“Martha,” called a voice from the house, “Martha!”
The child cut short her story, and said,—
“Mamma is calling me.”
And, dropping again her nice little courtesy, she said,—
“Good-by, gentlemen!”
Martha had disappeared; and Dr. Seignebos and M. Folgat, still standing on the same spot, looked at each other in utter distress.
“We have nothing more to do here,” said M. Folgat.
“No, indeed! Let us go back and make haste; for perhaps they are waiting for me. You must breakfast with me.”
They went away very much disheartened, and so absorbed in their defeat, that they forgot to return the salutations with which they were greeted in the street,—a circumstance carefully noticed by several watchful observers.
When the doctor reached home, he said to his servant,—
“This gentleman will breakfast with me. Give us a bottle of medis.”
And, when he had shown the advocate into his study, he asked,—
“And now what do you think of your adventure?”
M. Folgat looked completely undone.
“I cannot understand it,” he murmured.
“Could it be possible that the countess should have tutored the child to say what she told us?”
“No.”
“And her governess?”
“Still less. A woman of that character trusts nobody. She struggles; she triumphs or succumbs alone.”
“Then the child and the governess have told us the truth?”
“I am convinced of that.”
“So am I. Then she had no share in the murder of her husband?”
“Alas!”
M. Folgat did not notice that his “Alas!” was received by Dr. Seignebos with an air of triumph. He had taken off his spectacles, and, wiping them vigorously, he said,—
“If the countess is innocent, Jacques must be guilty, you think? Jacques must have deceived us all, then?”
M. Folgat shook his head.
“I pray you, doctor, do not press me just now. Give me time to collect my thoughts. I am bewildered by all these conjectures. No, I am sure M. de Boiscoran has not told a falsehood, and the countess has been his mistress. No, he has not deceived us; and on the night of the crime he really had an interview with the countess. Did not Martha tell us that her mother had gone out? And where could she have gone, except to meet M. de Boiscoran?”
He paused a moment.
“Oh, come, come!” said the physician, “you need not be afraid of me.”
“Well, it might possibly be, that, after the countess had left M. de Boiscoran, Fate might have stepped in. Jacques has told us how the letters which he was burning had suddenly blazed up, and with such violence that he was frightened. Who can tell whether some burning fragments may not have set a straw-rick on fire? You can judge yourself. On the point of leaving the place, M. de Boiscoran sees this beginning of a fire. He hastens to put it out. His efforts are unsuccessful. The fire increases step by step: it lights up the whole front of the chateau. At that moment Count Claudieuse comes out. Jacques thinks he has been watched and detected; he sees his marriage broken off, his life ruined, his happiness destroyed; he loses his head, aims, fires, and flees instantly. And thus you explain his missing the count, and also this fact which seemed to preclude the idea of premeditated murder, that the gun was loaded with small-shot.”
“Great God!” cried the doctor.
“What, what have I said?”
“Take care never to repeat that! The suggestion you make is so fearfully plausible, that, if it becomes known, no one will ever believe you when you tell the real truth.”
“The truth? Then you think I am mistaken?”
“Most assuredly.”
Then fixing his spectacles on his nose, Dr. Seignebos added,—
“I never could admit that the countess should have fired at her husband. I now see that I was right. She has not committed the crime directly; but she has done it indirectly.”
“Oh!”
“She would not be the first woman who has done so. What I imagine is this: the countess had made up her mind, and arranged her plan, before meeting Jacques. The murderer was already at his post. If she had succeeded in winning Jacques back, her accomplice would have put away his gun, and quietly gone to bed. As she could not induce Jacques to give up his marriage, she made a sign, and the fire was lighted, and the count was shot.”
The young advocate did not seem to be fully convinced.
“In that case, there would have been premeditation,” he objected; “and how, then, came the gun to be loaded with small-shot?”
“The accomplice had not sense enough to know better.”
Although he saw very well the doctor’s drift, M. Folgat started up,—
“What?” he said, “always Cocoleu?”
Dr. Seignebos tapped his forehead with the end of his finger, and replied,—
“When an idea has once made its way in there, it remains fixed. Yes, the countess has an accomplice; and that accomplice is Cocoleu; and, if he has no sense, you see the wretched idiot at least carries his devotion and his discretion very far.”
“If what you say is true, doctor, we shall never get the key of this affair; for Cocoleu will never confess.”
“Don’t swear to that. There is a way.”
He was interrupted by the sudden entrance of his servant.
“Sir,” said the latter, “there is a gendarme below who brings you a man who has to be sent to the hospital at once.”
“Show them up,” said the doctor.
“And, while the servant was gone to do his bidding, the doctor said,—
“And here is the way. Now mind!”
A heavy step was heard shaking the stairs; and almost immediately a gendarme appeared, who in one hand held a violin, and with the other aided a poor creature, who seemed unable to walk alone.
“Goudar!” was on M. Folgat’s lips.
It was Goudar, really, but in what a state! His clothes muddy, and torn, pale, with haggard eyes, his beard and his lips covered with a white foam.
“The story is this,” said the gendarme. “This individual was playing the fiddle in the court of the barrack, and we were looking out of the window, when all of a sudden he fell on the ground, rolled about, twisted and writhed, while he uttered fearful howls, and foamed like a mad dog. We picked him up; and I bring him to you.”
“Leave us alone with him,” said the physician.
The gendarme went out; and, as soon as the door was shut, Goudar cried with a voice full of intense disgust,—
“What a profession! Just look at me! What a disgrace if my wife should see me in this state! Phew!”
And, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his face, and drew from his mouth a small piece of soap.
“But the point is,” said the doctor, “that you have played the epileptic so well, that the gendarmes have been taken in.”
“A fine trick indeed, and very creditable.”
“An excellent trick, since you can now quite safely go to the hospital. They will put you in the same ward with Cocoleu, and I shall come and see you every morning. You are free to act now.”
