

“And it is you,” continued the magistrate, “who is charged with all
these calamities. You see how important it is for you to exculpate
yourself.”

“Ah! how can I?”

“If you are innocent, nothing is easier. Tell us how you employed
yourself last night.”

“I have told you all I can say.”

The magistrate seemed to reflect for a full minute; then he said,--

“Take care, M. de Boiscoran: I shall have to have you arrested.”

“Do so.”

“I shall be obliged to order your arrest at once, and to send you to
jail in Sauveterre.”

“Very well.”

“Then you confess?”

“I confess that I am the victim of an unheard-of combination of
circumstances; I confess that you are right, and that certain fatalities
can only be explained by the belief in Providence: but I swear by all
that is holy in the world, I am innocent.”

“Prove it.”

“Ah! would I not do it if I could?”

“Be good enough, then, to dress, sir, and to follow the gendarmes.”

Without a word, M. de Boiscoran went into his dressing-room, followed
by his servant, who carried him his clothes. M. Galpin was so busy
dictating to the clerk the latter part of the examination, that he
seemed to forget his prisoner. Old Anthony availed himself of this
opportunity.

“Sir,” he whispered into his master’s ear while helping him to put on
his clothes.

“What?”

“Hush! Don’t speak so loud! The other window is open. It is only about
twenty feet to the ground: the ground is soft. Close by is one of the
cellar openings; and in there, you know, there is the old hiding-place.
It is only five miles to the coast, and I will have a good horse ready
for you to-night, at the park-gate.”

A bitter smile rose on M. de Boiscoran’s lips, as he said,--

“And you too, my old friend: you think I am guilty?”

“I conjure you,” said Anthony, “I answer for any thing. It is barely
twenty feet. In your mother’s name”--

But, instead of answering him, M. de Boiscoran turned round, and called
M. Galpin. When he had come in, he said to him, “Look at that window,
sir! I have money, fast horses; and the sea is only five miles off. A
guilty man would have escaped. I stay here; for I am innocent.”

In one point, at least, M. de Boiscoran had been right. Nothing would
have been easier for him than to escape, to get into the garden, and to
reach the hiding-place which his servant had suggested to him. But after
that? He had, to be sure, with old Anthony’s assistance, some chance of
escaping altogether. But, after all, he might have been found out in his
hiding-place, or he might have been overtaken in his ride to the coast.
Even if he had succeeded, what would have become of him? His flight
would necessarily have been looked upon as a confession of his guilt.

Under such circumstances, to resist the temptation to escape, and to
make this resistance well known, was in fact not so much an evidence
of innocence as a proof of great cleverness. M. Galpin, at all events,
looked upon it in that light; for he judged others by himself. Carefully
and cunningly calculating every step he took in life, he did not believe
in sudden inspirations. He said, therefore, with an ironical smile,
which was to show that he was not so easily taken in,--

“Very well, sir. This circumstance shall be mentioned, as well as the
others, at the trial.”

Very differently thought the commonwealth attorney and the clerk. If
the magistrate had been too much engaged in his dictation to notice any
thing, they had been perfectly able to notice the great excitement under
which the accused had naturally labored. Perfectly amazed at first, and
thinking, for a moment, that the whole was a joke, he had next become
furiously angry; then fear and utter dejection had followed one another.
But in precise proportion as the charges had accumulated, and the
evidence had become overwhelming, he had, so far from becoming
demoralized, seemed to recover his assurance.

“There is something curious about it,” growled Mechinet. M. Daubigeon,
on the other hand, said nothing; but when M. de Boiscoran came out of
his dressing-room, fully dressed and ready, he said,--

“One more question, sir.”

The poor man bowed. He was pale, but calm and self-possessed.

“I am ready to reply,” he said.

“I’ll be brief. You seemed to be surprised and indignant at any one’s
daring to accuse you. That was weakness. Justice is but the work of man,
and must needs judge by appearances. If you reflect, you will see that
the appearances are all against you.”

“I see it but too clearly.”

“If you were on a jury, you would not hesitate to pronounce a man guilty
upon such evidence.”

“No, sir, no!”

The commonwealth attorney bounded from his chair. He said,--

“You are not sincere!”

