“I have them here in my pocket.”
“Well, then let us go there at once; for I must, first of all, reconnoitre the ground. And you shall see if it takes me long to dress.”
In less than fifteen minutes he reappeared in a long overcoat, with gloves on, looking, for all the world, like one of those retired grocers who have made a fortune, and settled somewhere outside of the corporation of Paris, displaying their idleness in broad daylight, and repenting forever that they have given up their occupation.
“Let us go,” he said to the lawyer.
After having bowed to Mrs. Goudar, who accompanied them with a radiant smile, they got into the carriage, calling out to the driver,—
“Vine Street, Passy, No. 23.”
This Vine Street is a curious street, leading nowhere, little known, and so deserted, that the grass grows everywhere. It stretches out long and dreary, is hilly, muddy, scarcely paved, and full of holes, and looks much more like a wretched village lane than like a street belonging to Paris. No shops, only a few homes, but on the right and the left interminable walls, overtopped by lofty trees.
“Ah! the place is well chosen for mysterious rendezvouses,” growled Goudar. “Too well chosen, I dare say; for we shall pick up no information here.”
The carriage stopped before a small door, in a thick wall, which bore the traces of the two sieges in a number of places.
“Here is No. 23,” said the driver; “but I see no house.”
It could not be seen from the street; but, when they got in, Mr. Folgat and Goudar saw it, rising in the centre of an immense garden, simple and pretty, with a double porch, a slate roof, and newly-painted blinds.
“Great God!” exclaimed the detective, “what a place for a gardener!”
And M. Folgat felt so keenly the man’s ill-concealed desire, that he at once said,—
“If we save M. de Boiscoran, I am sure he will not keep this house.”
“Let us go in,” cried the detective, in a voice which revealed all his intense desire to succeed.
Unfortunately, Jacques de Boiscoran had spoken but too truly, when he said that no trace was left of former days. Furniture, carpets, all was new; and Goudar and M. Folgat in vain explored the four rooms down stairs, and the four rooms up stairs, the basement, where the kitchen was, and finally the garret.
“We shall find nothing here,” declared the detective. “To satisfy my conscience, I shall come and spend an afternoon here; but now we have more important business. Let us go and see the neighbors!”
There are not many neighbors in Vine Street.
A teacher and a nurseryman, a locksmith and a liveryman, five or six owners of houses, and the inevitable keeper of a wine-shop and restaurant, these were the whole population.
“We shall soon make the rounds,” said Goudar, after having ordered the coachman to wait for them at the end of the street.
Neither the head master nor his assistants knew any thing. The nurseryman had heard it said that No. 23 belonged to an Englishman; but he had never seen him, and did not even know his name.
The locksmith knew that he was called Francis Burnett. He had done some work for him, for which he had been well paid, and thus he had frequently seen him; but it was so long since, that he did not think he would recognize him.
“We are unlucky,” said M. Folgat, after this visit.
The memory of the liveryman was more trustworthy. He said he knew the Englishman of No. 23 very well, having driven him three or four times; and the description he gave of him answered fully to Jacques de Boiscoran. He also remembered that one evening, when the weather was wretched, Sir Burnett had come himself to order a carriage. It was for a lady, who had got in alone, and who had been driven to the Place de la Madeleine. But it was a dark night; the lady wore a thick veil; he had not been able to distinguish her features, and all he could say was that she looked above medium height.
“It is always the same story,” said Goudar. “But the wine-merchant ought to be best informed. If I were alone I would breakfast there.”
“I shall breakfast with you,” said M. Folgat.
They did so, and they did wisely.
The wine-merchant did not know much; but his waiter, who had been with him five or six years, knew Sir Burnett, as everybody called the Englishman, by sight, and was quite well acquainted with the servant-girl, Suky Wood. While he was bringing in breakfast, he told them all he knew.
Suky, he said, was a tall, strapping girl, with hair red enough to set her bonnets on fire, and graceful enough to be mistaken for a heavy dragoon in female disguise. He had often had long talks with her when she came to fetch some ready-made dish, or to buy some beer, of which she was very fond. She told him she was very pleased with her place, as she got plenty of money, and had, so to say, nothing to do, being left alone in the house for nine months in the year. From her the waiter had also learned that Sir Burnett must have another house, and that he came to Vine Street only to receive visits from a lady.
This lady troubled Suky very much. She declared she had never been able to see the end of her nose even, so very cautious was she in all her movements; but she intended to see her in spite of all.
“And you may be sure she managed to do it some time or other,” Goudar whispered into M. Folgat’s ear.
Finally they learned from this waiter, that Suky had been very intimate with the servant of an old gentleman who lived quite alone in No. 27.
“We must see her,” said Goudar.
Luckily the girl’s master had just gone out, and she was alone in the house. At first she was a little frightened at being called upon and questioned by two unknown men; but the detective knew how to reassure her very quickly, and, as she was a great talker, she confirmed all the waiter at the restaurant had told them, and added some details.
Suky had been very intimate with her; she had never hesitated to tell her that Burnett was not an Englishman; that his name was not Burnett, and that he was concealing himself in Vine Street under a false name, for the purpose of meeting there his lady-love, who was a grand, fine lady, and marvellously beautiful. Finally, at the outbreak of the war, Suky had told her that she was going back to England to her relations. When they left the old bachelor’s house, Goudar said to the young advocate,—
“We have obtained but little information, and the jurymen would pay little attention to it; but there is enough of it to confirm, at least in part, M. de Boiscoran’s statement. We can prove that he met a lady here who had the greatest interest in remaining unknown. Was this, as he says, the Countess Claudieuse? We might find this out from Suky; for she has seen her, beyond all doubt. Hence we must hunt up Suky. And now, let us take our carriage, and go to headquarters. You can wait for me at the café near the Palais de Justice. I shall not be away more than a quarter of an hour.”
It took him, however, a good hour and a half; M. Folgat was beginning to be troubled, when he at last reappeared, looking very well pleased.
“Waiter, a glass of beer!” he said.