“Never mind me,” said the detective. “I have my plan.”
Then turning to M. Folgat, he added,—
“I am a prisoner now; but I have taken my precautions. The agent whom I have sent to England will report to you. I have, besides, to ask a favor at your hands. I have written to my wife to send her letters to you: you can send them to me by the doctor. And now I am ready to become Cocoleu’s companion, and I mean to earn the house in Vine Street.”
Dr. Seignebos signed an order of admission. He recalled the gendarme; and, after having praised his kindness, he asked him to take “that poor devil” to the hospital. When he was alone once more with M. Folgat, he said,—
“Now, my dear friend, let us consult. Shall we speak of what Martha has told us and of Goudar’s plan. I think not; for M. Galpin is watching us; and, if a mere suspicion of what is going on reaches the prosecution, all is lost. Let us content ourselves, then, with reporting to Jacques your interview with the countess; and as to the rest, Silence!”
XXVI.
Like all very clever men, Dr. Seignebos made the mistake of thinking other people as cunning as he was himself. M. Galpin was, of course, watching him, but by no means with the energy which one would have expected from so ambitious a man. He had, of course, been the first to be notified that the case was to be tried in open court, and from that moment he felt relieved of all anxiety.
As to remorse, he had none. He did not even regret any thing. He did not think of it, that the prisoner who was thus to be tried had once been his friend,—a friend of whom he was proud, whose hospitality he had enjoyed, and whose favor he had eagerly sought in his matrimonial aspirations. No. He only saw one thing,—that he had engaged in a dangerous affair, on which his whole future was depending, and that he was going to win triumphantly.
Evidently his responsibility was by no means gone; but his zeal in preparing the case for trial was no longer required. He need not appear at the trial. Whatever must be the result, he thought he should escape the blame, which he should surely have incurred if no true bill had been found. He did not disguise it from himself that he should be looked at askance by all Sauveterre, that his social relations were well-nigh broken off, and that no one would henceforth heartily shake hands with him. But that gave him no concern. Sauveterre, a miserable little town of five thousand inhabitants! He hoped with certainty he would not remain there long; and a brilliant preferment would amply repay him for his courage, and relieve him from all foolish reproaches.
Besides, once in the large city to which he would be promoted, he could hope that distance would aid in attenuating and even effacing the impression made by his conduct. All that would be remembered after a time would be his reputation as one of those famous judges, who, according to the stereotyped phrase, “sacrifice every thing to the sacred interests of justice, who put inflexible duty high above all the considerations that trouble and disturb the vulgar mind, and whose heart is like a rock, against which all human passions are helplessly broken to pieces.”
With such a reputation, with his knowledge of the world, and his eagerness to succeed, opportunities would not be wanting to put himself forward, to make himself known, to become useful, indispensable even. He saw himself already on the highest rungs of the official ladder. He was a judge in Bordeaux, in Lyons, in Paris itself!
With such rose-colored dreams he fell asleep at night. The next morning, as he crossed the streets, his carriage haughtier and stiffer than ever, his firmly-closed lips, and the cold and severe look of his eyes, told the curious observers that there must be something new.
“M. de Boiscoran’s case must be very bad indeed,” they said, “or M. Galpin would not look so very proud.”
He went first to the commonwealth attorney. The truth is, he was still smarting under the severe reproaches of M. Daubigeon, and he thought he would enjoy his revenge now. He found the old book-worm, as usual, among his beloved books, and in worse humor than ever. He ignored it, handed him a number of papers to sign; and when his business was over, and while he was carefully replacing the documents in his bag with his monogram on the outside, he added with an air of indifference,—
“Well, my dear sir, you have heard the decision of the court? Which of us was right?”
M. Daubigeon shrugged his shoulders, and said angrily,—
“Of course I am nothing but an old fool, a maniac: I give it up; and I say, like Horace’s man,—
‘Stultum me fateor, liceat concedere viresAtque etiam insanum.’”
“You are joking. But what would have happened if I had listened to you?”
“I don’t care to know.”
“M. de Boiscoran would none the less have been sent to a jury.”
“May be.”
“Anybody else would have collected the proofs of his guilt just as well as I.”
“That is a question.”
“And I should have injured my reputation very seriously; for they would have called me one of those timid magistrates who are frightened at a nothing.”
“That is as good a reputation as some others,” broke in the commonwealth attorney.
He had vowed he would answer only in monosyllables; but his anger made him forget his oath. He added in a very severe tone,—
“Another man would not have been bent exclusively upon proving that M. de Boiscoran was guilty.”
“I certainly have proved it.”
“Another man would have tried to solve the mystery.”
“But I have solved it, I should think.”
M. Daubigeon bowed ironically, and said,—
“I congratulate you. It must be delightful to know the secret of all things, only you may be mistaken. You are an excellent hand at such investigations; but I am an older man than you in the profession. The more I think in this case, the less I understand it. If you know every thing so perfectly well, I wish you would tell me what could have been the motive for the crime, for, after all, we do not run the risk of losing our head without some very powerful and tangible purpose. Where was Jacques’s interest? You will tell me he hated Count Claudieuse. But is that an answer. Come, go for a moment to your own conscience. But stop! No one likes to do that.”
M. Galpin was beginning to regret that he had ever come. He had hoped to find M. Daubigeon quite penitent, and here he was worse than ever.
“The Court of Inquiry has felt no such scruples,” he said dryly.
“No; but the jury may feel some. They are, occasionally, men of sense.”
“The jury will condemn M. de Boiscoran without hesitation.”
“I would not swear to that.”
“You would if you knew who will plead.”
“Oh!”
“The prosecution will employ M. Gransiere!”
“Oh, oh!”
“You will not deny that he is a first-class man?”
The magistrate was evidently becoming angry; his ears reddened up; and in the same proportion M. Daubigeon regained his calmness.