M. de Boiscoran sadly shook his head, and replied,--

“I speak to you without the slightest hope of convincing you, but in all
sincerity. No, I should not condemn a man, as you say, if he asserted
his innocence, and if I did not see any reason for his crime. For, after
all, unless a man is mad, he does not commit a crime for nothing. Now I
ask you, how could I, upon whom fortune has always smiled; I who am on
the eve of marrying one whom I love passionately,--how could I have set
Valpinson on fire, and tried to murder Count Claudieuse?”

M. Galpin had scarcely been able to disguise his impatience, when he
saw the attorney take part in the affair. Seizing, therefore, the
opportunity to interfere, he said,--

“Your reason, sir, was hatred. You hated the count and the countess
mortally. Do not protest: it is of no use. Everybody knows it; and you
yourself have told me so.”

M. de Boiscoran looked as if he were growing still more pale, and then
replied in a tone of crushing disdain,--

“Even if that were so, I do not see what right you have to abuse the
confidence of a friend, after having declared, upon your arrival here,
that all friendship between us had ceased. But that is not so. I never
told you any such thing. As my feelings have never changed, I can
repeat literally what I have said. I have told you that the count was
a troublesome neighbor, a stickler for his rights, and almost absurdly
attached to his preserves. I have also told you, that, if he declared
my public opinions to be abominable, I looked upon his as ridiculous and
dangerous. As for the countess, I have simply said, half in jest, that
so perfect a person was not to my taste; and that I should be very
unhappy if my wife were a Madonna, who hardly ever deigned to put her
foot upon the ground.”

“And that was the only reason why you once pointed your gun at Count
Claudieuse? A little more blood rushing to your head would have made you
a murderer on that day.”

A terrible spasm betrayed M. de Boiscoran’s fury; but he checked
himself, and said,--

“My passion was less fiery than it may have looked. I have the most
profound respect for the count’s character. It is an additional grief to
me that he should have accused me.”

“But he has not accused you!” broke in M. Daubigeon. “On the contrary,
he was the first and the most eager to defend you.”

And, in spite of the signs which M. Galpin made, he continued,--

“Unfortunately that has nothing to do with the force of the evidence
against you. If you persist in keeping silence, you must look for a
criminal trial for the galleys. If you are innocent, why not explain the
matter? What do you wait for? What do you hope?”

“Nothing.”

Mechinet had, in the meantime, completed the official report.

“We must go,” said M. Galpin

“Am I at liberty,” asked M. de Boiscoran, “to write a few lines to my
father and my mother? They are old: such an event may kill them.”

“Impossible!” said the magistrate.

Then, turning to Anthony, he said,--

“I am going to put the seals on this room, and I shall leave it in the
meanwhile in your keeping. You know your duty, and the penalties to
which you would be subject, if, at the proper time, every thing is not
found in the same condition in which it is left now. Now, how shall we
get back to Sauveterre?”

After mature deliberation it was decided that M. de Boiscoran should
go in one of his own carriages, accompanied by one of the gendarmes.
M. Daubigeon, the magistrate, and the clerk would return in the
mayor’s carriage, driven by Ribot, who was furious at being kept under
surveillance.

“Let us be off,” said the magistrate, when the last formalities had been
fulfilled.

M. de Boiscoran came down slowly. He knew the court was full of furious
peasants; and he expected to be received with hootings. It was not so.
The gendarme whom the attorney had sent down had done his duty so
well, that not a cry was heard. But when he had taken his seat in the
carriage, and the horse went off at a trot, fierce curses arose, and a
shower of stones fell, one of which wounded a gendarme.

“Upon my word, you bring ill luck, prisoner,” said the man, a friend of
the other gendarme who had been so much injured at the fire.

M. de Boiscoran made no reply. He sank back into the corner, and seemed
to fall into a kind of stupor, from which he did not rouse himself till
the carriage drove into the yard of the prison at Sauveterre. On the
threshold stood Master Blangin, the jailer, smiling with delight at the
idea of receiving so distinguished a prisoner.

“I am going to give you my best room,” he said, “but first I have to
give a receipt to the gendarme, and to enter you in my book.” Thereupon
he took down his huge, greasy register, and wrote the name of Jacques
de Boiscoran beneath that of Trumence Cheminot, a vagabond who had just
been arrested for having broken into a garden.

It was all over. Jacques de Boiscoran was a prisoner, to be kept in
close confinement.




SECOND PART--THE BOISCORAN TRIAL



I.

