“Besides, I do not wish it to be postponed,” said Jacques.
“But”—
“On no account, Magloire, never! What? I should endure three months more of this anguish which tortures me? I could not do it: my strength is exhausted. This uncertainty has been too much for me. I could bear no more suspense.”
M. Folgat interrupted him, saying,—
“Do not trouble yourself about that: a postponement is out of the question. On what pretext could we ask for it? The only way would be to introduce an entirely new element in the case. We should have to summon the Countess Claudieuse.”
The greatest surprise appeared on Jacques’s face.
“Will we not summon her anyhow?” he asked.
“That depends.”
“I do not understand you.”
“It is very simple, however. If Goudar should succeed, before the trial, in collecting sufficient evidence against her, I should summon her certainly; and then the case would naturally change entirely; the whole proceeding would begin anew; and you would probably appear only as a witness. If, on the contrary, we obtain, before the trial begins, no other proof but what we have now, I shall not mention her name even; for that would, in my opinion, and in M. Magloire’s opinion, ruin your cause irrevocably.”
“Yes,” said the great advocate, “that is my opinion.”
Jacques’s amazement was boundless.
“Still,” he said, “in self-defence, I must, if I am brought up in court, speak of my relations to the Countess Claudieuse.”
“No.”
“But that is my only explanation.”
“If it were credited.”
“And you think you can defend me, you think you can save me, without telling the truth?”
M. Folgat shook his head, and said,—
“In court the truth is the last thing to be thought of.”
“Oh!”
“Do you think the jury would credit allegations which M. Magloire did not credit? No. Well, then, we had better not speak of them any more, and try to find some explanation which will meet the charges brought against you. Do you think we should be the first to act thus? By no means. There are very few cases in which the prosecution says all it knows, and still fewer in which the defence calls for every thing it might call for. Out of ten criminal trials, there are at least three in which side-issues are raised. What will be the charge in court against you? The substance of the romance which the magistrate has invented in order to prove your guilt. You must meet him with another romance which proves your innocence.”
“But the truth.”
“Is dependent on probability, my dear client. Ask M. Magloire. The prosecution only asks for probability: hence probability is all the defence has to care for. Human justice is feeble, and limited in its means; it cannot go down to the very bottom of things; it cannot judge of motives, and fathom consciences. It can only judge from appearances, and decide by plausibility; there is hardly a case which has not some unexplored mystery, some undiscovered secret. The truth! Ah! do you think M. Galpin has looked for it? If he did, why did he not summon Cocoleu? But no, as long as he can produce a criminal, who may be responsible for the crime, he is quite content. The truth! Which of us knows the real truth? Your case, M. de Boiscoran, is one of those in which neither the prosecution, nor the defence, nor the accused himself, knows the truth of the matter.”
There followed a long silence, so deep a silence, that the step of the sentinel could be heard, who was walking up and down under the prison-windows. M. Folgat had said all he thought proper to say: he feared, in saying more, to assume too great a responsibility. It was, after all, Jacques’s life and Jacques’s honor which were at stake. He alone, therefore, ought to decide the nature of his defence. If his judgment was too forcibly controlled by his counsel, he would have had a right hereafter to say, “Why did you not leave me free to choose? I should not have been condemned.”
To show this very clearly, M. Folgat went on,—
“The advice I give you, my dear client, is, in my eyes, the best; it is the advice I would give my own brother. But, unfortunately, I cannot say it is infallible. You must decide yourself. Whatever you may resolve, I am still at your service.”
Jacques made no reply. His elbows resting on the table, his face in his hands, he remained motionless, like a statue, absorbed in his thoughts. What should he do? Should he follow his first impulse, tear the veil aside, and proclaim the truth? That was a doubtful policy, but also, what a triumph if he succeeded!
Should he adopt the views of his counsel, employ subterfuges and falsehoods? That was more certain of success; but to be successful in this way—was that a real victory?
Jacques was in a terrible perplexity. He felt it but too clearly. The decision he must form now would decide his fate. Suddenly he raised his head, and said,—
“What is your advice, M. Magloire?”
The great advocate of Sauveterre frowned angrily; and said, in a somewhat rough tone of voice,—
“I have had the honor to place before your mother all that my young colleague has just told you. M. Folgat has but one fault,—he is too cautious. The physician must not ask what his patient thinks of his remedies: he must prescribe them. It may be that our prescriptions do not meet with success; but, if you do not follow them, you are most assuredly lost.”
Jacques hesitated for some minutes longer. These prescriptions, as M. Magloire called them, were painfully repugnant to his chivalrous and open character.
“Would it be worth while,” he murmured, “to be acquitted on such terms? Would I really be exculpated by such proceedings? Would not my whole life thereafter be disgraced by suspicions? I should not come out from the trial with a clear acquittal: I should have escaped by a mere chance.”
“That would still better than to go, by a clear judgment, to the galleys,” said M. Magloire brutally.
This word, “the galleys,” made Jacques bound. He rose, walked up and down a few times in his room, and then, placing himself in front of his counsel, said,—
“I put myself in your hands, gentlemen. Tell me what I must do.”
Jacques had at least this merit, if he once formed a resolution, he was sure to adhere to it. Calm now, and self-possessed, he sat down, and said, with a melancholy smile,—
“Let us hear the plan of battle.”
This plan had been for a month now the one great thought of M. Folgat. All his intelligence, all his sagacity and knowledge of the world, had been brought to bear upon this case, which he had made his own, so to say, by his almost passionate interest. He knew the tactics of the prosecution as well as M. Galpin himself, and he knew its weak and its strong side even better than M. Galpin.
“We shall go on, therefore,” he began, “as if there was no such person as the Countess Claudieuse. We know nothing of her. We shall say nothing of the meeting at Valpinson, nor of the burned letters.”
“That is settled.”
“That being so, we must next look, not for the manner in which we spent our time, but for our purpose in going out the evening of the crime. Ah! If we could suggest a plausible, a very probable purpose, I should almost guarantee our success; for we need not hesitate to say there is the turning-point of the whole case, on which all the discussions will turn.”