“God forbid that I should deny M. Gransiere’s eloquence. He is a powerful speaker, and rarely misses his man. But then, you know, cases are like books: they have their luck or ill luck. Jacques will be well defended.”
“I am not afraid of M. Magloire.”
“But Mr. Folgat?”
“A young man with no weight. I should be far more afraid of M. Lachant.”
“Do you know the plan of the defence?”
This was evidently the place where the shoe pinched; but M. Galpin took care not to let it be seen, and replied,—
“I do not. But that does not matter. M. de Boiscoran’s friends at first thought of making capital out of Cocoleu; but they have given that up. I am sure of that! The police-agent whom I have charged to keep his eyes on the idiot tells me that Dr. Seignebos does not trouble himself about the man any more.”
M. Daubigeon smiled sarcastically, and said, much more for the purpose of teasing his visitor than because he believed it himself,—
“Take care! do not trust appearances. You have to do with very clever people. I always told you Cocoleu is probably the mainspring of the whole case. The very fact that M. Gransiere will speak ought to make you tremble. If he should not succeed, he would, of course, blame you, and never forgive you in all his life. Now, you know he may fail. ‘There is many a slip between the cup and the lip.’
“And I am disposed to think with Villon,—
‘Nothing is so certain as uncertain things.’”
M. Galpin could tell very well that he should gain nothing by prolonging the discussion, and so he said,—
“Happen what may, I shall always know that my conscience supports me.”
Then he made great haste to take leave, lest an answer should come from M. Daubigeon. He went out; and as he descended the stairs, he said to himself,—
“It is losing time to reason with that old fogy who sees in the events of the day only so many opportunities for quotations.”
But he struggled in vain against his own feelings; he had lost his self-confidence. M. Daubigeon had revealed to him a new danger which he had not foreseen. And what a danger!—the resentment of one of the most eminent men of the French bar, one of those bitter, bilious men who never forgive. M. Galpin had, no doubt, thought of the possibility of failure, that is to say, of an acquittal; but he had never considered the consequences of such a check.
Who would have to pay for it? The prosecuting attorney first and foremost, because, in France, the prosecuting attorney makes the accusation a personal matter, and considers himself insulted and humiliated, if he misses his man.
Now, what would happen in such a case?
M. Gransiere, no doubt, would hold him responsible. He would say,—
“I had to draw my arguments from your part of the work. I did not obtain a condemnation, because your work was imperfect. A man like myself ought not to be exposed to such an humiliation, and, least of all, in a case which is sure to create an immense sensation. You do not understand your business.”
Such words were a public disgrace. Instead of the hoped-for promotion, they would bring him an order to go into exile, to Corsica, or to Algiers.
M. Galpin shuddered at the idea. He saw himself buried under the ruins of his castles in Spain. And, unluckily, he went once more over all the papers of the investigation, analyzing the evidence he had, like a soldier, who, on the eve of a battle, furbishes up his arms. However, he only found one objection, the same which M. Daubigeon had made,—what interest could Jacques have had in committing so great a crime?
“There,” he said, “is evidently the weak part of the armor; and I would do well to point it out to M. Gransiere. Jacques’s counsel are capable of making that the turning-point of their plea.”
And, in spite of all he had said to M. Daubigeon, he was very much afraid of the counsel for the defence. He knew perfectly well the prestige which M. Magloire derived from his integrity and disinterestedness. It was no secret to him, that a cause which M. Magloire espoused was at once considered a good cause. They said of him,—
“He may be mistaken; but whatever he says he believes.” He could not but have a powerful influence, therefore, not on judges who came into court with well-established opinions, but with jurymen who are under the influence of the moment, and may be carried off by the eloquence of a speech. It is true, M. Magloire did not possess that burning eloquence which thrills a crowd, but M. Folgat had it, and in an uncommon degree. M. Galpin had made inquiries; and one of his Paris friends had written to him,—
“Mistrust Folgat. He is a far more dangerous logician than Lachant, and possesses the same skill in troubling the consciences of jurymen, in moving them, drawing tears from them, and forcing them into an acquittal. Mind, especially, any incidents that may happen during the trial; for he has always some kind of surprise in reserve.”
“These are my adversaries,” thought M. Galpin. “What surprise, I wonder, is there in store for me? Have they really given up all idea of using Cocoleu?”
He had no reason for mistrusting his agent; and yet his apprehensions became so serious, that he went out of his way to look in at the hospital. The lady superior received him, as a matter of course, with all the signs of profound respect; and, when he inquired about Cocoleu, she added,—
“Would you like to see him?”
“I confess I should be very glad to do so.”
“Come with me, then.”
She took him into the garden, and there asked a gardener,—
“Where is the idiot?”
The man put his spade into the ground; and, with that affected reverence which characterizes all persons employed in a convent, he answered,—
“The idiot is down there in the middle avenue, mother, in his usual place, you know, which nothing will induce him to leave.”
M. Galpin and the lady superior found him there. They had taken off the rags which he wore when he was admitted, and put him into the hospital-dress, which was a large gray coat and a cotton cap. He did not look any more intelligent for that; but he was less repulsive. He was seated on the ground, playing with the gravel.
“Well, my boy,” asked M. Galpin, “how do you like this?”
He raised his inane face, and fixed his dull eye on the lady superior; but he made no reply.
“Would you like to go back to Valpinson?” asked the lawyer again. He shuddered, but did not open his lips.
“Look here,” said M. Galpin, “answer me, and I’ll give you a ten-cent piece.”
No: Cocoleu was at his play again.
“That is the way he is always,” declared the lady superior. “Since he is here, no one has ever gotten a word out of him. Promises, threats, nothing has any effect. One day I thought I would try an experiment; and, instead of letting him have his breakfast, I said to him, ‘You shall have nothing to eat till you say, “I am hungry.”’ At the end of twenty-four hours I had to let him have his pittance; for he would have starved himself sooner than utter a word.”