The Paris house of the Boiscoran family, No. 216 University Street, is
a house of modest appearance. The yard in front is small; and the few
square yards of damp soil in the rear hardly deserve the name of a
garden. But appearances are deceptive. The inside is marvellously
comfortable; careful and painstaking hands have made every provision for
ease; and the rooms display that solid splendor for which our age has
lost the taste. The vestibule contains a superb mosaic, brought home
from Venice, in 1798, by one of the Boiscorans, who had degenerated, and
followed the fortunes of Napoleon. The balusters of the great staircase
are a masterpiece of iron work; and the wainscoting in the dining-room
has no rival in Paris.

All this, however, is a mere nothing in comparison with the marquis’s
cabinet of curiosities. It fills the whole depth, and half the width, of
the upper story; is lighted from above like a huge _atelier_; and would
fill the heart of an artist with delight. Immense glass cases,
which stand all around against the walls, hold the treasures of the
marquis,--priceless collections of enamels, ivories, bronzes, unique
manuscripts, matchless porcelains, and, above all, his _faiences_, his
dear _faiences_, the pride and the torment of his old age.

The owner was well worthy of such a setting.

Though sixty-one years old at that time, the marquis was as straight
as ever, and most aristocratically lean. He had a perfectly magnificent
nose, which absorbed immense quantities of snuff; his mouth was large,
but well furnished; and his brilliant eyes shone with that restless
cunning which betrayed the amateur, who has continually to deal with
sharp and eager dealers in curiosities and second-hand articles of
_vertu_.

In the year 1845 he had reached the summit of his renown by a great
speech on the question of public meetings; but at that hour his watch
seemed to have stopped. All his ideas were those of an Orleanist. His
appearance, his costume, his high cravat, his whiskers, and the way he
brushed his hair, all betrayed the admirer and friend of the citizen
king. But for all that, he did not trouble himself about politics; in
fact, he troubled himself about nothing at all. With the only condition
that his inoffensive passion should be respected, the marchioness was
allowed to rule supreme in the house, administering her large fortune,
ruling her only son, and deciding all questions without the right of
appeal. It was perfectly useless to ask the marquis any thing: his
answer was invariably,--

“Ask my wife.”

The good man had, the evening before, purchased a little at haphazard,
a large lot of _faiences_, representing scenes of the Revolution; and
at about three o’clock, he was busy, magnifying-glass in hand, examining
his dishes and plates, when the door was suddenly opened.

The marchioness came in, holding a blue paper in her hand. Six or seven
years younger than her husband, she was the very companion for such an
idle, indolent man. In her walk, in her manner, and in her voice,
she showed at once the woman who stands at the wheel, and means to be
obeyed. Her once celebrated beauty had left remarkable traces enough
to justify her pretensions. She denied having any claims to being
considered handsome, since it was impossible to deny or conceal the
ravages of time, and hence by far her best policy was to accept old age
with good grace. Still, if the marchioness did not grow younger, she
pretended to be older than she really was. She had her gray hair puffed
out with considerable affectation, so as to contrast all the more
forcibly with her ruddy, blooming cheeks, which a girl might have envied
and she often thought of powdering her hair.

She was so painfully excited, and almost undone, when she came into her
husband’s cabinet, that even he, who for many a year had made it a rule
of his life to show no emotion, was seriously troubled. Laying aside the
dish which he was examining, he said with an anxious voice,--

“What is the matter? What has happened?”

“A terrible misfortune.”

“Is Jacques dead?” cried the old collector.

The marchioness shook her head.

“No! It is something worse, perhaps”--

The old man, who has risen at the sight of his wife, sank slowly back
into his chair.

“Tell me,” he stammered out,--“tell me. I have courage.”

She handed him the blue paper which she had brought in, and said
slowly,--

“Here. A telegram which I have just received from old Anthony, our son’s
valet.”

With trembling hands the old marquis unfolded the paper, and read,--

“Terrible misfortune! Master Jacques accused of having set the chateau
at Valpinson on fire, and murdered Count Claudieuse. Terrible evidence
against him. When examined, hardly any defence. Just arrested and
carried to jail. In despair. What must I do?”

The marchioness had feared lest the marquis should have been crushed
by this despatch, which in its laconic terms betrayed Anthony’s abject
terror. But it was not so. He put it back on the table in the calmest
manner, and said, shrugging his shoulders,--

“It is absurd!”