And, sitting down so as to face the advocate, he said,—
“I stayed away rather long; but I did not lose any time. In the first place, I procured a month’s leave of absence; then I put my hand upon the very man whom I wanted to send after Sir Burnett and Miss Suky. He is a good fellow, called Barousse, fine like a needle, and speaks English like a native. He demands twenty-five francs a day, his travelling-expenses, and a gratuity of fifteen hundred francs if he succeeds. I have agreed to meet him at six to give him a definite answer. If you accept the conditions, he will leave for England to-night, well drilled by me.”
Instead of any answer, M. Folgat drew from his pocket-book a thousand-franc note, and said,—
“Here is something to begin with.”
Goudar had finished his beer, and said,—
“Well, then, I must leave you. I am going to hang abut M. de Tassar’s house, and make my inquiries. Perhaps I may pick up something there. To-morrow I shall spend my day in searching the house in Vine Street and in questioning all the tradesmen on your list. The day after to-morrow I shall probably have finished here. So that in four or five days there will arrive in Sauveterre a somebody, who will be myself.” And as he got up, he added,—
“For I must save M. de Boiscoran. I will and I must do it. He has too nice a house. Well, we shall see each other at Sauveterre.”
It struck four o’clock. M. Folgat left the café immediately after Goudar, and went down the river to University Street. He was anxious to see the marquis and the marchioness.
“The marchioness is resting,” said the valet; “but the marquis is in his cabinet.”
M. Folgat was shown in, and found him still under the effects of the terrible scene he had undergone in the morning. He had said nothing to his wife that he did not really think; but he was distressed at having said it under such circumstances. And yet he felt a kind of relief; for, to tell the truth, he felt as if the horrible doubts which he had kept secret so many years had vanished as soon as they were spoken out. When he saw M. Folgat, he asked in a sadly-changed voice,—
“Well?”
The young advocate repeated in detail the account given by the marchioness; but he added what the latter had not been able to mention, because she did not know it, the desperate resolution which Jacques had formed. At this revelation the marquis looked utterly overcome.
“The unhappy man!” he cried. “And I accused him of—He thought of killing himself!”
“And we had a great trouble, M. Magloire, and myself,” added M. Folgat, “to overcome his resolution, great trouble to make him understand, that never, under any circumstances, ought an innocent man to think of committing suicide.”
A big tear rolled down the furrowed cheek of the old gentleman; and he murmured,—
“Ah! I have been cruelly unjust. Poor, unhappy child!”
Then he added aloud,—
“But I shall see him. I have determined to accompany the marchioness to Sauveterre. When will you leave?”
“Nothing keeps me here in Paris. I have done all that could be done, and I might return this evening. But I am really too tired. I think I shall to-morrow take the train at 10.45.”
“If you do so, we shall travel in company; you understand? To-morrow at ten o’clock at the Orleans station. We shall reach Sauveterre by midnight.”
XX.
When the Marchioness de Boiscoran, on the day of her departure for Paris, had gone to see her son, Dionysia had asked her to let her go with her. She resisted, and the young girl did not insist.
“I see they are trying to conceal something from me,” she said simply; “but it does not matter.”
And she had taken refuge in the sitting-room; and there, taking her usual seat, as in the happy days when Jacques spent all his evenings by her side, she had remained long hours immovable, looking as if, with her mind’s eye, she was following invisible scenes far away.
Grandpapa Chandore and the two aunts were indescribably anxious. They knew their Dionysia, their darling child, better than she knew herself, having nursed and watched her for twenty years. They knew every expression of her face, every gesture, every intonation of voice, and could almost read her thoughts in her features.
“Most assuredly Dionysia is meditating upon something very serious,” they said. “She is evidently calculating and preparing for a great resolution.”
The old gentleman thought so too, and asked her repeatedly,—
“What are you thinking of, dear child?”
“Of nothing, dear papa,” she replied.
“You are sadder than usual: why are you so?”
“Alas! How do I know? Does anybody know why one day we have sunshine in our hearts, and another day dismal clouds?”
But the next day she insisted upon being taken to her seamstresses, and finding Mechinet, the clerk, there, she remained a full half-hour in conference with him. Then, in the evening, when Dr. Seignebos, after a short visit, was leaving the room, she lay in wait for him, and kept him talking a long time at the door. Finally, the day after, she asked once more to be allowed to go and see Jacques. They could no longer refuse her this sad satisfaction; and it was agreed that the older of the two Misses Lavarande, Miss Adelaide, should accompany her.
About two o’clock on that day they knocked at the prison-door, and asked the jailer, who had come to open the door, to let them see Jacques.
“I’ll go for him at once, madam,” replied Blangin. “In the meantime pray step in here: the parlor is rather damp, and the less you stay in it, the better it will be.”
Dionysia did so, or rather, she did a great deal more; for, leaving her aunt down stairs, she drew Mrs. Blangin to the upper room, having something to say to her, as she pretended.
When they came down again, Blangin told them that M. de Boiscoran was waiting for them.
“Come!” said the young girl to her aunt.
But she had not taken ten steps in the long narrow passage which led to the parlor, when she stopped. The damp which fell from the vaulted ceiling like a pall upon her, and the emotions which were agitating her heart, combined to overwhelm her. She tottered, and had to lean against the wall, reeking as it was with wet and with saltpetre.
“O Lord, you are ill!” cried Miss Adelaide.
Dionysia beckoned to her to be silent.
“Oh, it is nothing!” she said. “Be quiet!”
And gathering up all her strength, and putting her little hand upon the old lady’s shoulder, she said,—
“My darling aunty, you must render us an immense service. It is all important that I should speak to Jacques alone. It would be very dangerous for us to be overheard. I know they often set spies to listen to prisoners’ talk. Do please, dear aunt, remain here in the passage, and give us warning, if anybody should come.”
“You do not think of it, dear child. Would it be proper?”
The young girl stopped her again.
“Was it proper when I came and spent a night here? Alas! in our position, every thing is proper that may be useful.”
And, as Aunt Lavarande made no reply, she felt sure of her perfect submission, and went on towards the parlor.
“Dionysia!” cried Jacques as soon as she entered,—“Dionysia!”
He was standing in the centre of this mournful hall, looking whiter than the whitewash on the wall, but apparently calm, and almost smiling. The violence with which he controlled himself was horrible. But how could he allow his betrothed to see his despair? Ought he not, on the contrary, do every thing to reassure her?