Jacques did not seem to be fully convinced of this view. He said,—
“You think that possible?”
“Unfortunately, it is but too certain; and, if I say unfortunately, it is because here we have to meet a terrible charge, the most decisive, by all means, that has been raised, one on which M. Galpin has not insisted (he is much too clever for that), but one which, in the hands of the prosecution, may become a terrible weapon.”
“I must confess,” said Jacques, “I do not very well see”—
“Have you forgotten the letter you wrote to Miss Dionysia the evening of the crime?” broke in M. Magloire.
Jacques looked first at one, and then at the other of his counsel.
“What,” he said, “that letter?”
“Overwhelms us, my dear client,” said M. Folgat. “Don’t you remember it? You told your betrothed in that note, that you would be prevented from enjoying the evening with her by some business of the greatest importance, and which could not be delayed? Thus, you see, you had determined beforehand, and after mature consideration, to spend that evening in doing a certain thing. What was it? ‘The murder of Count Claudieuse,’ says the prosecution. What can we say?”
“But, I beg your pardon—that letter. Miss Dionysia surely has not handed it over to them?”
“No; but the prosecution is aware of its existence. M. de Chandore and M. Seneschal have spoken of it in the hope of exculpating you, and have even mentioned the contents. And M. Galpin knows it so well, that he had repeatedly mentioned it to you, and you have confessed all that he could desire.”
The young advocate looked among his papers; and soon he had found what he wanted.
“Look here,” he said, “in your third examination, I find this,—”
“‘QUESTION.—You were shortly to marry Miss Chandore?
ANSWER.—Yes.
Q—For some time you had been spending your evenings with her?
A.—Yes, all.
Q.—Except the one of the crime?
A.—Unfortunately.
Q.—Then your betrothed must have wondered at your absence?
A.—No: I had written to her.’”
“Do you hear, Jacques?” cried M. Magloire. “Notice that M. Galpin takes care not to insist. He does not wish to rouse your suspicions. He has got you to confess, and that is enough for him.”
But, in the meantime, M. Folgat had found another paper.
“In your sixth examination,” he went on, “I have noticed this,—
“‘Q.—You left your house with your gun on your shoulder, without any definite aim?
A.—I shall explain that when I have consulted with counsel.
Q.—You need no consultation to tell the truth.
A.—I shall not change my resolution.
Q.—Then you will not tell me where you were between eight and midnight?
A.—I shall answer that question at the same time with the other.
Q.—You must have had very strong reasons to keep you out, as you were expected by your betrothed, Miss Chandore?
A.—I had written to her not to expect me.’”
“Ah! M. Galpin is a clever fellow,” growled M. Magloire.
“Finally,” said M. Folgat, “here is a passage from your last but one examination,—
“‘Q.—When you wanted to send anybody to Sauveterre, whom did you usually employ?
A.—The son of one of my tenants, Michael.
Q.—It was he, I suppose, who, on the evening of the crime, carried the letter to Miss Chandore, in which you told her not to expect you?
A.—Yes.
Q.—You pretended you would be kept by some important business?
A.—That is the usual pretext.
Q.—But in your case it was no pretext. Where had you to go? and where did you go?
A.—As long as I have not seen counsel I shall say nothing.
Q.—Have a care: the system of negation and concealment is dangerous.
A.—I know it, and I accept the consequences.’”
Jacques was dumfounded. And necessarily every accused person is equally surprised when he hears what he has stated in the examination. There is not one who does not exclaim,—
“What, I said that? Never!”
He has said it, and there is no denying it; for there it is written, and signed by himself. How could he ever say so?
Ah! that is the point. However clever a man may be, he cannot for many months keep all his faculties on the stretch, and all his energy up to its full power. He has his hours of prostration and his hours of hope, his attacks of despair and his moments of courage; and the impassive magistrate takes advantage of them all. Innocent or guilty, no prisoner can cope with him. However powerful his memory may be, how can he recall an answer which he may have given weeks and weeks before? The magistrate, however, remembers it; and twenty times, if need be, he brings it up again. And as the small snowflake may become an irresistible avalanche, so an insignificant word, uttered at haphazard, forgotten, then recalled, commented upon, and enlarged may become crushing evidence.
Jacques now experienced this. These questions had been put to him so skilfully, and at such long intervals of time, that he had totally forgotten them; and yet now, when he recalled his answers, he had to acknowledge that he had confessed his purpose to devote that evening to some business of great importance.
“That is fearful!” he cried.
And, overcome by the terrible reality of M. Folgat’s apprehension, he added,—
“How can we get out of that?”
“I told you,” replied M. Folgat, “we must find some plausible explanation.”
“I am sure I am incapable of that.”
The young lawyer seemed to reflect a moment, and then he said,—
“You have been a prisoner while I have been free. For a month now I have thought this matter over.”
“Ah!”
“Where was your wedding to be?”
“At my house at Boiscoran.”
“Where was the religious ceremony to take place?”
“At the church at Brechy.”
“Have you ever spoken of that to the priest?”
“Several times. One day especially, when we discussed it in a pleasant way, he said jestingly to me, ‘I shall have you, after all in my confessional.’”
M. Folgat almost trembled with satisfaction, and Jacques saw it.
“Then the priest at Brechy was your friend?”
“An intimate friend. He sometimes came to dine with me quite unceremoniously, and I never passed him without shaking hands with him.”
The young lawyer’s joy was growing perceptibly.
“Well,” he said, “my explanation is becoming quite plausible. Just hear what I have positively ascertained to be the fact. In the time from nine to eleven o’clock, on the night of the crime, there was not a soul at the parsonage in Brechy. The priest was dining with M. Besson, at his house; and his servant had gone out to meet him with a lantern.”
“I understand,” said M. Magloire.