His wife did not understand it. She began again,--

“You have not read it carefully, my friend”--

“I understand,” he broke in, “that our son is accused of a crime which
he has not and can not have committed. You surely do not doubt his
innocence? What a mother you would be! On my part, I assure you I am
perfectly tranquil. Jacques an incendiary! Jacques a murderer! That is
nonsense!”

“Ah! you did not read the telegram,” exclaimed the marchioness.

“I beg your pardon.”

“You did not see that there was evidence against him.”

“If there had been none, he could not have been arrested. Of course, the
thing is disagreeable: it is painful.”

“But he did not defend himself.”

“Upon my word! Do you think that if to-morrow somebody accused me of
having robbed the till of some shopkeeper, I would take the trouble to
defend myself?”

“But do you not see that Anthony evidently thinks our son is guilty?”

“Anthony is an old fool!” declared the marquis.

Then pulling out his snuffbox, and stuffing his nose full of snuff, he
said,--

“Besides, let us consider. Did you not tell me that Jacques is in love
with that little Dionysia Chandore?”

“Desperately. Like a real child.”

“And she?”

“She adores Jacques.”

“Well. And did you not also tell me that the wedding-day was fixed?”

“Yes, three days ago.”

“Has Jacques written to you about the matter?”

“An excellent letter.”

“In which he tells you he is coming up?”

“Yes: he wanted to purchase the wedding-presents himself.” With a
gesture of magnificent indifference the marquis tapped the top of his
snuffbox, and said,--

“And you think a boy like our Jacques, a Boiscoran, in love, and
beloved, who is about to be married, and has his head full of
wedding-presents, could have committed such a horrible crime? Such
things are not worth discussing, and, with your leave, I shall return to
my occupation.”

If doubt is contagious, confidence is still more so. Gradually the
marchioness felt reassured by the perfect assurance of her husband. The
blood came back to her cheeks; and smiles reappeared on pale lips. She
said in a stronger voice,--

“In fact, I may have been too easily frightened.”

The marquis assented by a gesture.

“Yes, much too easily, my dear. And, between us, I would not say much
about it. How could the officers help accusing our Jacques if his own
mother suspects him?”

The marchioness had taken up the telegram, and was reading it over once
more.

“And yet,” she said, answering her own objections, “who in my place
would not have been frightened? This name of Claudieuse especially”--

“Why? It is the name of an excellent and most honorable gentleman,--the
best man in the world, in spite of his sea-dog manners.”

“Jacques hates him, my dear.”

“Jacques does not mind him any more than that.”

“They have repeatedly quarrelled.”

“Of course. Claudieuse is a furious legitimist; and as such he always
talks with the utmost contempt of all of us who have been attached to
the Orleans family.”

“Jacques has been at law with him.”

“And he has done right, only he ought to have carried the matter
through. Claudieuse has claims on the Magpie, which divides our
lands,--absurd claims. He wants at all seasons, and according as he may
desire, to direct the waters of the little stream into his own channels,
and thus drown the meadows at Boiscoran, which are lower than his own.
Even my brother, who was an angel in patience and gentleness, had his
troubles with this tyrant.”

But the marchioness was not convinced yet.

“There was another trouble,” she said.

“What?”

“Ah! I should like to know myself.”

“Has Jacques hinted at any thing?”

“No. I only know this. Last year, at the Duchess of Champdoce’s, I met
by chance the Countess Claudieuse and her children. The young woman is
perfectly charming; and, as we were going to give a ball the week after,
it occurred to me to invite her at once. She refused, and did so in such
an icy, formal manner, that I did not insist.”

“She probably does not like dancing,” growled the marquis.

“That same evening I mentioned the matter to Jacques. He seemed to be
very angry, and told me, in a manner that was hardly compatible with
respect, that I had been very wrong, and that he had his reasons for not
desiring to come in contact with those people.”

The marquis felt so secure, that he only listened with partial
attention, looking all the time aside at his precious _faiences_.

“Well,” he said at last, “Jacques detests the Claudieuses. What does
that prove? God be thanked, we do not murder all the people we detest!”

His wife did not insist any longer. She only asked,--

“Well, what must we do?”

She was so little in the habit of consulting her husband, that he was
quite surprised.