He came up to her, took her hands in his, and said,—
“Ah, it is so kind in you to come! and yet I have looked for you ever since the morning. I have been watching and waiting, and trembling at every noise. But will you ever forgive me for having made you come to a place like this, untidy and ugly, without the fatal poetry of horror even?”
She looked at him with such obstinate fixedness, that the words expired on his lips.
“Why will you tell me a falsehood?” she said sadly.
“I tell you a falsehood!”
“Yes. Why do you affect this gayety and tranquillity, which are so far from your heart? Have you no longer confidence in me? Do you think I am a child, from whom the truth must be concealed, or so feeble and good for nothing, that I cannot bear my share of your troubles? Do not smile, Jacques; for I know you have no hope.”
“You are mistaken, Dionysia, I assure you.”
“No, Jacques. They are concealing something from me, I know, and I do not ask you to tell me what it is. I know quite enough. You will have to appear in court.”
“I beg your pardon. That question has not yet been decided.”
“But it will be decided, and against you.”
Jacques knew very well it would be so, and dreaded it; but he still insisted upon playing his part.
“Well,” he said, “if I appear in court, I shall be acquitted.”
“Are you quite sure of that?”
“I have ninety-nine chances out of a hundred for me.”
“There is one, however, against you,” cried the young girl. And seizing Jacques’s hands, and pressing them with a force of which he would never have suspected her, she added,—
“You have no right to run that one chance.”
Jacques trembled in all his limbs. Was it possible? Did he understand her? Did Dionysia herself come and suggest to him that act of supreme despair, from which his counsel had so strongly dissuaded him?
“What do you mean?” he said with trembling voice.
“You must escape.”
“Escape?”
“Nothing so easy. I have considered the whole matter thoroughly. The jailers are in our pay. I have just come to an understanding with Blangin’s wife. One evening, as soon as night falls, they will open the doors to you. A horse will be ready for you outside of town, and relays have been prepared. In four hours you can reach Rochelle. There, one of those pilot-boats which can stand any storm takes you on board, and carries you to England.”
Jacques shook his head.
“That cannot be,” he replied. “I am innocent. I cannot abandon all I hold dear,—you, Dionysia.”
A deep flush covered the young girl’s cheeks. She stammered,—
“I have expressed myself badly. You shall not go alone.”
He raised his hands to heaven, as if in utter despair.
“Great God! Thou grantest me this consolation!”
But Dionysia went on speaking in a firmer voice.
“Did you think I would be mean enough to forsake the friend who is betrayed by everybody else? No, no! Grandpapa and my aunts will accompany me, and we will meet you in England. You will change your name, and go across to America; and we will look out, far in the West, for some new country where we can establish ourselves. It won’t be France, to be sure. But our country, Jacques, is the country where we are free, where we are beloved, where we are happy.”
Jacques de Boiscoran was moved to the last fibre of his innermost heart, and in a kind of ecstasy which did not allow him to keep up any longer his mask of impassive indifference. Was there a man upon earth who could receive a more glorious proof of love and devotion? And from what a woman! From a young girl, who united in herself all the qualities of which a single one makes others proud,—intelligence and grace, high rank and fortune, beauty and angelic purity.
Ah! she did not hesitate like that other one; she did not think of asking for securities before she granted the first favor; she did not make a science of duplicity, nor hypocrisy her only virtue. She gave herself up entirely, and without the slightest reserve.
And all this at the moment when Jacques saw every thing else around him crumbled to pieces, when he was on the very brink of utter despair, just then this happiness came to him, this great and unexpected happiness, which well-nigh broke his heart.
For a moment he could not move, he could not think.
Then all of a sudden, drawing his betrothed to him, pressing her convulsively to his bosom, and covering her hair with a thousand kisses, he cried,—
“I bless you, oh, my darling! I bless you, my well beloved! I shall mourn no longer. Whatever may happen, I have had my share of heavenly bliss.”
She thought he consented. Palpitating like the bird in the hand of a child, she drew back, and looking at Jacques with ineffable love and tenderness, she said,—
“Let us fix the day!”
“What day?”
“The day for your flight.”
This word alone recalled Jacques to a sense of his fearful position. He was soaring in the supreme heights of the ether, and he was plunged down into the vile mud of reality. His face, radiant with celestial joy, grew dark in an instant, and he said hoarsely,—
“That dream is too beautiful to be realized.”
“What do you say?” she stammered.
“I can not, I must not, escape!”
“You refuse me, Jacques?”
He made no reply.
“You refuse me, when I swear to you that I will join you, and share your exile? Do you doubt my word? Do you fear that my grandfather or my aunts might keep me here in spite of myself?”
As this suppliant voice fell upon his ears, Jacques felt as if all his energy abandoned him, and his will was shaken.
“I beseech you, Dionysia,” he said, “do not insist, do not deprive me of my courage.”
She was evidently suffering agonies. Her eyes shone with unbearable fire. Her dry lips were trembling.
“You will submit to being brought up in court?” she asked.
“Yes!”
“And if you are condemned?”
“I may be, I know.”
“This is madness!” cried the young girl.
In her despair she was wringing her hands; and then the words escaped from her lips, almost unconsciously,—
“Great God,” she said, “inspire me! How can I bend him? What must I say? Jacques, do you love me no longer? For my sake, if not for your own, I beseech you, let us flee! You escape disgrace; you secure liberty. Can nothing touch you? What do you want? Must I throw myself at your feet?”
And she really let herself fall at his feet.
“Flee!” she repeated again and again. “Oh, flee!”
Like all truly energetic men, Jacques recovered in the very excess of his emotion all his self-possession. Gathering his bewildered thoughts by a great effort of mind, he raised Dionysia, and carried her, almost fainting, to the rough prison bench; then, kneeling down by her side, and taking her hands he said,—
“Dionysia, for pity’s sake, come to yourself and listen to me. I am innocent; and to flee would be to confess that I am guilty.”
“Ah! what does that matter?”
“Do you think that my escape would stop the trial? No. Although absent, I should still be tried, and found guilty without any opposition: I should be condemned, disgraced, irrevocably dishonored.”