“Why should you not have gone to see the priest at Brechy, my dear client? In the first place, you had to arrange the details of the ceremony with him; then, as he is your friend, and a man of experience, and a priest, you wanted to ask him for his advice before taking so grave a step, and, finally, you intended to fulfil that religious duty of which he spoke, and which you were rather reluctant to comply with.”
“Well said!” approved the eminent lawyer of Sauveterre,—“very well said!”
“So, you see, my dear client, it was for the purpose of consulting the priest at Brechy that you deprived yourself of the pleasure of spending the evening with your betrothed. Now let us see how that answers the allegations of the prosecution. They ask you why you took to the marshes. Why? Because it was the shortest way, and you were afraid of finding the priest in bed. Nothing more natural; for it is well known that the excellent man is in the habit of going to bed at nine o’clock. Still you had put yourself out in vain; for, when you knocked at the door of the parsonage, nobody came to open.”
Here M. Magloire interrupted his colleague, saying,—
“So far, all is very well. But now there comes a very great improbability. No one would think of going through the forest of Rochepommier in order to return from Brechy to Boiscoran. If you knew the country”—
“I know it; for I have carefully explored it. And the proof of it is, that, having foreseen the objection, I have found an answer. While M. de Boiscoran knocked at the door, a little peasant-girl passed by, and told him that she had just met the priest at a place called the Marshalls’ Cross-roads. As the parsonage stands quite isolated, at the end of the village, such an incident is very probable. As for the priest, chance led me to learn this: precisely at the hour at which M. de Boiscoran would have been at Brechy, a priest passed the Marshalls’ Cross-roads; and this priest, whom I have seen, belongs to the next parish. He also dined at M. Besson’s, and had just been sent for to attend a dying woman. The little girl, therefore, did not tell a story; she only made a mistake.”
“Excellent!” said M. Magloire.
“Still,” continued M. Folgat, “after this information, what did M. de Boiscoran do? He went on; and, hoping every moment to meet the priest, he walked as far as the forest of Rochepommier. Finding, at last, that the peasant-girl had—purposely or not—led him astray, he determined to return to Boiscoran through the woods. But he was in very bad humor at having thus lost an evening which he might have spent with his betrothed; and this made him swear and curse, as the witness Gaudry has testified.”
The famous lawyer of Sauveterre shook his head.
“That is ingenious, I admit; and I confess, in all humility, that I could not have suggested any thing as good. But—for there is a but—your story sins by its very simplicity. The prosecution will say, ‘If that is the truth, why did not M. de Boiscoran say so at once? And what need was there to consult his counsel?’”
M. Folgat showed in his face that he was making a great effort to meet the objection. After a while, he replied,—
“I know but too well that that is the weak spot in our armor,—a very weak spot, too; for it is quite clear, that, if M. de Boiscoran had given this explanation on the day of his arrest, he would have been released instantly. But what better can be found? What else can be found? However, this is only a rough sketch of my plan, and I have never put it into words yet till now. With your assistance, M. Magloire, with the aid of Mechinet, to whom I am already indebted for very valuable information, with the aid of all our friends, in fine, I cannot help hoping that I may be able to improve my plan by adding some mysterious secret which may help to explain M. de Boiscoran’s reticence. I thought, at one time, of calling in politics, and to pretend, that, on account of the peculiar views of which he is suspected, M. de Boiscoran preferred keeping his relations with the priest at Brechy a secret.”
“Oh, that would have been most unfortunate!” broke in M. Magloire. “We are not only religious at Sauveterre, we are devout, my good colleague,—excessively devout.”
“And I have given up that idea.”
Jacques, who had till now kept silent and motionless, now raised himself suddenly to his full height, and cried, in a voice of concentrated rage,—
“Is it not too bad, is it not atrocious, that we should be compelled to concoct a falsehood? And I am innocent! What more could be done if I were a murderer?”
Jacques was perfectly right: it was monstrous that he should be absolutely forced to conceal the truth. But his counsel took no notice of his indignation: they were too deeply absorbed in examining minutely their system of defence.
“Let us go on to the other points of the accusation,” said M. Magloire.
“If my version is accepted,” replied M. Folgat, “the rest follows as a matter of course. But will they accept it? On the day on which he was arrested, M. de Boiscoran, trying to find an excuse for having been out that night, has said that he had gone to see his wood-merchant at Brechy. That was a disastrous imprudence. And here is the real danger. As to the rest, that amounts to nothing. There is the water in which M. de Boiscoran washed his hands when he came home, and in which they have found traces of burnt paper. We have only to modify the facts very slightly to explain that. We have only to state that M. de Boiscoran is a passionate smoker: that is well known. He had taken with him a goodly supply of cigarettes when he set out for Brechy; but he had taken no matches. And that is a fact. We can furnish proof, we can produce witnesses, we had no matches; for we had forgotten our match-box, the day before, at M. de Chandore’s,—the box which we always carry about on our person, which everybody knows, and which is still lying on the mantelpiece in Miss Dionysia’s little boudoir. Well, having no matches, we found that we could go no farther without a smoke. We had gone quite far already; and the question was, Shall we go on without smoking, or return? No need of either! There was our gun; and we knew very well what sportsmen do under such circumstances. We took the shot out of one of our cartridges, and, in setting the powder on fire, we lighted a piece of paper. This is an operation in which you cannot help blackening your fingers. As we had to repeat it several times, our hands were very much soiled and very black, and the nails full of little fragments of burnt paper.”
“Ah! now you are right,” exclaimed M. Magloire. “Well done!”
His young colleague became more and more animated; and always employing the profession “we,” which his brethren affect, he went on,—
“This water, which you dwell upon so much, is the clearest evidence of our innocence. If we had been an incendiary, we should certainly have poured it out as hurriedly as the murderer tries to wash out the blood-stains on his clothes, which betray him.”
“Very well,” said M. Magloire again approvingly.