“The first thing is to get Jacques out of jail. We must see--we ought to
ask for advice.”

At this moment a light knock was heard at the door.

“Come in!” he said.

A servant came in, bringing a large envelope, marked “Telegraphic
Despatch. Private.”

“Upon my word!” cried the marquis. “I thought so. Now we shall be all
right again.”

The servant had left the room. He tore open the envelope; but at the
first glance at the contents the smile vanished, he turned pale, and
just said,--

“Great God!”

Quick as lightning, the marchioness seized the fatal paper. She read at
a glance,--

“Come quick. Jacques in prison; close confinement; accused of horrible
crime. The whole town says he is guilty, and that he has confessed.
Infamous calumny! His judge is his former friend, Galpin, who was
to marry his cousin Lavarande. Know nothing except that Jacques is
innocent. Abominable intrigue! Grandpa Chandore and I will do what can
be done. Your help indispensable. Come, come!

“DIONYSIA CHANDORE.”

“Ah, my son is lost!” cried the marchioness with tears in her eyes. The
marquis, however, had recovered already from the shock.

“And I--I say more than ever, with Dionysia, who is a brave girl,
Jacques is innocent. But I see he is in danger. A criminal prosecution
is always an ugly affair. A man in close confinement may be made to say
any thing.”

“We must do something,” said the mother, nearly mad with grief.

“Yes, and without losing a minute. We have friends: let us see who among
them can help us.”

“I might write to M. Margeril.”

The marquis, who had turned quite pale, became livid.

“What!” he cried. “You dare utter that name in my presence?”

“He is all powerful; and my son is in danger.”

The marquis stopped her with a threatening gesture, and cried with an
accent of bitter hatred,--

“I would a thousand times rather my son should die innocent on the
scaffold than owe his safety to that man!”

His wife seemed to be on the point of fainting.

“Great God! And yet you know very well that I was only a little
indiscreet.”

“No more!” said the marquis harshly.

Then, recovering his self-control by a powerful effort, he went on,--

“Before we attempt any thing, we must know how the matter stands. You
will leave for Sauveterre this evening.”

“Alone?”

“No. I will find some able lawyer,--a reliable jurist, who is not a
politician,--if such a one can be found nowadays. He will tell you what
to do, and will write to me, so that I can do here whatever may be
best. Dionysia is right. Jacques must be the victim of some abominable
intrigue. Nevertheless, we shall save him; but we must keep cool,
perfectly cool.”

And as he said this he rang the bell so violently, that a number of
servants came rushing in at once.

“Quick,” he said; “send for my lawyer, Mr. Chapelain. Take a carriage.”

The servant who took the order was so expeditious, that, in less than
twenty minutes, M. Chapelain arrived.

“Ah! we want all your experience, my friend,” said the marquis to him.
“Look here. Read these telegrams.”

Fortunately, the lawyer had such control over himself, that he did not
betray what he felt; for he believed Jacques guilty, knowing as he did
how reluctant courts generally are to order the arrest of a suspected
person.

“I know the man for the marchioness,” he said at last.

“Ah!”

“A young man whose modesty alone has kept him from distinguishing
himself so far, although I know he is one of the best jurists at the
bar, and an admirable speaker.”

“What is his name?”

“Manuel Folgat. I shall send him to you at once.”

Two hours later, M. Chapelain’s _protégé_ appeared at the house of
the Boiscorans. He was a man of thirty-one or thirty-two, with large,
wide-open eyes, whose whole appearance was breathing intelligence and
energy.

The marquis was pleased with him, and after having told him all he knew
about Jacques’s position, endeavored to inform him as to the people
down at Sauveterre,--who would be likely to be friends, and who enemies,
recommending to him, above all, to trust M. Seneschal, an old friend of
the family, and a most influential man in that community.

“Whatever is humanly possible shall be done, sir,” said the lawyer.

That same evening, at fifteen minutes past eight, the Marchioness of
Boiscoran and Manuel Folgat took their seats in the train for Orleans.



II.

The railway which connects Sauveterre with the Orleans line enjoys a
certain celebrity on account of a series of utterly useless curves,
which defy all common sense, and which would undoubtedly be the source
of countless accidents, if the trains were not prohibited from going
faster than eight or ten miles an hour.