“What does Dr. Seignebos think of him?”
“The doctor does not want to hear his name mentioned,” replied the lady superior.
And, raising her eyes to heaven, she added,—
“And that is a clear proof, that, but for the direct intervention of Providence, the poor creature would never have denounced the crime which he had witnessed.”
Immediately, however, she returned to earthly things, and asked,—
“But will you not relieve us soon of this poor idiot, who is a heavy charge on our hospital? Why not send him back to his village, where he found his support before? We have quite a number of sick and poor, and very little room.”
“We must wait, sister, till M. de Boiscoran’s trial is finished,” replied the magistrate.
The lady superior looked resigned, and said,—
“That is what the mayor told me, and it is very provoking, I must say: however, they have allowed me to turn him out of the room which they had given him at first. I have sent him to the Insane Ward. That is the name we give to a few little rooms, enclosed by a wall, where we keep the poor insane, who are sent to us provisionally.”
Here she was interrupted by the janitor of the hospital, who came up, bowing.
“What do you want?” she asked.
Vaudevin, the janitor, handed her a note.
“A man brought by a gendarme,” he replied. “Immediately to be admitted.”
The lady superior read the note, signed by Dr. Seignebos.
“Epileptic,” she said, “and somewhat idiotic: as if we wanted any more! And a stranger into the bargain! Really Dr. Seignebos is too yielding. Why does he not send all these people to their own parish to be taken care of?”
And, with a very elastic step for her age, she went to the parlor, followed by M. Galpin and the janitor. They had put the new patient in there, and, sunk upon a bench, he looked the picture of utter idiocy. After having looked at him for a minute, she said,—
“Put him in the Insane Ward: he can keep Cocoleu company. And let the sister know at the drug-room. But no, I will go myself. You will excuse me, sir.”
And then she left the room. M. Galpin was much comforted.
“There is no danger here,” he said to himself. “And if M. Folgat counts upon any incident during the trial, Cocoleu, at all events, will not furnish it to him.”
XXVII.
At the same hour when the magistrate left the hospital, Dr. Seignebos and M. Folgat parted, after a frugal breakfast,—the one to visit his patients, the other to go to the prison. The young advocate was very much troubled. He hung his head as he went down the street; and the diplomatic citizens who compared his dejected appearance with the victorious air of M. Galpin came to the conclusion that Jacques de Boiscoran was irrevocably lost.
At that moment M. Folgat was almost of their opinion. He had to pass through one of those attacks of discouragement, to which the most energetic men succumb at times, when they are bent upon pursuing an uncertain end which they ardently desire.
The declarations made by little Martha and the governess had literally overwhelmed him. Just when he thought he had the end of the thread in his hand, the tangle had become worse than ever. And so it had been from the commencement. At every step he took, the problem had become more complicated than ever. At every effort he made, the darkness, instead of being dispelled, had become deeper. Not that he as yet doubted Jacques’s innocence. No! The suspicion which for a moment had flashed through his mind had passed away instantly. He admitted, with Dr. Seignebos, the possibility that there was an accomplice, and that it was Cocoleu, in all probability, who had been charged with the execution of the crime. But how could that fact be made useful to the defence? He saw no way.
Goudar was an able man; and the manner in which he had introduced himself into the hospital and Cocoleu’s company indicated a master. But however cunning he was, however experienced in all the tricks of his profession, how could he ever hope to make a man confess who intrenched himself behind the rampart of feigned imbecility? If he had only had an abundance of time before him! But the days were counted, and he would have to hurry his measures.
“I feel like giving it up,” thought the young lawyer.
In the meantime he had reached the prison. He felt the necessity of concealing his anxiety. While Blangin went before him through the long passages, rattling his keys, he endeavored to give to his features an expression of hopeful confidence.
“At last you come!” cried Jacques.
He had evidently suffered terribly since the day before. A feverish restlessness had disordered his features, and reddened his eyes. He was shaking with nervous tremor. Still he waited till the jailer had shut the door; and then he asked hoarsely,—
“What did she say?”
M. Folgat gave him a minute account of his mission, quoting the words of the countess almost literally.
“That is just like her!” exclaimed the prisoner. “I think I can hear her! What a woman! To defy me in this way!”
And in his anger he wrung his hands till they nearly bled.
“You see,” said the young advocate, “there is no use in trying to get outside of our circle of defence. Any new effort would be useless.”
“No!” replied Jacques. “No, I shall not stop there!”
And after a few moments’ reflection,—if he can be said to have been able to reflect,—he said,—
“I hope you will pardon me, my dear sir, for having exposed you to such insults. I ought to have foreseen it, or, rather, I did foresee it. I knew that was not the way to begin the battle. But I was a coward, I was afraid, I drew back, fool that I was! As if I had not known that we shall at any rate have to come to the last extremity! Well, I am ready now, and I shall do it!”
“What do you mean to do?”
“I shall go and see the Countess Claudieuse. I shall tell her”—
“Oh!”
“You do not think she will deny it to my face? When I once have her under my eye, I shall make her confess the crime of which I am accused.”
M. Folgat had promised Dr. Seignebos not to mention what Martha and her governess had said; but he felt no longer bound to conceal it.
“And if the countess should not be guilty?” he asked.
“Who, then, could be guilty?”
“If she had an accomplice?”
“Well, she will tell me who it is. I will insist upon it, I will make her tell. I will not be disgraced. I am innocent, I will not go to the galleys!”
To try and make Jacques listen to reason would have been madness just now.
“Have a care,” said the young lawyer. “Our defence is difficult enough already; do not make it still more so.”
“I shall be careful.”
“A scene might ruin us irrevocably.”
“Be not afraid!”
M. Folgat said nothing more. He thought he could guess by what means Jacques would try to get out of prison. But he did not ask him about the details, because his position as his counsel made it his duty not to know, or, at least, to seem not to know, certain things.