“And your other charges,” continued M. Folgat, as if he were standing in court, and addressing the jury,—“your other charges have all the same weight. Our letter to Miss Dionysia—why do you refer to that? Because, you say, it proves our premeditation. Ah! there I hold you. Are we really so stupid and bereft of common sense? That is not our reputation. What! we premeditate a crime, and we do not say to ourselves that we shall certainly be convicted unless we prepare analibi! What! we leave home with the fixed purpose of killing a man, and we load our gun with small-shot! Really, you make the defence too easy; for your charges do not stand being examined.”
It was Jacques’s turn, this time, to testify his approbation.
“That is,” he said, “what I have told Galpin over and over again; and he never had any thing to say in reply. We must insist on that point.”
M. Folgat was consulting his notes.
“I now come to a very important circumstance, and one which I should, at the trial, make a decisive question, if it should be favorable to our side. Your valet, my dear client,—your old Anthony,—told me that he had cleaned and washed your breech-loader the night before the crime.”
“Great God!” exclaimed Jacques.
“Well, I see you appreciate the importance of the fact. Between that cleaning and the time when you set a cartridge on fire, in order to burn the letters of the Countess Claudieuse, did you fire your gun? If you did, we must say nothing more about it. If you did not, one of the barrels of the breech-loader must be clean, and then you are safe.”
For more than a minute, Jacques remained silent, trying to recall the facts; at last he replied,—
“It seems to me, I am sure, I fired at a rabbit on the morning of the fatal day.”
M. Magloire looked disappointed.
“Fate again!” he said.
“Oh, wait!” cried Jacques. “I am quite sure, at all events, that I killed that rabbit at the first shot. Consequently, I can have fouled only one barrel of the gun. If I have used the same barrel at Valpinson, to get a light, I am safe. With a double gun, one almost instinctively first uses the right-hand barrel.”
M. Magloire’s face grew darker.
“Never mind,” he said, “we cannot possibly make an argument upon such an uncertain chance,—a chance which, in case of error, would almost fatally turn against us. But at the trial, when they show you the gun, examine it, so that you can tell me how that matter stands.”
Thus they had sketched the outlines of their plan of defence. There remained nothing now but to perfect the details; and to this task the two lawyers were devoting themselves still, when Blangin, the jailer, called to them through the wicket, that the doors of the prison were about to be closed.
“Five minutes more, my good Blangin!” cried Jacques.
And drawing his two friends aside, as far from the wicket as he could, he said to them in a low and distressed voice,—
“A thought has occurred to me, gentlemen, which I think I ought to mention to you. It cannot be but that the Countess Claudieuse must be suffering terribly since I am in prison. However, sure she may be of having left no trace behind her that could betray her, she must tremble at the idea that I may, after all, tell the truth in self-defence. She would deny, I know, and she is so sure of her prestige, that she knows my accusation would not injure her marvellous reputation. Nevertheless, she cannot but shrink from the scandal. Who knows if she might not give us the means to escape from the trial, to avoid such exposure? Why might not one of you gentleman make the attempt?”
M. Folgat was a man of quick resolution.
“I will try, if you will give me a line of introduction.”
Jacque immediately sat down, and wrote,—
“I have told my counsel, M. Folgat, every thing. Save me, and I swear to you eternal silence. Will you let me perish, Genevieve, when you know I am innocent?
“JACQUES.” “Is that enough?” he asked, handing the lawyer the note.
“Yes; and I promise you I will see the Countess Claudieuse within the next forty-eight hours.”
Blangin was becoming impatient; and the two advocates had to leave the prison. As they crossed the New-Market Square, they noticed, not far from them, a wandering musician, who was followed by a number of boys and girls.
It was a kind of minstrel, dressed in a sort of garment which was no longer an overcoat and had not yet assumed the shape of a shortcoat. He was strumming on a wretched fiddle; but his voice was good, and the ballad he sang had the full flavor of the local accent:—
“In the spring, mother RedbreastMade her nest in the bushes,The good lady!Made her nest in the bushes,The good lady!”
Instinctively M. Folgat was fumbling in his pocket for a few cents, when the musician came up to him, held out his hat as if to ask alms, and said,—
“You do not recognize me?”
The advocate started.
“You here!” he said.
“Yes, I myself. I came this morning. I was watching for you; for I must see you this evening at nine o’clock. Come and open the little garden-gate at M. de Chandore’s for me.”
And, taking up his fiddle again, he wandered off listlessly, singing with his clear voice,—
“And a few, a few weeks later,She had a wee, a wee bit birdy.”
XXIV.
The great lawyer of Sauveterre had been far more astonished at the unexpected and extraordinary meeting than M. Folgat. As soon as the wandering minstrel had left them, he asked his young colleague,—
“You know that individual?”
“That individual,” replied M. Folgat, “is none other than the agent whose services I have engaged, and whom I mentioned to you.”
“Goudar?”
“Yes, Goudar.”
“And did you not recognize him?”
The young advocate smiled.
“Not until he spoke,” he replied. “The Goudar whom I know is tall, thin, beardless, and wears his hair cut like a brush. This street-musician is low, bearded, and has long, smooth hair falling down his back. How could I recognize my man in that vagabond costume, with a violin in his hand, and a provincial song set to music?”
M. Magloire smiled too, as he said,—
“What are, after all, professional actors in comparison with these men! Here is one who pretends having reached Sauveterre only this morning, and who knows the country as well as Trumence himself. He has not been here twelve hours, and he speaks already of M. de Chandore’s little garden-gate.”
“Oh! I can explain that circumstance now, although, at first, it surprised me very much. When I told Goudar the whole story, I no doubt mentioned the little gate in connection with Mechinet.”
Whilst they were chatting thus, they had reached the upper end of National Street. Here they stopped; and M. Magloire said,—
“One word before we part. Are you quite resolved to see the Countess Claudieuse?”
“I have promised.”
“What do you propose telling her?”
“I do not know. That depends upon how she receives me.”
“As far as I know her, she will, upon looking at the note, merely order you out.”
“Who knows! At all events, I shall not have to reproach myself for having shrunk from a step which in my heart I thought it my duty to take.”