“What does it matter?”
Then he felt that such arguments would never bring her back to reason. He rose, therefore, and said in a firm voice,—
“Let me tell you what you do not know. To flee would be easy, I agree. I think, as you do, we could reach England readily enough, and we might even take ship there without trouble. But what then? The cable is faster than the fastest steamer; and, upon landing on American soil, I should, no doubt, be met by agents with orders to arrest me. But suppose even I should escape this first danger. Do you think there is in all this world an asylum for incendiaries and murderers? There is none. At the extreme confines of civilization I should still meet with police-agents and soldiers, who, an extradition treaty in hand, would give me up to the government of my country. If I were alone, I might possibly escape all these dangers. But I should never succeed if I had you near me, and Grandpapa Chandore, and your two aunts.”
Dionysia was forcibly struck by these objections, of which she had had no idea. She said nothing.
“Still, suppose we might possibly escape all such dangers. What would our life be! Do you know what it would mean to have to hide and to run incessantly, to have to avoid the looks of every stranger, and to tremble, day by day, at the thought of discovery? With me, Dionysia, your existence would be that of the wife of one of those banditti whom the police are hunting down in his dens. And you ought to know that such a life is so intolerable, that hardened criminals have been unable to endure it, and have given up their life for the boon of a night’s quiet sleep.”
Big tears were silently rolling down the poor girl’s cheeks. She murmured,—
“Perhaps you are right, Jacques. But, O Jacques, if they should condemn you!”
“Well, I should at least have done my duty. I should have met fate, and defended my honor. And, whatever the sentence may be, it will not overthrow me; for, as long as my heart beats within me, I mean to defend myself. And, if I die before I succeed in proving my innocence, I shall leave it to you, Dionysia, to your kindred, and to my friends, to continue the struggle, and to restore my honor.”
She was worthy of comprehending and of appreciating such sentiments.
“I was wrong, Jacques,” she said, offering him her hand: “you must forgive me.”
She had risen, and, after a few moments’ hesitation, was about to leave the room, when Jacques retained her, saying,—
“I do not mean to escape; but would not the people who have agreed to favor my evasion be willing to furnish me the means for passing a few hours outside of my prison?”
“I think they would,” replied the young girl; “And, if you wish it, I will make sure of it.”
“Yes. That might be a last resort.”
With these words they parted, exhorting each other to keep up their courage, and promising each other to meet again during the next days.
Dionysia found her poor aunt Lavarande very tired of the long watch; and they hastened home.
“How pale you are!” exclaimed M. de Chandore, when he saw his grand-daughter; “and how red your eyes are! What has happened?”
She told him every thing; and the old gentleman felt chilled to the marrow of his bones, when he found that it had depended on Jacques alone to carry off his grandchild. But he had not done so.
“Ah, he is an honest man!” he said.
And, pressing his lips on Dionysia’s brow, he added,—
“And you love him more than ever?”
“Alas!” she replied, “is he not more unhappy than ever?”
XXI.
“Have you heard the news?”
“No: what is it?”
“Dionysia de Chandore has been to see M. de Boiscoran in prison.”
“Is it possible?”
“Yes, indeed! Twenty people have seen her come back from there, leaning on the arm of the older Miss Lavarande. She went in at ten minutes past ten, and she did not come out till a quarter-past three.”
“Is the young woman mad?”
“And the aunt—what do you think of the aunt?”
“She must be as mad as the niece.”
“And M. de Chandore?”
“He must have lost his senses to allow such a scandal. But you know very well, grandfather and aunts never had any will but Dionysia’s.”
“A nice training!”
“And nice fruits of such an education! After such a scandal, no man will be bold enough to marry her.”
Such were the comments on Dionysia’s visit to Jacques, when the news became known. It flew at once all over town. The ladies “in society” could not recover from it; for people are exceedingly virtuous at Sauveterre, and hence they claim the right of being exceedingly strict in their judgment. There is no trifling permitted on the score of propriety.
The person who defies public opinion is lost. Now, public opinion was decidedly against Jacques de Boiscoran. He was down, and everybody was ready to kick him.
“Will he get out of it?”
This problem, which was day by day discussed at the “Literary Club,” had called forth torrents of eloquence, terrible discussions, and even one or two serious quarrels, one of which had ended in a duel. But nobody asked any longer,—
“Is he innocent?”
Dr. Seignebos’s eloquence, the influence of M. Seneschal, and the cunning plots of Mechinet, had all failed.
“Ah, what an interesting trial it will be!” said many people, who were all eagerness to know who would be the presiding judge, in order to ask him for tickets of admission. Day by day the interest in the trial became deeper; and all who were in any way connected with it were watched with great curiosity. Everybody wanted to know what they were doing, what they thought, and what they had said.
They saw in the absence of the Marquis de Boiscoran an additional proof of Jacques’s guilt. The continued presence of M. Folgat also created no small wonder. His extreme reserve, which they ascribed to his excessive and ill-placed pride, had made him generally disliked. And now they said,—
“He must have hardly any thing to do in Paris, that he can spend so many months in Sauveterre.”
The editor of “The Sauveterre Independent” naturally found the affair a veritable gold-mine for his paper. He forgot his old quarrel with the editor of “The Impartial Journal,” whom he accused of Bonapartism, and who retaliated by calling him a Communist. Each day brought, in addition to the usual mention under the “local” head, some article on the “Boiscoran Case.” He wrote,—
“The health of Count C., instead of improving, is declining visibly. He used to get up occasionally when he first came to Sauveterre; and now he rarely leaves his bed. The wound in the shoulder, which at first seemed to be the least dangerous, has suddenly become much inflamed, owing to the tropical heat of the last days. At one time gangrene was apprehended, and it was feared that amputation would become necessary. Yesterday Dr. S. seemed to be much disturbed.
“And, as misfortunes never come singly, the youngest daughter of Count C. is very ill. She had the measles at the time of the fire; and the fright, the cold, and the removal, have brought on a relapse, which may be dangerous.
“Amid all these cruel trials, the Countess C. is admirable in her devotion, her courage, and her resignation. Whenever she leaves the bedside of her dear patients to pray at church for them, she is received with the most touching sympathy and the most sincere admiration by the whole population.”