“Now, my dear sir,” said the prisoner, “you will render me a service, will you not?”
“What is it?”
“I want to know as accurately as possible how the house in which the countess lives is arranged.”
Without saying a word, M. Folgat took out a sheet of paper, and drew on it a plan of the house, as far as he knew,—of the garden, the entrance-hall, and the sitting-room.
“And the count’s room,” asked Jacques, “where is that?”
“In the upper story.”
“You are sure he cannot get up?”
“Dr. Seignebos told me so.”
The prisoner seemed to be delighted.
“Then all is right,” he said, “and I have only to ask you, my dear counsel, to tell Miss Dionysia that I must see her to-day, as soon as possible. I wish her to come accompanied by one of her aunts only. And, I beseech you, make haste.”
M. Folgat did hasten; so that, twenty minutes later, he was at the young lady’s house. She was in her chamber. He sent word to her that he wished to see her; and, as soon as she heard that Jacques wanted her, she said simply,—
“I am ready to go.”
And, calling one of the Misses Lavarande, she told her,—
“Come, Aunt Elizabeth, be quick. Take your hat and your shawl. I am going out, and you are going with me.”
The prisoner counted so fully upon the promptness of his betrothed, that he had already gone down into the parlor when she arrived at the prison, quite out of breath from having walked so fast. He took her hands, and, pressing them to his lips, he said,—
“Oh, my darling! how shall I ever thank you for your sublime fidelity in my misfortune? If I escape, my whole life will not suffice to prove my gratitude.”
But he tried to master his emotion, and turning to Aunt Elizabeth, he said,—
“Will you pardon me if I beg you to render me once more the service you have done me before? It is all important that no one should hear what I am going to say to Dionysia. I know I am watched.”
Accustomed to passive obedience, the good lady left the room without daring to make the slightest remark, and went to keep watch in the passage. Dionysia was very much surprised; but Jacques did not give her time to utter a word. He said at once,—
“You told me in this very place, that, if I wished to escape, Blangin would furnish me the means, did you not?”
The young girl drew back, and stammered with an air of utter bewilderment,—
“You do not want to flee?”
“Never! Under no circumstances! But you ought to remember, that, while resisting all your arguments, I told you, that perhaps, some day or other, I might require a few hours of liberty.”
“I remember.”
“I begged you to sound the jailer on that point.”
“I did so. For money he will always be ready to do your bidding.”
Jacques seemed to breathe more freely.
“Well, then,” he said again, “the time has come. To-morrow I shall have to be away all the evening. I shall like to leave about nine; and I shall be back at midnight.”
Dionysia stopped him.
“Wait,” she said; “I want to call Blangin’s wife.”
The household of the jailer of Sauveterre was like many others. The husband was brutal, imperious, and tyrannical: he talked loud and positively, and thus made it appear that he was the master. The wife was humble, submissive, apparently resigned, and always ready to obey; but in reality she ruled by intelligence, as he ruled by main force. When the husband had promised any thing, the consent of the wife had still to be obtained; but, when the wife undertook to do any thing, the husband was bound through her. Dionysia, therefore, knew very well that she would have first to win over the wife. Mrs. Blangin came up in haste, her mouth full of hypocritical assurances of good will, vowing that she was heart and soul at her dear mistress’s command, recalling with delight the happy days when she was in M. de Chandore’s service, and regretting forevermore.
“I know,” the young girl cut her short, “you are attached to me. But listen!”
And then she promptly explained to her what she wanted; while Jacques, standing a little aside in the shade, watched the impression on the woman’s face. Gradually she raised her head; and, when Dionysia had finished, she said in a very different tone,—
“I understand perfectly, and, if I were the master, I should say, ‘All right!’ But Blangin is master of the jail. Well, he is not bad; but he insists upon doing his duty. We have nothing but our place to live upon.”
“Have I not paid you as much as your place is worth?”
“Oh, I know you do not mind paying.”
“You had promised me to speak to your husband about this matter.”
“I have done so; but”—
“I would give as much as I did before.”
“In gold?”
“Well, be it so, in gold.”
A flash of covetousness broke forth from under the thick brows of the jailer’s wife; but, quite self-possessed, she went on,—
“In that case, my man will probably consent. I will go and put him right, and then you can talk to him.”
She went out hastily, and, as soon as she had disappeared, Jacques asked Dionysia,—
“How much have you paid Blangin so far?”
“Seventeen thousand francs.”
“These people are robbing you outrageously.”
“Ah, what does the money matter? I wish we were both of us ruined, if you were but free.”
But it had not taken the wife long to persuade the husband. Blangin’s heavy steps were heard in the passage; and almost immediately, he entered, cap in hand, looking obsequious and restless.
“My wife has told me every thing,” he said, “and I consent. Only we must understand each other. This is no trifle you are asking for.”
Jacques interrupted him, and said,—
“Let us not exaggerate the matter. I do not mean to escape: I only want to leave for a time. I shall come back, I give you my word of honor.”
“Upon my life, that is not what troubles me. If the question was only to let you run off altogether, I should open the doors wide, and say, ‘Good-by!’ A prisoner who runs away—that happens every day; but a prisoner who leaves for a few hours, and comes back again—Suppose anybody were to see you in town? Or if any one came and wanted to see you while you are gone? Or if they saw you come back again? What should I say? I am quite ready to be turned off for negligence. I have been paid for that. But to be tried as an accomplice, and to be put into jail myself. Stop! That is not what I mean to do.”
This was evidently but a preface.
“Oh! why lose so many words?” asked Dionysia. “Explain yourself clearly.”
“Well, M. de Boiscoran cannot leave by the gate. At tattoo, at eight o’clock, the soldiers on guard at this season of the year go inside the prison, and untilreveillein the morning, or, in others words, till five o’clock, I can neither open nor shut the gates without calling the sergeant in command of the post.”