“Whatever may happen, be prudent, and do not allow yourself to get angry. Remember that a scene with her would compel us to change our whole line of defence, and that that is the only one which promises any success.”
“Oh, do not fear!”
Thereupon, shaking hands once more, they parted, M. Magloire returning to his house, and M. Folgat going up the street. It struck half-past five, and the young advocate hurried on for fear of being too late. He found them waiting for him to go to dinner; but, as he entered the room, he forgot all his excuses in his painful surprise at the mournful and dejected appearance of the prisoner’s friends and relatives.
“Have we any bad news?” he asked with a hesitating voice.
“The worst we had to fear,” replied the Marquis de Boiscoran. “We had all foreseen it; and still, as you see, it has surprised us all, like a clap of thunder.”
The young lawyer beat his forehead, and cried,—
“The court has ordered the trial!”
The marquis only bent his head, as if his voice, had failed him to answer the question.
“It is still a great secret,” said Dionysia; “and we only know it, thanks to the indiscretion of our kind, our devoted Mechinet. Jacques will have to appear before the Assizes.”
She was interrupted by a servant, who entered to announce that dinner was on the table.
They all went into the dining-room; but the last event made it well-nigh impossible for them to eat. Dionysia alone, deriving from feverish excitement an amazing energy, aided M. Folgat in keeping up the conversation. From her the young advocate learned that Count Claudieuse was decidedly worse, and that he would have received, in the day, the last sacrament, but for the decided opposition of Dr. Seignebos, who had declared that the slightest excitement might kill his patient.
“And if he dies,” said M. de Chandore, “that is the finishing stroke. Public opinion, already incensed against Jacques, will become implacable.”
However, the meal came to an end; and M. Folgat went up to Dionysia, saying,—
“I must beg of you, madam, to trust me with the key to the little garden-gate.”
She looked at him quite astonished.
“I have to see a detective secretly, who has promised me his assistance.”
“Is he here?”
“He came this morning.”
When Dionysia had handed him the key, M. Folgat hastened to reach the end of the garden; and, at the third stroke of nine o’clock, the minstrel of the New-Market Square, Goudar, pushed the little gate, and, his violin under his arm, slipped into the garden.
“A day lost!” he exclaimed, without thinking of saluting the young lawyer,—“a whole day; for I could do nothing till I had seen you.”
He seemed to be so angry, that M. Folgat tried to soothe him.
“Let me first of all compliment you on your disguise,” he said. But Goudar did not seem to be open to praise.
“What would a detective be worth if he could not disguise himself! A great merit, forsooth! And I tell you, I hate it! But I could not think of coming to Sauveterre in my own person, a detective. Ugh! Everybody would have run away; and what a pack of lies they would have told me! So I had to assume that hideous masquerade. To think that I once took six months’ lessons from a music-teacher merely to fit myself for that character! A wandering musician, you see, can go anywhere, and nobody is surprised; he goes about the streets, or he travels along the high-road; he enters into yards, and slips into houses; he asks alms: and in so doing, he accosts everybody, speaks to them, follows them. And as to my precious dialect, you must know I have been down here once for half a year, hunting up counterfeiters; and, if you don’t catch a provincial accent in six months, you don’t deserve belonging to the police. And I do belong to it, to the great distress of my wife, and to my own disgust.”
“If your ambition is really what you say, my dear, Goudar,” said M. Folgat, interrupting him, “you may be able to leave your profession very soon—if you succeed in saving M. de Boiscoran.”
“He would give me his house in Vine Street?”
“With all his heart!”
The detective looked up, and repeated slowly,—
“The house in Vine Street, the paradise of this world. An immense garden, a soil of marvellous beauty. And what an exposure! There are walls there on which I could raise finer peaches than they have at Montreuil, and richer Chasselas than those of Fontainebleau!”
“Did you find any thing there?” asked M. Folgat.
Goudar, thus recalled to business, looked angry again.
“Nothing at all,” he replied. “Nor did I learn any thing from the tradesmen. I am no further advanced than I was the first day.”
“Let us hope you will have more luck here.”
“I hope so; but I need your assistance to commence operations. I must see Dr. Seignebos, and Mechinet the clerk. Ask them to meet me at the place I shall assign in a note which I will send them.”
“I will tell them.”
“Now, if you want myincognitoto be respected, you must get me a permit from the mayor, for Goudar, street-musician. I keep my name, because here nobody knows me. But I must have the permit this evening. Wherever I might present myself, asking for a bed, they would call for my papers.”
“Wait here for a quarter of an hour, there is a bench,” said M. Folgat, “and I’ll go at once to the mayor.”
A quarter of an hour later, Goudar had his permit in his pocket, and went to take lodgings at the Red Lamb, the worst tavern in all Sauveterre.
When a painful and inevitable duty is to be performed, the true character of a man is apt to appear in its true light. Some people postpone it as long as they can, and delay, like those pious persons who keep the biggest sin for the end of their confession: others, on the contrary, are in a hurry to be relieved of their anxiety, and make an end of it as soon as they can. M. Folgat belonged to this latter class.
Next morning he woke up at daylight, and said to himself,—
“I will call upon the Countess Claudieuse this morning.”
At eight o’clock, he left the house, dressed more carefully than usual, and told the servant that he did not wish to be waited for if he should not be back for breakfast.
He went first to the court-house, hoping to meet the clerk there. He was not disappointed. The waiting-rooms were quite deserted yet; but Mechinet was already at work in his office, writing with the feverish haste of a man who has to pay for a piece of property that he wants to call his own.
When he saw Folgat enter, he rose, and said at once,—
“You have heard the decision of the court?”
“Yes, thanks to your kindness; and I must confess it has not surprised me. What do they think of it here?”
“Everybody expects a condemnation.”
“Well, we shall see!” said the young advocate.
And, lowering his voice, he added,—
“But I came for another purpose. The agent whom I expected has come, and he wishes to see you. He will write to you to make an appointment, and I hope you will consent.”