“Ah, that wretch Boiscoran!” cried the good people of Sauveterre when they read such an article.
The next day, they found this,—
“We have sent to the hospital to inquire from the lady superior how the poor idiot is, who has taken such a prominent part in the bloody drama at Valpinson. His mental condition remains unchanged since he has been examined by experts. The spark of intelligence which the crime had elicited seems to be extinguished entirely and forever. It is impossible to obtain a word from him. He is, however, not locked up. Inoffensive and gentle, like a poor animal that has lost its master, he wanders mournfully through the courts and gardens of the hospital. Dr. S., who used to take a lively interest in him, hardly ever sees him now.
“It was thought at one time, that C. would be summoned to give evidence in the approaching trial. We are informed by high authority, that such a dramatic scene must not be expected to take place. C. will not appear before the jury.”
“Certainly, Cocoleu’s deposition must have been an interposition of Providence,” said people who were not far from believing that it was a genuine miracle.
The next day the editor took M. Galpin in hand.
“M. G., the eminent magistrate, is very unwell just now, and very naturally so after an investigation of such length and importance as that which preceded the Boiscoran trial. We are told that he only awaits the decree of the court, to ask for a furlough and to go to one of the rural stations of the Pyrenees.”
Then came Jacques’s turn,—
“M. J. de B. stands his imprisonment better than could be expected. According to direct information, his health is excellent, and his spirits do not seem to have suffered. He reads much, and spends part of the night in preparing his defence, and making notes for his counsel.”
Then came, from day to day, smaller items,—
“M. J. de B. is no longer in close confinement.”
Or,—
“M. de B. had this morning an interview with his counsel, M. M., the most eminent member of our bar, and M. F., a young but distinguished advocate from Paris. The conference lasted several hours. We abstain from giving details; but our readers will understand the reserve required in the case of an accused who insists upon protesting energetically that he is innocent.”
And, again,—
“M. de B. was yesterday visited by his mother.”
Or, finally,—
“We hear at the last moment that the Marchioness de B. and M. Folgat have left for Paris. Our correspondent in P. writes us that the decree of the court will not be delayed much longer.”
Never had “The Sauveterre Independent” been read with so much interest. And, as everybody endeavored to be better informed than his neighbor, quite a number of idle men had assumed the duty of watching Jacques’s friends, and spent their days in trying to find out what was going on at M. de Chandore’s house. Thus it came about, that, on the evening of Dionysia’s visit to Jacques, the street was full of curious people. Towards half-past ten, they saw M. de Chandore’s carriage come out of the courtyard, and draw up at the door. At eleven o’clock M. de Chandore and Dr. Seignebos got in, the coachman whipped the horse, and they drove off.
“Where can they be going?” asked they.
They followed the carriage. The two gentlemen drove to the station. They had received a telegram, and were expecting the return of the marchioness and M. Folgat, accompanied, this time, by the old marquis.
They reached there much too soon. The local branch railway which goes to Sauveterre is not famous for regularity, and still reminds its patrons occasionally of the old habits of stage-coaches, when the driver or the conductor had, at the last moment, to stop to pick up something they had forgotten. At a quarter-past midnight the train, which ought to have been there twenty minutes before, had not yet been signalled. Every thing around was silent and deserted. Through the windows the station-master might be seen fast asleep in his huge leather chair. Clerks and porters all were asleep, stretched out on the benches of the waiting-room. But people are accustomed to such delays at Sauveterre; they are prepared for being kept waiting: and the doctor and M. de Chandore were walking up and down the platform, being neither astonished nor impatient at the irregularity. Nor would they have been much surprised if they had been told that they were closely watched all the time: they knew their good town. Still it was so. Two curious men, more obstinate than the others, had jumped into the omnibus which runs between the station and the town; and now, standing a little aside, they said to each other,—
“I say, what can they be waiting for?”
At last towards one o’clock, a bell rang, and the station seemed to start into life. The station-master opened his door, the porters stretched themselves and rubbed their eyes, oaths were heard, doors slammed, and the large hand-barrows came in sight.
Then a low thunder-like noise came nearer and nearer; and almost instantly a fierce red light at the far end of the track shone out in the dark night like a ball of fire. M. de Chandore and the doctor hastened to the waiting-room.
The train stopped. A door opened, and the marchioness appeared, leaning on M. Folgat’s arm. The marquis, a travelling-bag in hand, followed next.
“That was it!” said the volunteer spies, who had flattened their noses against the window-panes.
And, as the train brought no other passengers, they succeeded in making the omnibus conductor start at once, eager as they were to proclaim the arrival of the prisoner’s father.
The hour was unfavorable: everybody was asleep; but they did not give up the hope of finding somebody yet at the club. People stay up very late at the club, for there is play going on there, and at times pretty heavy play: you can lose your five hundred francs quite readily there. Thus the indefatigable news-hunters had a fair chance of finding open ears for their great piece of news. And yet, if they had been less eager to spread it, they might have witnessed, perhaps not entirely unmoved, this first interview between M. de Chandore and the Marquis de Boiscoran.
By a natural impulse they had both hastened forward, and shook hands in the most energetic manner. Tears stood in their eyes. They opened their lips to speak; but they said nothing. Besides, there was no need of words between them. That close embrace had told Jacques’s father clearly enough what Dionysia’s grandfather must have suffered. They remained thus standing motionless, looking at each other, when Dr. Seignebos, who could not be still for any length of time, came up, and asked,—
“The trunks are on the carriage: shall we go?”
They left the station. The night was clear; and on the horizon, above the dark mass of the sleeping town, there rose against the pale-blue sky the two towers of the old castle, which now served as prison to Sauveterre.
“That is the place where my Jacques is kept,” murmured the marquis. “There my son is imprisoned, accused of horrible crimes.”
“We will get him out of it,” said the doctor cheerfully, as he helped the old gentleman into the carriage.
But in vain did he try, during the drive, to rouse, as he called it, the spirits of his companions. His hopes found no echo in their distressed hearts.