“Did he want to extort more money? Did he make the difficulties out greater than they really were?”
“After all,” said Jacques, “if you consent, there must be a way.”
The jailer could dissemble no longer: he came out with it bluntly.
“If the thing is to be done, you must get out as if you were escaping in good earnest. The wall between the two towers is, to my knowledge, at one place not over two feet thick; and on the other side, where there are nothing but bare grounds and the old ramparts, they never put a sentinel. I will get you a crowbar and a pickaxe, and you make a hole in the wall.”
Jacques shrugged his shoulders.
“And the next day,” he said, “when I am back, how will you explain that hole?”
Blangin smiled.
“Be sure,” he replied, “I won’t say the rats did it. I have thought of that too. At the same time with you, another prisoner will run off, who will not come back.”
“What prisoner?”
“Trumence, to be sure. He will be delighted to get away, and he will help you in making the hole in the wall. You must make your bargain with him, but, of course, without letting him know that I know any thing. In this way, happen what may, I shall not be in danger.”
The plan was really a good one; only Blangin ought not to have claimed the honor of inventing it: the idea came from his wife.
“Well,” replied Jacques, “that is settled. Get me the pickaxe and the crowbar, show me the place where we must make the hole, and I will take charge of Trumence. To-morrow you shall have the money.”
He was on the point of following the jailer, when Dionysia held him back; and, lifting up her beautiful eyes to him, she said in a tremor,—
“You see, Jacques, I have not hesitated to dare every thing in order to procure you a few house of liberty. May I not know what you are going to do in that time?”
And, as he made no reply, she repeated,—
“Where are you going?”
A rush of blood colored the face of the unfortunate man; and he said in an embarrassed voice,—
“I beseech you, Dionysia, do not insist upon my telling you. Permit me to keep this secret, the only one I have ever kept from you.”
Two tears trembled for a moment in the long lashes of the young girl, and then silently rolled down her cheeks.
“I understand you,” she stammered. “I understand but too well. Although I know so little of life, I had a presentiment, as soon as I saw that they were hiding something from me. Now I cannot doubt any longer. You will go to see a woman to-morrow”—
“Dionysia,” Jacques said with folded hands,—“Dionysia, I beseech you!”
She did not hear him. Gently shaking her heard, she went on,—
“A woman whom you have loved, or whom you love still, at whose feet you have probably murmured the same words which you whispered at my feet. How could you think of her in the midst of all your anxieties? She cannot love you, I am sure. Why did she not come to you when she found that you were in prison, and falsely accused of an abominable crime?”
Jacques cold bear it no longer.
“Great God!” he cried, “I would a thousand times rather tell you every thing than allow such a suspicion to remain in your heart! Listen, and forgive me.”
But she stopped him, putting her hand on his lips, and saying, all in a tremor,—
“No, I do not wish to know any thing,—nothing at all. I believe in you. Only you must remember that you are every thing to me,—hope, life, happiness. If you should have deceived me, I know but too well—poor me!—that I would not cease loving you; but I should not have long to suffer.”
Overcome with grief and affection, Jacques repeated,—
“Dionysia, Dionysia, my darling, let me confess to you who this woman is, and why I must see her.”
“No,” she interrupted him, “no! Do what your conscience bids you do. I believe in you.”
And instead of offering to let him kiss her forehead, as usual, she hurried off with her Aunt Elizabeth, and that so quickly, that, when he rushed after her, he only saw, as it were, a shadow at the end of the long passage.
Never until this moment had Jacques found it in his heart really to hate the Countess Claudieuse with that blind and furious hatred which dreams of nothing but vengeance. Many a time, no doubt, he had cursed her in the solitude of his prison; but even when he was most furious against her, a feeling of pity had risen in his heart for her whom he had once loved so dearly; for he did not disguise it to himself, he had once loved her to distraction. Even in his prison he trembled, as he thought of some of his first meetings with her, as he saw before his mind’s eye her features swimming in voluptuous languor, as he heard the silvery ring of her voice, or inhaled the perfume she loved ever to have about her. She had exposed him to the danger of losing his position, his future, his honor even; and he still felt inclined to forgive her. But now she threatened him with the loss of his betrothed, the loss of that pure and chaste love which burnt in Dionysia’s heart, and he could not endure that.
“I will spare her no longer,” he cried, mad with wrath. “I will hesitate no longer. I have not the right to do so; for I am bound to defend Dionysia!”
He was more than ever determined to risk that adventure on the next day, feeling quite sure now that his courage would not fail him.
It was Trumence to-night—perhaps by the jailer’s skilful management—who was ordered to take the prisoner back to his cell, and, according to the jail-dictionary, to “curl him up” there. He called him in, and at once plainly told him what he expected him to do. Upon Blangin’s assurance, he expected the vagabond would jump at the mere idea of escaping from jail. But by no means. Trumence’s smiling features grew dark; and, scratching himself behind the ear furiously, he replied,—
“You see—excuse me, I don’t want to run away at all.”
Jacques was amazed. If Trumence refused his cooperation he could not go out, or, at least, he would have to wait.
“Are you in earnest, Trumence?” he asked.
“Certainly I am, my dear sir. Here, you see, I am not so badly off: I have a good bed, I have two meals a day, I have nothing to do, and I pick up now and then, from one man or another, a few cents to buy me a pinch of tobacco or a glass of wine.”
“But your liberty?”
“Well, I shall get that too. I have committed no crime. I may have gotten over a wall into an orchard; but people are not hanged for that. I have consulted M. Magloire, and he told me precisely how I stand. They will try me in a police-court, and they will give me three or four months. Well, that is not so very bad. But, if I run away, they put the gendarmes on my track; they bring me back here; and then I know how they will treat me. Besides, to break jail is a grave offence.”