“Certainly, with all my heart,” replied the clerk. “And God grant that he may succeed in extricating M. de Boiscoran from his difficulties, even if it were only to take the conceit out of my master.”
“Ah! is M. Galpin so triumphant?”
“Without the slightest reserve. He sees his old friend already at the galleys. He has received another letter of congratulation from the attorney general, and came here yesterday, when the court had adjourned, to read it to any one who would listen. Everybody, of course, complimented him, except the president, who turned his back upon him, and the commonwealth attorney, who told him in Latin that he was selling the bear’s skin before he had killed him.”
In the meantime steps were heard coming down the passages; and M. Folgat said hurriedly,—
“One more suggestion. Goudar desires to remain unknown. Do not speak of him to any living soul, and especially show no surprise at the costume in which you see him.”
The noise of a door which was opened interrupted him. One of the judges entered, who, after having bowed very civilly, asked the clerk a number of questions about a case which was to come on the same day.
“Good-bye, M. Mechinet,” said the young advocate.
And his next visit was to Dr. Seignebos. When he rang the bell, a servant came to the door, and said,—
“The doctor is gone out; but he will be back directly, and has told me to beg you to wait for him in his study.”
Such an evidence of perfect trust was unheard of. No one was ever allowed to remain alone in his sanctuary. It was an immense room, quite full of most varied objects, which at a glance revealed the opinions, tastes, and predilections of the owner. The first thing to strike the visitor as he entered was an admirable bust of Bichat, flanked on either side by smaller busts of Robespierre and Rousseau. A clock of the time of Louis XIV. stood between the windows, and marked the seconds with a noise which sounded like the rattling of old iron. One whole side was filled with books of all kinds, unbound or bound, in a way which would have set M. Daubigeon laughing very heartily. A huge cupboard adapted for collections of plants bespoke a passing fancy for botany; while an electric machine recalled the time when the doctor believed in cures by electricity.
On the table in the centre of the room vast piles of books betrayed the doctor’s recent studies. All the authors who have spoken of insanity or idiocy were there, from Apostolides to Tardien. M. Folgat was still looking around when Dr. Seignebos entered, always like a bombshell, but far more cheerful than usual.
“I knew I should find you here!” he cried still in the door. “You come to ask me to meet Goudar.”
The young advocate started, and said, all amazed,—
“Who can have told you?”
“Goudar himself. I like that man. I am sure no one will suspect me of having a fancy for any thing that is connected with the police. I have had too much to do all my life with spies and that ilk. But your man might almost reconcile me with that department.”
“When did you see him?”
“This morning at seven. He was so prodigiously tired of losing his time in his garret at the Red Lamb, that it occurred to him to pretend illness, and to send for me. I went, and found a kind of street-minstrel, who seemed to me to be perfectly well. But, as soon as we were alone, he told me all about it, asking me my opinion, and telling me his ideas. M. Folgat, that man Goudar is very clever: I tell you so; and we understand each other perfectly.”
“Has he told you what he proposes to do?”
“Nearly so. But he has not authorized me to speak of it. Have patience; let him go to work, wait, and you will see if old Seignebos has a keen scent.”
Saying this with an air of sublime conceit, he took off his spectacles, and set to work wiping them industriously.
“Well, I will wait,” said the young advocate. “And, since that makes an end to my business here, I beg you will let me speak to you of another matter. M. de Boiscoran has charged me with a message to the Countess Claudieuse.”
“The deuce!”
“And to try to obtain from her the means for our discharge.”
“Do you expect she will do it?”
M. Folgat could hardly retain an impatient gesture.
“I have accepted the mission,” he said dryly, “and I mean to carry it out.”
“I understand, my dear sir. But you will not see the countess. The count is very ill. She does not leave his bedside, and does not even receive her most intimate friends.”
“And still I must see her. I must at any hazard place a note which my client has confided to me, in her own hands. And look here, doctor, I mean to be frank with you. It was exactly because I foresaw there would be difficulties, that I came to you to ask your assistance in overcoming or avoiding them.”
“To me?”
“Are you not the count’s physician?”
“Ten thousand devils!” cried Dr. Seignebos. “You do not mince matters, you lawyers!”
And then speaking in a lower tone, and replying apparently to his own objections rather than to M. Folgat, he said,—
“Certainly, I attend Count Claudieuse, whose illness, by the way, upsets all my theories, and defies all my experience: but for that very reason I can do nothing. Our profession has certain rules which cannot be infringed upon without compromising the whole medical profession.”
“But it is a question of life and death with Jacques, sir, with a friend.”
“And a fellow Republican, to be sure. But I cannot help you without abusing the confidence of the Countess Claudieuse.”
“Ah, sir! Has not that woman committed a crime for which M. de Boiscoran, though innocent, will be arraigned in court?”
“I think so; but still”—
He reflected a moment, and then suddenly snatched up his broad-brimmed hat, drew it over his head, and cried,—
“In fact, so much the worse for her! There are sacred interests which override every thing. Come!”
XXV.
Count Claudieuse and his wife had installed themselves, the day after the fire, in Mautrec Street. The house which the mayor had taken for them had been for more than a century in the possession of the great Julias family, and is still considered one of the finest and most magnificent mansions in Sauveterre.
In less than ten minutes Dr. Seignebos and M. Folgat had reached the house. From the street, nothing was visible but a tall wall, as old as the castle, according to the claims of archaeologists, and covered all over with a mass of wild flowers. In this wall there is a huge entrance-gate with folding-doors. During the day one-half is opened, and a light, low open-work railing put in, which rings a bell as soon as it is pushed open.
You then cross a large garden, in which a dozen statues, covered with green moss, are falling to pieces on their pedestals, overshadowed by magnificent old linden-trees. The house has only two stories. A large hall extends from end to end of the lower story; and at the end a wide staircase with stone steps and a superb iron railing leads up stairs. When they entered the hall, Dr. Seignebos opened a door on the right hand.