The depot has been built--no doubt for the greater convenience of
travellers--at a distance of two miles from town, on a place where
formerly the first banker of Sauveterre had his beautiful gardens.
The pretty road which leads to it is lined on both sides with inns and
taverns, on market-days full of peasants, who try to rob each other,
glass in hand, and lips overflowing with protestations of honesty.
On ordinary days even, the road is quite lively; for the walk to the
railway has become a favorite promenade. People go out to see the
trains start or come in, to examine the new arrivals, or to exchange
confidences as to the reasons why Mr. or Mrs. So-and-so have made up
their mind to travel.

It was nine o’clock in the morning when the train which brought the
marchioness and Manuel Folgat at last reached Sauveterre. The former
was overcome by fatigue and anxiety, having spent the whole night
in discussing the chances for her son’s safety, and was all the more
exhausted as the lawyer had taken care not to encourage her hopes.

For he also shared, in secret at least, M. Chapelain’s doubts. He, also,
had said to himself, that a man like M. de Boiscoran is not apt to
be arrested, unless there are strong reasons, and almost overwhelming
proofs of his guilt in the hands of the authorities.

The train was slackening speed.

“If only Dionysia and her father,” sighed the marchioness, “have thought
of sending a carriage to meet us.”

“Why so?” asked Manuel Folgat.

“Because I do not want all the world to see my grief and my tears.”

The young lawyer shook his head, and said,--

“You will certainly not do that, madame, if you are disposed to follow
my advice.”

She looked at him quite amazed; but he insisted.

“I mean you must not look as if you wished not to be seen: that would be
a great, almost irreparable mistake. What would they think if they saw
you in tears and great distress? They would say you were sure of your
son’s guilt; and the few who may still doubt will doubt no longer. You
must control public opinion from the beginning; for it is absolute
in these small communities, where everybody is under somebody else’s
immediate influence. Public opinion is all powerful; and say what you
will, it controls even the jurymen in their deliberations.”

“That is true,” said the marchioness: “that is but too true.”

“Therefore, madame, you must summon all your energy, conceal your
maternal anxiety in your innermost heart, dry your tears, and show
nothing but the most perfect confidence. Let everybody say, as he sees
you, ‘No mother could look so who thinks her son guilty.’”

The marchioness straightened herself, and said,--

“You are right, sir; and I thank you. I must try to impress public
opinion as you say; and, so far from wishing to find the station
deserted, I shall be delighted to see it full of people. I will show you
what a woman can do who thinks of her son’s life.”

The Marchioness of Boiscoran was a woman of rare power.

Drawing her comb from her dressing-case, she repaired the disorder of
her coiffure; with a few skilful strokes she smoothed her dress; her
features, by a supreme effort of will, resumed their usual serenity; she
forced her lips to smile without betraying the effort it cost her; and
then she said in a clear, firm voice,--

“Look at me, sir. Can I show myself now?”

The train stopped at the station. Manuel Folgat jumped out lightly; and,
offering the marchioness his hand to assist her, he said,--

“You will be pleased with yourself, madam. Your courage will not be
useless. All Sauveterre seems to be here.”

This was more than half true. Ever since the night before, a report had
been current,--no one knew how it had started,--that the “murderer’s
mother,” as they charitably called her, would arrive by the nine o’clock
train; and everybody had determined to happen to be at the station at
that hour. In a place where gossip lives for three days upon the last
new dress from Paris, such an opportunity for a little excitement was
not to be neglected. No one thought for a moment of what the poor old
lady would probably feel upon being compelled thus to face a whole
town; for at Sauveterre curiosity has at least the merit, that it is not
hypocritical. Everybody is openly indiscreet, and by no means ashamed
of it. They place themselves right in front of you, and look at you, and
try to find out the secret of your joy or your grief.

It must be borne in mind, however, that public opinion was running
strongly against M. de Boiscoran. If there had been nothing against him
but the fire at Valpinson, and the attempts upon Count Claudieuse,
that would have been a small matter. But the fire had had terrible
consequences. Two men had perished in it; and two others had been so
severely wounded as to put their lives in jeopardy. Only the evening
before, a sad procession had passed through the streets of Sauveterre.
In a cart covered with a cloth, and followed by two priests, the almost
carbonized remains of Bolton the drummer, and of poor Guillebault, had
been brought home. The whole city had seen the widow go to the mayor’s
office, holding in her arms her youngest child, 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 or 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

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