How could he overcome such wise conclusions and such excellent reasons? Jacques was very much troubled.
“Why should the gendarmes take you again?” he asked.
“Because they are gendarmes, my dear sir. And then, that is not all. If it were spring, I should say at once, ‘I am your man.’ But we have autumn now; we are going to have bad weather; work will be scarce.”
Although an incurable idler, Trumence had always a good deal to say about work.
“You won’t help them in the vintage?” asked Jacques.
The vagabond looked almost repenting.
“To be sure, the vintage must have commenced,” he said.
“Well?”
“But that only lasts a fortnight, and then comes winter. And winter is no man’s friend: it’s my enemy. I know I have been without a place to lie down when it has been freezing to split stones, and the snow was a foot deep. Oh! here they have stoves, and the Board gives very warm clothes.”
“Yes; but there are no merry evenings here, Trumence, eh? None of those merry evenings, when the hot wine goes round, and you tell the girls all sorts of stories, while you are shelling peas, or shucking corn?”
“Oh! I know. I do enjoy those evenings. But the cold! Where should I go when I have not a cent?”
That was exactly where Jacques wanted to lead him.
“I have money,” he said.
“I know you have.”
“You do not think I would let you go off with empty pockets? I would give you any thing you may ask.”
“Really?” cried the vagrant.
And looking at Jacques with a mingled expression of hope, surprise, and delight, he added,—
“You see I should want a good deal. Winter is long. I should want—let me see, I should want fifty Napoleons!”
“You shall have a hundred,” said Jacques.
Trumence’s eyes began to dance. He probably had a vision of those irresistible taverns at Rochefort, where he had led such a merry life. But he could not believe such happiness to be real.
“You are not making fun of me?” he asked timidly.
“Do you want the whole sum at once?” replied Jacques. “Wait.”
He drew from the drawer in his table a thousand-franc note. But, at the sight of the note, the vagrant drew back the hand which he had promptly stretched out to take the money.
“Oh! that kind? No! I know what that paper is worth: I have had some of them myself. But what could I do with one of them now? It would not be worth more to me than a leaf of a tree; for, at the first place I should want it changed, they would arrest me.”
“That is easily remedied. By to-morrow I shall have gold, or small notes, so you can have your choice.”
This time Trumence clapped his hands in great joy.
“Give me some of one kind, and some of the other,” he said, “and I am your man! Hurrah for liberty! Where is that wall that we are to go through?”
“I will show you to-morrow; and till then, Trumence, silence.”
It was only the next day that Blangin showed Jacques the place where the wall had least thickness. It was in a kind of cellar, where nobody ever came, and where cast-off tools were stored away.
“In order that you may not be interrupted,” said the jailer, “I will ask two of my comrades to dine with me, and I shall invite the sergeant on duty. They will enjoy themselves, and never think of the prisoners. My wife will keep a sharp lookout; and, if any of the rounds should come this way, she would warn you, and quick, quick, you would be back in your room.”
All was settled; and, as soon as night came, Jacques and Trumence, taking a candle with them, slipped down into the cellar, and went to work. It was a hard task to get through this old wall, and Jacques would never have been able to accomplish it alone. The thickness was even less than what Blangin had stated it to be; but the hardness was far beyond expectation. Our fathers built well. In course of time the cement had become one with the stone, and acquired the same hardness. It was as if they had attacked a block of granite. The vagrant had, fortunately, a strong arm; and, in spite of the precautions which they had to take to prevent being heard, he had, in less than an hour, made a hole through which a man could pass. He put his head in; and, after a moment’s examination, he said,—
“All right! The night is dark, and the place is deserted. Upon my word, I will risk it!”
He went through; Jacques followed; and instinctively they hastened towards a place where several trees made a dark shadow. Once there, Jacques handed Trumence a package of five-franc notes, and said,—
“Add this to the hundred Napoleons I have given you before. Thank you: you are a good fellow, and, if I get out of my trouble, I will not forget you. And now let us part. Make haste, be careful, and good luck!”
After these words he went off rapidly. But Trumence did not march off in the opposite direction, as had been agreed upon.
“Anyhow,” said the poor vagrant to himself, “this is a curious story about the poor gentleman. Where on earth can he be going?”
And, curiosity getting the better of prudence, he followed him.
XXVIII.
Jacques de Boiscoran went straight to Mautrec Street. But he knew with what horror he was looked upon by the population; and in order to avoid being recognized, and perhaps arrested, he did not take the most direct route, nor did he choose the more frequented streets. He went a long way around, and well-nigh lost himself in the winding, dark lanes of the old town. He walked along in Feverish haste, turning aside from the rare passers-by, pulling his felt hat down over his eyes, and, for still greater safety, holding his handkerchief over his face. It was nearly half-past nine when he at last reached the house inhabited by Count and Countess Claudieuse. The little gate had been taken out, and the great doors were closed.
Never mind! Jacques had his plan. He rang the bell.
A maid, who did not know him, came to the door.
“Is the Countess Claudieuse in?” he asked.
“The countess does not see anybody,” replied the girl. “She is sitting up with the count, who is very ill to-night.”
“But I must see her.”
“Impossible.”
“Tell her that a gentleman who has been sent by M. Galpin desires to see her for a moment. It is the Boiscoran affair.”
“Why did you not say so at once?” said the servant. “Come in.” And forgetting, in her hurry, to close the gates again, she went before Jacques through the garden, showed him into the vestibule, and then opened the parlor-door, saying,—
“Will you please go in here and sit down, while I go to tell the countess?”
After lighting one of the candles on the mantelpiece, she went out. So far, every thing had gone well for Jacques, and even better than he could have expected. Nothing remained now to be done, except to prevent the countess from going back and escaping, as soon as she should have recognized Jacques. Fortunately the parlor-door opened into the room. He went and put himself behind the open half, and waited there.