“Step in here and wait,” he said to M. Folgat. “I will go up stairs and see the count, whose room is in the second story, and I will send you the countess.”
The young advocate did as he was bid, and found himself in a large room, brilliantly lighted up by three tall windows that went down to the ground, and looked out upon the garden. This room must have been superb formerly. The walls were wainscoted with arabesques and lines in gold. The ceiling was painted, and represented a number of fat little angels sporting in a sky full of golden stars.
But time had passed its destroying hand over all this splendor of the past age, had half effaced the paintings, tarnished the gold of the arabesques, and faded the blue of the ceiling and the rosy little loves. Nor was the furniture calculated to make compensation for this decay. The windows had no curtains. On the mantelpiece stood a worn-out clock and half-broken candelabra; then, here and there, pieces of furniture that would not match, such as had been rescued from the fire at Valpinson,—chairs, sofas, arm-chairs, and a round table, all battered and blackened by the flames.
But M. Folgat paid little attention to these details. He only thought of the grave step on which he was venturing, and which he now only looked at in its full strangeness and extreme boldness. Perhaps he would have fled at the last moment if he could have done so; and he was only able by a supreme effort to control his excitement.
At last he heard a rapid, light step in the hall; and almost immediately the Countess Claudieuse appeared. He recognized her at once, such as Jacques had described her to him, calm, serious, and serene, as if her soul were soaring high above all human passions. Far from diminishing her exquisite beauty, the terrible events of the last months had only surrounded her, as it were, with a divine halo. She had fallen off a little, however. And the dark semicircle under her eyes, and the disorder of her hair, betrayed the fatigue and the anxiety of the long nights which she had spent by her husband’s bedside.
As M. Folgat was bowing, she asked,—
“You are M. de Boiscoran’s counsel?”
“Yes, madam,” replied the young advocate.
“The doctor tells me you wish to speak to me.”
“Yes, madam.”
With a queenly air, she pointed to a chair, and, sitting down herself, she said,—
“I hear, sir.”
M. Folgat began with beating heart, but a firm voice,—
“I ought, first of all, madam, to state to you my client’s true position.”
“That is useless, sir. I know.”
“You know, madam, that he has been summoned to trial, and that he may be condemned?”
She shook her head with a painful movement, and said very softly,—
“I know, sir, that Count Claudieuse has been the victim of a most infamous attempt at murder; that he is still in danger, and that, unless God works a miracle, I shall soon be without a husband, and my children without a father.”
“But M. de Boiscoran is innocent, madam.”
The features of the countess assumed an expression of profound surprise; and, looking fixedly at M. Folgat, she said,—
“And who, then, is the murderer?”
Ah! It cost the young advocate no small effort to prevent his lips from uttering the fatal word, “You,” prompted by his indignant conscience. But he thought of the success of his mission; and, instead of replying, he said,—
“To a prisoner, madam, to an unfortunate man on the eve of judgment, an advocate is a confessor, to whom he tells every thing. I must add that the counsel of the accused is like a priest: he must forget the secrets which have been confided to him.”
“I do not understand, sir.”
“My client, madam, had a very simple means to prove his innocence. He had only to tell the truth. He has preferred risking his own honor rather than to betray the honor of another person.”
The countess looked impatient, and broke in, saying,—
“My moments are counted, sir. May I beg you will be more explicit?”
But M. Folgat had gone as far as he well could go.
“I am desired by M. de Boiscoran, madam, to hand you a letter.”
The Countess Claudieuse seemed to be overwhelmed with surprise.
“To me?” she said. “On what ground?”
Without saying a word, M. Folgat drew Jacques’s letter from his portfolio, and handed it to her.
“Here it is!” he said.
She took it with a perfectly steady hand, and opened it slowly. But, as soon as she had run her eye over it, she rose, turned crimson in her face, and said with flaming eyes,—
“Do you know, sir, what this letter contains?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know that M. de Boiscoran dares call me by my first name, Genevieve, as my husband does, and my father?”
The decisive moment had come, and M. Folgat had all his self-possession.
“M. de Boiscoran, madame, claims that he used to call you so in former days,—in Vine Street,—in days when you called him Jacques.”
The countess seemed to be utterly bewildered.
“But that is sheer infamy, sir,” she stammered. “What! M. de Boiscoran should have dared tell you that I, the countess Claudieuse, have been his—mistress?”
“He certainly said so, madam; and he affirms, that a few moments before the fire broke out, he was near you, and that, if his hands were blackened, it was because he had burned your letters and his.”
She rose at these words, and said in a penetrating voice,—
“And you could believe that,—you? Ah! M. de Boiscoran’s other crimes are nothing in comparison with this! He is not satisfied with having burnt our house, and ruined us: he means to dishonor us. He is not satisfied with having murdered my husband: he must ruin the honor of his wife also.”
She spoke so loud, that her voice must have been distinctly heard in the vestibule.
“Lower, madam, I pray you speak lower,” said M. Folgat.
She cast upon him a crushing glance; and, raising her voice still higher, she went on,—
“Yes, I understand very well that you are afraid of being heard. But I—what have I to fear? I could wish the whole world to hear us, and to judge between us. Lower, you say? Why should I speak less loud? Do you think that if Count Claudieuse were not on his death-bed, this letter would not have long since been in his hands? Ah, he would soon have satisfaction for such an infamous letter, he! But I, a poor woman! I have never seen so clearly that the world thinks my husband is lost already, and that I am alone in this world, without a protector, without friends.”
“But, madam, M. de Boiscoran pledges himself to the most perfect secrecy.”
“Secrecy in what? In your cowardly insults, your abominable plots, of which this, no doubt, is but a beginning?”
M. Folgat turned livid under this insult.
“Ah, take care, madam,” he said in a hoarse voice: “we have proof, absolute, overwhelming proof.”
The countess stopped him by an imperious gesture, and with the haughtiest disdain, grief, and wrath, she said,—
“Well, then, produce your proof. Go, hasten, act as you like. We shall see if the vile calumnies of an incendiary can stain the pure reputation of an honest woman. We shall see if a single speck of this mud in which you wallow can reach up to me.”