M. Folgat inquired after Dionysia, whom he had been surprised not to see at the station. M. de Chandore replied that she had staid at home with the Misses Lavarande, to keep M. Magloire company; and that was all.
There are situations in which it is painful to talk. The marquis had enough to do to suppress the spasmodic sobs which now and then would rise in his throat. He was upset by the thought that he was at Sauveterre. Whatever may be said to the contrary, distance does not weaken our emotions. Shaking hands with M. de Chandore in person had moved him more deeply than all the letters he had received for a month. And when he saw Jacques’s prison from afar, he had the first clear notion of the horrible tortures endured by his son. The marchioness was utterly exhausted: she felt as if all the springs in her system were broken.
M. de Chandore trembled when he looked at them, and saw how they all were on the point of succumbing. If they despaired, what could he hope for,—he, who knew how indissolubly Dionysia’s fate in life was connected with Jacques?
At length the carriage stopped before his house. The door opened instantly, and the marchioness found herself in Dionysia’s arms, and soon after comfortably seated in an easy-chair. The others had followed her. It was past two o’clock; but every minute now was valuable. Arranging his spectacles, Dr. Seignebos said,—
“I propose that we exchange our information. I, for my part, I am still at the same point. But you know my views. I do not give them up. Cocoleu is an impostor, and it shall be proved. I appear to notice him no longer; but, in reality, I watch him more closely than ever.”
Dionysia interrupted him, saying,—
“Before any thing is decided, there is one fact which you all ought to know. Listen.”
Pale like death, for it cost her a great struggle to reveal thus the secret of her heart, but with a voice full of energy, and an eye full of fire, she told them what she had already confessed to her grandfather; viz., the propositions she had made to Jacques, and his obstinate refusal to accede to them.
“Well done, madame!” said Dr. Seignebos, full of enthusiasm. “Well done! Jacques is very unfortunate, and still he is to be envied.”
Dionysia finished her recital. Then, turning with a triumphant air to M. Magloire, she added,—
“After that, is there any one yet who could believe that Jacques is a vile assassin?”
The eminent advocate of Sauveterre was not one of those men who prize their opinions more highly than truth itself.
“I confess,” he said, “that, if I were to go and see Jacques to-morrow for the first time, I should not speak to him as I did before.”
“And I,” exclaimed the Marquis de Boiscoran,—“I declare that I answer for my son as for myself, and I mean to tell him so to-morrow.”
Then turning towards his wife, and speaking so low, that she alone could hear him, he added,—
“And I hope you will forgive me those suspicions which now fill me with horror.”
But the marchioness had no strength left: she fainted, and had to be removed, accompanied by Dionysia and the Misses Lavarande. As soon as they were out of the room, Dr. Seignebos locked the door, rested his elbow on the chimney, and, taking off his spectacles to wipe them, said to M. Folgat,—
“Now we can speak freely. What news do you bring us?”
XXII.
It had just struck eleven o’clock, when the jailer, Blangin, entered Jacques’s cell in great excitement, and said,—
“Sir, your father is down stairs.”
The prisoner jumped up, thunderstruck.
The night before he had received a note from M. de Chandore, informing him of the marquis’s arrival; and his whole time had since been spent in preparing himself for the interview. How would it be? He had nothing by which to judge. He had therefore determined to be quite reserved. And, whilst he was following Blangin along the dismal passage and down the interminable steps, he was busily composing respectful phrases, and trying to look self-possessed.
But, before he could utter a single word, he was in his father’s arms. He felt himself pressed against his heart, and heard him stammer,—
“Jacques, my dear son, my unfortunate child!”
In all his life, long and stormy as it had been, the marquis had not been tried so severely. Drawing Jacques to one of the parlor-windows, and leaning back a little, so as to see him better, he was amazed how he could ever have doubted his son. It seemed to him that he was standing there himself. He recognized his own feature and carriage, his own frank but rather haughty expression, his own clear, bright eye.
Then, suddenly noticing details, he was shocked to see Jacques so much reduced. He found him looking painfully pale, and he actually discovered at the temples more than one silvery hair amid his thick black curls.
“Poor child!” he said. “How you must have suffered!”
“I thought I should lose my senses,” replied Jacques simply.
And with a tremor in his voice, he asked,—
“But, dear father, why did you give me no sign of life? Why did you stay away so long?”
The marquis was not unprepared for such a question. But how could he answer it? Could he ever tell Jacques the true secret of his hesitation? Turning his eyes aside, he answered,—
“I hoped I should be able to serve you better by remaining in Paris.” But his embarrassment was too evident to escape Jacques.
“You did not doubt your own child, father?” he asked sadly.
“Never!” cried the marquis, “I never doubted a moment. Ask your mother, and she will tell you that it was this proud assurance I felt which kept me from coming down with her. When I heard of what they accused you, I said ‘It is absurd!’”
Jacques shook his head, and said,—
“The accusation was absurd; and yet you see what it has brought me to.”
Two big tears, which he could no longer retain, burnt in the eyes of the old gentleman.
“You blame me, Jacques,” he said. “You blame your father.”
There is not a man alive who could see his father shed tears, and not feel his heart melt within him. All the resolutions Jacques had formed vanished in an instant. Pressing his father’s hand in his own, he said,—
“No, I do not blame you, father. And still I have no words to tell you how much your absence has added to my sufferings. I thought I was abandoned, disowned.”
For the first time since his imprisonment, the unfortunate man found a heart to whom he could confide all the bitterness that overflowed in his own heart. With his mother and with Dionysia, honor forbade him to show despair. The incredulity of M. Magloire had made all confidence impossible; and M. Folgat, although as sympathetic as man could be was, after all, a perfect stranger.
But now he had near him a friend, the dearest and most precious friend that a man can ever have,—his father: now he had nothing to fear.
“Is there a human being in this world,” he said, “whose misfortunes equal mine? To be innocent, and not to be able to prove it! To know the guilty one, and not to dare mention the name. Ah! at first I did not take in the whole horror of my situation. I was frightened, to be sure; but I had recovered, thinking that surely justice would not be slow in discovering the truth. Justice! It was my friend Galpin who represented it, and he cared little enough for truth: his only aim was to prove that the man whom he accused was the guilty man. Read the papers, father, and you will see how I have been victimized by the most unheard-of combination of circumstances. Every thing is against me. Never has that mysterious, blind, and absurd power manifested itself so clearly,—that awful power which we call fate.