For twenty-four hours he had prepared himself for this interview, and arranged in his head the very words he would use. But now, at the last moment, all his ideas flew away, like dry leaves under the breath of a tempest. His heart was beating with such violence, that he thought it filled the whole room with the noise. He imagined he was cool, and, in fact, he possessed that lucidity which gives to certain acts of madmen an appearance of sense.
He was surprised at being kept waiting so long, when, at last, light steps, and the rustling of a dress, warned him that the countess was coming.
She came in, dressed in a long, dark, undress robe, and took a few steps into the room, astonished at not seeing the person who was waiting for her.
It was exactly as Jacques had foreseen.
He pushed to, violently, the open half of the door; and, placing himself before her, he said,—
“We are alone!”
She turned round at the noise, and cried,—
“Jacques!”
And terrified, as if she had seen a ghost, she looked all around, hoping to see a way out. One of the tall windows of the room, which went down to the ground, was half open, and she rushed towards it; but Jacques anticipated her, and said,—
“Do not attempt to escape; for I swear I should pursue you into your husband’s room, to the foot of his bed.”
She looked at him as if she did not comprehend.
“You,” she stammered,—“you here!”
“Yes,” he replied, “I am here. You are astonished, are you? You said to yourself, ‘He is in prison, well kept under lock and key: I can sleep in peace. No evidence can be found. He will not speak. I have committed the crime, and he will be punished for it. I am guilty; but I shall escape. He is innocent, and he is lost.’ You thought it was all settled? Well, no, it is not. I am here!”
An expression of unspeakable horror contracted the beautiful features of the countess. She said,—
“This is monstrous!”
“Monstrous indeed!”
“Murderer! Incendiary!”
He burst out laughing, a strident, convulsive, terrible laughter.
“And you,” he said, “you call me so?”
By one great effort the Countess Claudieuse recovered her energy.
“Yes,” she replied, “yes, I do! You cannot deny your crime to me. I know, I know the motives which the judges do not even guess. You thought I would carry out my threats, and you were frightened. When I left you in such haste, you said to yourself, ‘It is all over: she will tell her husband.’ And then you kindled that fire in order to draw my husband out of the house, you incendiary! And then you fired at my husband, you murderer!”
He was still laughing.
“And that is your plan?” he broke in. “Who do you think will believe such an absurd story? Our letters were burnt; and, if you deny having been my mistress, I can just as well deny having been your lover. And, besides, would the exposure do me any harm? You know very well it would not. You are perfectly aware, that, as society is with us, the same thing which disgraces a woman rather raises a man in the estimate of the world. And as to my being afraid of Count Claudieuse, it is well known that I am afraid of nobody. At the time when we were concealing our love in the house in Vine Street, yes, at that time, I might have been afraid of your husband; for he might have surprised us there, the code in one hand, a revolver in the other, and have availed himself of that stupid and savage law which makes the husband the judge of his own case, and the executor of the sentence which he himself pronounces. But setting aside such a case, the case of being taken in the act, which allows a man to kill like a dog another man, who can not or will not defend himself, what did I care for Count Claudieuse? What did I care for your threats or for his hatred?” He said these words with perfect calmness, but with that cold, cutting tone which is as sharp as a sword, and with that positiveness which enters irresistibly into the mind. The countess was tottering, and stammered almost inaudibly,—
“Who would imagine such a thing? Is it possible?”
Then, suddenly raising her head, she said,—
“But I am losing my senses. If you are innocent, who, then, could be the guilty man?”
Jacques seized her hands almost madly, and pressing them painfully, and bending over her so closely that she felt his hot breath like a flame touching her face, he hissed into her ear,—
“You, wretched creature, you!”
And then pushing her from him with such violence that she fell into a chair, he continued,—
“You, who wanted to be a widow in order to prevent me from breaking the chains in which you held me. At our last meeting, when I thought you were crushed by grief, and felt overcome by your hypocritical tears, I was weak enough, I was stupid enough, to say that I married Dionysia only because you were not free. Then you cried, ‘O God, how happy I am that that idea did not occur to me before!’ What idea was that, Genevieve? Come, answer me and confess, that it occurred to you too soon after all, since you have carried it out?”
And repeating with crushing irony the words just uttered by the countess, he said,—
“If you are innocent, who, then, would be the guilty man?”
Quite beside herself, she sprang up from her chair, and casting at Jacques one of those glances which seem to enter through our eyes into the very heart of our hearts, she asked,—
“Is it really possible that you have not committed this abominable crime?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“But then,” she repeated, almost panting, “is it true, can it really be true, that you think I have committed it?”
“Perhaps you have only ordered it to be committed.”
With a wild gesture she raised her arms to heaven, and cried in a heart-rending voice,—
“O God, O God! He believes it! he really believes it!”
There followed great silence, dismal, formidable silence, such as in nature follows the crash of the thunderbolt.
Standing face to face, Jacques and the Countess Claudieuse looked at each other madly, feeling that the fatal hour in their lives had come at last.
Each felt a growing, a sure conviction of the other. There was no need of explanations. They had been misled by appearances: they acknowledged it; they were sure of it.
And this discovery was so fearful, so overwhelming, that neither thought of who the real guilty one might be.
“What is to be done?” asked the countess.
“The truth must be told,” replied Jacques.
“Which?”
“That I have been your lover; that I went to Valpinson by appointment with you; that the cartridge-case which was found there was used by me to get fire; that my blackened hands were soiled by the half-burnt fragment of our letters, which I had tried to scatter.”
“Never!” cried the countess.
Jacques’s face turned crimson, as he said with an accent of merciless severity,—
“It shall be told! I will have it so, and it must be done!”
The countess seemed to be furious.
“Never!” she cried again, “never!”
And with convulsive haste she added,—
“Do you not see that the truth cannot possibly be told. They would never believe in our innocence. They would only look upon us as accomplices.”