And, throwing Jacques’s letter at M. Folgat’s feet, she went to the door.
“Madam,” said M. Folgat once more,—“madam!”
She did not even condescend to turn round: she disappeared, leaving him standing in the middle of the room, so overcome with amazement, that he could not collect his thoughts. Fortunately Dr. Seignebos came in.
“Upon my word!” he said, “I never thought the countess would take my treachery so coolly. When she came out from you just now, she asked me, in the same tone as every day, how I had found her husband, and what was to be done. I told her”—
But the rest of the sentence remained unspoken: the doctor had become aware of M. Folgat’s utter consternation.
“Why, what on earth is the matter?” he asked.
The young advocate looked at him with an utterly bewildered air.
“This is the matter: I ask myself whether I am awake or dreaming. This is the matter: that, if this woman is guilty, she possesses an audacity beyond all belief.”
“How, if? Have you changed your mind about her guilt?”
M. Folgat looked altogether disheartened.
“Ah!” he said, “I hardly know myself. Do you not see that I have lost my head, that I do not know what to think, and what to believe?”
“Oh!”
“Yes, indeed! And yet, doctor, I am not a simpleton. I have now been pleading five years in criminal courts: I have had to dive down into the lowest depths of society; I have seen strange things, and met with exceptional specimens, and heard fabulous stories”—
It was the doctor’s turn, now, to be amazed; and he actually forgot to trouble his gold spectacles.
“Why? What did the countess say?” he asked.
“I might tell you every word,” replied M. Folgat, “and you would be none the wiser. You ought to have been here, and seen her, and heard her! What a woman! Not a muscle in her face was moving; her eye remained limpid and clear; no emotion was felt in her voice. And with what an air she defied me! But come, doctor, let us be gone!”
They went out, and had already gone about a third down the long avenue in the garden, when they saw the oldest daughter of the countess coming towards them, on her way to the house, accompanied by her governess. Dr. Seignebos stopped, and pressing the arm of the young advocate, and bending over to him, he whispered into his ear,—
“Mind!” he said. “You know the truth is in the lips of children.”
“What do you expect?” murmured M. Folgat.
“To settle a doubtful point. Hush! Let me manage it.”
By this time the little girl had come up to them. It was a very graceful girl of eight or nine years, light haired, with large blue eyes, tall for her age, and displaying all the intelligence of a young girl, without her timidity.
“How are you, little Martha?” said the doctor to her in his gentlest voice, which was very soft when he chose.
“Good-morning, gentlemen!” she replied with a nice little courtesy.
Dr. Seignebos bent down to kiss her rosy cheeks, and them, looking at her, he said,—
“You look sad, Martha?”
“Yes, because papa and little sister are sick,” she replied with a deep sigh.
“And also because you miss Valpinson?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Still it is very pretty here, and you have a large garden to play in.”
She shook her head, and, lowering her voice, she said,—
“It is certainly very pretty here; but—I am afraid.”
“And of what, little one?”
She pointed to the statues, and all shuddering, she said,—
“In the evening, when it grows dark, I fancy they are moving. I think I see people hiding behind the trees, like the man who wanted to kill papa.”
“You ought to drive away those ugly notions, Miss Martha,” said M. Folgat.
But Dr. Seignebos did not allow him to go on.
“What, Martha? I did not know you were so timid. I thought, on the contrary, you were very brave. Your papa told me the night of the fire you were not afraid of any thing.”
“Papa was right.”
“And yet, when you were aroused by the flames, it must have been terrible.”
“Oh! it was not the flames which waked me, doctor.”
“Still the fire had broken out.”
“I was not asleep at that time, doctor. I had been roused by the slamming of the door, which mamma had closed very noisily when she came in.”
One and the same presentiment made M. Folgat tremble and the doctor.
“You must be mistaken, Martha,” the doctor went on. “Your mamma had not come back at the time of the fire.”
“Oh, yes, sir!”
“No, you are mistaken.”
The little girl drew herself up with that solemn air which children are apt to assume when their statements are doubted. She said,—
“I am quite sure of what I say, and I remember every thing perfectly. I had been put to bed at the usual hour, and, as I was very tired with playing, I had fallen asleep at once. While I was asleep, mamma had gone out; but her coming back waked me up. As soon as she came in, she bent over little sister’s bed, and looked at her for a moment so sadly, that I thought I should cry. Then she went, and sat down by the window; and from my bed, where I lay silently watching her, I saw the tears running down her cheeks, when all of a sudden a shot was fired.”
M. Folgat and Dr. Seignebos looked anxiously at each other.
“Then, my little one,” insisted Dr. Seignebos, “you are quite sure your mamma was in your room when the first shot was fired?”
“Certainly, doctor. And mamma, when she heard it, rose up straight, and lowered her head, like one who listens. Almost immediately, the second shot was fired. Mamma raised her hands to heaven, and cried out, ‘Great God!’ And then she went out, running fast.”
Never was a smile more false than that which Dr. Seignebos forced himself to retain on his lips while the little girl was telling her story.
“You have dreamed all that, Martha,” he said.
The governess here interposed, saying,—
“The young lady has not dreamed it, sir. I, also, heard the shots fired; and I had just opened the door of my room to hear what was going on, when I saw madame cross the landing swiftly, and rush down stairs.
“Oh! I do not doubt it,” said the doctor, in the most indifferent tone he could command: “the circumstance is very trifling.”
But the little girl was bent on finishing her story.
“When mamma had left,” she went on, “I became frightened, and raised myself on my bed to listen. Soon I heard a noise which I did not know,—cracking and snapping of wood, and then cries at a distance. I got more frightened, jumped down, and ran to open the door. But I nearly fell down, there was such a cloud of smoke and sparks. Still I did not lose my head. I waked my little sister, and tried to get on the staircase, when Cocoleu rushed in like a madman, and took us both out.”