“First I was kept by a sense of honor from mentioning the name of the Countess Claudieuse, and then by prudence. The first time I mentioned it to M. Magloire, he told me I lied. Then I thought every thing lost. I saw no other end but the court, and, after the trial, the galleys or the scaffold. I wanted to kill myself. My friends made me understand that I did not belong to myself, and that, as long as I had a spark of energy and a ray of intelligence left me, I had no right to dispose of my life.”
“Poor, poor child!” said the marquis. “No, you have no such right.”
“Yesterday,” continued Jacques, “Dionysia came to see me. Do you know what brought her here? She offered to flee with me. Father, that temptation was terrible. Once free, and Dionysia by my side, what cared I for the world? She insisted, like the matchless girl that she is; and look there, there, on the spot where you now stand, she threw herself at my feet, imploring me to flee. I doubt whether I can save my life; but I remain here.”
He felt deeply moved, and sank upon the rough bench, hiding his face in his hands, perhaps to conceal his tears.
Suddenly, however, he was seized with one of those attacks of rage which had come to him but too often during his imprisonment, and he exclaimed,—
“But what have I done to deserve such fearful punishment?”
The brow of the marquis suddenly darkened; and he replied solemnly,—
“You have coveted your neighbor’s wife, my son.”
Jacques shrugged his shoulders. He said,—
“I loved the Countess Claudieuse, and she loved me.”
“Adultery is a crime, Jacques.”
“A crime? Magloire said the same thing. But, father, do you really think so? Then it is a crime which has nothing appalling about it, to which every thing invites and encourages, of which everybody boasts, and at which the world smiles. The law, it is true, gives the husband the right of life and death; but, if you appeal to the law, it gives the guilty man six months’ imprisonment, or makes him pay a few thousand francs.”
Ah, if he had known, the unfortunate man!
“Jacques,” said the marquis, “the Countess Claudieuse hints, as you say, that one of her daughters, the youngest, is your child?”
“That may be so.”
The Marquis de Boiscoran shuddered. Then he exclaimed bitterly,—
“That may be so! You say that carelessly, indifferently, madman! Did you never think of the grief Count Claudieuse would feel if he should learn the truth? And even if he merely suspected it! Can you not comprehend that such a suspicion is quite sufficient to embitter a whole life, to ruin the life of that girl? Have you never told yourself that such a doubt inflicts a more atrocious punishment than any thing you have yet suffered?”
He paused. A few words more, and he would have betrayed his secret. Checking his excitement by an heroic effort, he said,—
“But I did not come here to discuss this question; I came to tell you, that, whatever may happen, your father will stand by you, and that, if you must undergo the disgrace of appearing in court, I will take a seat by your side.”
In spite of his own great trouble, Jacques had not been able to avoid seeing his father’s unusual excitement and his sudden vehemence. For a second, he had a vague perception of the truth; but, before the suspicion could assume any shape, it had vanished before this promise which his father made, to face by his side the overwhelming humiliation of a judgment in court,—a promise full of divine self-abnegation and paternal love. His gratitude burst forth in the words,—
“Ah, father! I ought to ask your pardon for ever having doubted your heart for a moment.”
M. de Boiscoran tried his best to recover his self-possession. At last he said in an earnest voice,—
“Yes, I love you, my son; and still you must not make me out more of a hero than I am. I still hope we may be spared the appearance in court.”
“Has any thing new been discovered?”
“M. Folgat has found some traces which justify legitimate hopes, although, as yet, no real success has been achieved.”
Jacques looked rather discouraged.
“Traces?” he asked.
“Be patient. They are feeble traces, I admit, and such as could not be produced in court; but from day to day they may become decisive. And already they have had one good effect: they have brought us back M. Magloire.”
“O God! Could I really be saved?”
“I shall leave to M. Folgat,” continued the marquis, “the satisfaction of telling you the result of his efforts. He can explain their bearing better than I could. And you will not have long to wait; for last night, or rather this morning, when we separated, he and M. Magloire agreed to meet here at the prison, before two o’clock.”
A few minutes later a rapid step approached in the passage; and Trumence appeared, the prisoner of whom Blangin had made an assistant, and whom Mechinet had employed to carry Jacques’s letters to Dionysia. He was a tall well-made man of twenty-five or six years, whose large mouth and small eyes were perpetually laughing. A vagabond without hearth or home, Trumence had once been a land-owner. At the death of his parents, when he was only eighteen years old, Trumence had come into possession of a house surrounded by a yard, a garden, several acres of land, and a salt meadow; all worth about fifteen thousand francs. Unfortunately the time for the conscription was near. Like many young men of that district, Trumence believed in witchcraft, and had gone to buy a charm, which cost him fifty francs. It consisted of three tamarind-branches gathered on Christmas Eve, and tied together by a magic number of hairs drawn from a dead man’s head. Having sewed this charm into his waistcoat, Trumence had gone to town, and, plunging his hand boldly into the urn, had drawn number three. This was unexpected. But as he had a great horror of military service, and, well-made as he was, felt quite sure that he would not be rejected, he determined to employ a chance much more certain to succeed; namely, to borrow money in order to buy a substitute.
As he was a land-owner, he found no difficulty in meeting with an obliging person, who consented to lend him for two years thirty-five hundred francs, in return for a first mortgage on his property. When the papers were signed, and Trumence had the money in his pocket, he set out for Rochefort, where dealers in substitutes abounded; and for the sum of two thousand francs, exclusive of some smaller items, they furnished him a substitute of the best quality.
Delighted with the operation, Trumence was about to return home, when his evil star led him to sup at his inn with a countryman, a former schoolmate, who was now a sailor on board a coal-barge. Of course, countrymen when they meet must drink. They did drink; and, as the sailor very soon scented the twelve hundred francs which remained in Trumence’s pockets, he swore that he was going to have a jolly time, and would not return on board his barge as long as there remained a cent in his friend’s pocket. So it happened, that, after a fortnight’s carouse, the sailor was arrested and put in jail; and Trumence was compelled to borrow five francs from the stage-driver to enable him to get home.
This fortnight was decisive for his life. During these days he had lost all taste for work, and acquired a real passion for taverns where they played with greasy cards. After his return he tried to continue this jolly life; and, to do so, he made more debts. He sold, piece after piece, all he possessed that was salable, down to his mattress and his tools. This was not the way to repay the thirty-five hundred francs which he owed. When pay-day came, the creditor, seeing that his security was diminishing every day, lost no time. Before Trumence was well aware of what was going on, an execution was in the house; his lands were sold; and one fine day he found himself in the street, possessing literally nothing in the world but the wretched clothes on his back.
He might easily have found employment; for he was a good workman, and people were fond of him in spite of all. But he was even more afraid of work than he was fond of drink. Whenever want pressed too hard, he worked a few days; but, as soon as he had earned ten francs, good-by! Off he went, lounging by the road-side, talking with the wagoners, or loafing about the villages, and watching for one of those kind topers, who, rather than drink alone, invite the first-comer. Trumence boasted of being well known all along the coast, and even far into the department. And what was most surprising was that people did not blame him much for his idleness. Good housewives in the country would, it is true, greet him with a “Well, what do you want here, good-for-nothing?” But they would rarely refuse him a bowl of soup or a glass of white wine. His unchanging good-humor, and his obliging disposition, explained this forbearance. This man, who would refuse a well-paid job, was ever ready to lend a hand for nothing. And he was handy at every thing, by land and by water, he called it, so that the farmer whose business was pressing, and the fisherman in his boat who wanted help, appealed alike to Trumence.
The mischief, however, is, that this life of rural beggary, if it has its good days, also has its evil times. On certain days, Trumence could not find either kind-hearted topers or hospitable housewives. Hunger, however, was ever on hand; then he had to become a marauder; dig some potatoes, and cook them in a corner of a wood, or pilfer the orchards. And if he found neither potatoes in the fields, nor apples in the orchards, what could he do but climb a fence, or scale a wall?
Relatively speaking, Trumence was an honest man, and incapable of stealing a piece of money; but vegetables, fruits, chickens—
Thus it had come about that he had been arrested twice, and condemned to several days’ imprisonment; and each time he had vowed solemnly that he would never be caught at it again, and that he was going to work hard. And yet he had been caught again.
The poor fellow had told his misfortunes to Jacques; and Jacques, who owed it to him that he could, when still in close confinement, correspond with Dionysia, felt very kindly towards him. Hence, when he saw him come up very respectful, and cap in hand, he asked,—
“What is it, Trumence?”
“Sir,” replied the vagrant, “M. Blangin sends you word that the two advocates are coming up to your room.”
Once more the marquis embraced his son, saying,—
“Do not keep them waiting, and keep up your courage.”
XXIII.
The Marquis de Boiscoran had not been mistaken about M. Magloire. Much shaken by Dionysia’s statement, he had been completely overcome by M. Folgat’s explanations; and, when he now came to the jail, it was with a determination to prove Jacques’s innocence.
“But I doubt very much whether he will ever forgive me for my incredulity,” he said to M. Folgat while they were waiting for the prisoner in his cell.
Jacques came in, still deeply moved by the scene with his father. M. Magloire went up to him, and said,—
“I have never been able to conceal my thoughts, Jacques. When I thought you guilty, and felt sure that you accused the Countess Claudieuse falsely, I told you so with almost brutal candor. I have since found out my error, and am now convinced of the truth of your statement: so I come and tell you as frankly, Jacques, I was wrong to have had more faith in the reputation of a woman than in the words of a friend. Will you give me your hand?”
The prisoner grasped his hand with a profusion of joy, and cried,—
“Since you believe in my innocence, others may believe in me too, and my salvation is drawing near.”
The melancholy faces of the two advocates told him that he was rejoicing too soon. His features expressed his grief; but he said with a firm voice,—
“Well, I see that the struggle will be a hard one, and that the result is still uncertain. Never mind. You may be sure I will not give way.”
In the meantime M. Folgat had spread out on the table all the papers he had brought with him,—copies furnished by Mechinet, and notes taken during his rapid journey.
“First of all, my dear client,” he said, “I must inform you of what has been done.”
And when he had stated every thing, down to the minutest details of what Goudar and he had done, he said,—
“Let us sum up. We are able to prove three things: 1. That the house in Vine Street belongs to you, and that Sir Francis Burnett, who is known there, and you are one; 2. That you were visited in this house by a lady, who, from all the precautions she took, had powerful reasons to remain unknown; 3. That the visits of this lady took place at certain epochs every year, which coincided precisely with the journeys which the Countess Claudieuse yearly made to Paris.”
The great advocate of Sauveterre expressed his assent.
“Yes,” he said, “all this is fully established.”
“For ourselves, we have another certainty,—that Suky Wood, the servant of the false Sir Francis Burnett, has watched the mysterious lady; that she has seen her, and consequently would know her again.”
“True, that appears from the deposition of the girl’s friend.”
“Consequently, if we discover Suky Wood, the Countess Claudieuse is unmasked.”
“If we discover her,” said M. Magloire. “And here, unfortunately, we enter into the region of suppositions.”
“Suppositions!” said M. Folgat. “Well, call them so; but they are based upon positive facts, and supported by a hundred precedents. Why should we not find this Suky Wood, whose birthplace and family we know, and who has no reason for concealment? Goudar has found very different people; and Goudar is on our side. And you may be sure he will not be asleep. I have held out to him a certain hope which will make him do miracles,—the hope of receiving as a reward, if he succeeds, the house in Vine Street. The stakes are too magnificent: he must win the game,—he who has won so many already. Who knows what he may not have discovered since we left him? Has he not done wonders already?”
“It is marvellous!” cried Jacques, amazed at these results.
Older than M. Folgat and Jacques, the eminent advocate of Sauveterre was less ready to feel such enthusiasm.
“Yes,” he said, “it is marvellous; and, if we had time, I would say as you do, ‘We shall carry the day!’ But there is no time for Goudar’s investigations: the sessions are on hand, and it seems to me it would be very difficult to obtain a postponement.”