It was very well the count used such kind words; for Cocoleu was thoroughly terrified by the brutal treatment he had received, and was trembling in all his limbs.
“I am—not—a—afraid,” he stammered out.
“Once more I protest,” said the physician.
He had found out that he stood not alone in his opinion. Count Claudieuse came to his assistance, saying,—
“I really think it might be dangerous to question Cocoleu.”
But the magistrate was master of the situation, and conscious of all the powers conferred upon him by the laws of France in such cases.
“I must beg, gentlemen,” he said, in a tone which did not allow of any reply,—“I must beg to be permitted to act in my own way.”
And sitting down, he asked Cocoleu,—
“Come, my boy, listen to me, and try to understand what I say. Do you know what has happened at Valpinson?”
“Fire,” replied the idiot.
“Yes, my friend, fire, which burns down the house of your benefactor,—fire, which has killed two good men. But that is not all: they have tried to murder the count. Do you see him there in his bed, wounded, and covered with blood? Do you see the countess, how she suffers?”
Did Cocoleu follow him? His distorted features betrayed nothing of what might be going on within him.
“Nonsense!” growled the doctor, “what obstinacy! What folly!”
M. Galpin heard him, and said angrily,—
“Sir, do not force me to remind you that I have not far from here, men whose duty it is to see that my authority is respected here.”
Then, turning again to the poor idiot, he went on,—
“All these misfortunes are the work of a vile incendiary. You hate him, don’t you; you detest him, the rascal!”
“Yes,” said Cocoleu.
“You want him to be punished, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes!”
“Well, then you must help me to find him out, so that the gendarmes may catch him, and put him in jail. You know who it is; you have told these people and”—
He paused, and after a moment, as Cocoleu kept silent, he asked,—
“But, now I think of it, whom has this poor fellow talked to?”
Not one of the peasants could tell. They inquired; but no answer came. Perhaps Cocoleu had never said what he was reported to have said.
“The fact is,” said one of the tenants at Valpinson, “that the poor devil, so to say, never sleeps, and that he is roaming about all night around the house and the farm buildings.”
This was a new light for M. Galpin; suddenly changing the form of his interrogatory, he asked Cocoleu,—
“Where did you spend the night?”
“In—in—the—court—yard.”
“Were you asleep when the fire broke out?”
“No.”
“Did you see it commence?”
“Yes.”
“How did it commence?”
The idiot looked fixedly at the Countess Claudieuse with the timid and abject expression of a dog who tries to read something in his master’s eyes.
“Tell us, my friend,” said the Countess gently,—“tell us.”
A flash of intelligence shone in Cocoleu’s eyes.
“They—they set it on fire,” he stammered.
“On purpose?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“A gentleman.”
There was not a person present at this extraordinary scene who did not anxiously hold his breath as the word was uttered. The doctor alone kept cool, and exclaimed,—
“Such an examination is sheer folly!”
But the magistrate did not seem to hear his words; and, turning to Cocoleu, he asked him, in a deeply agitated tone of voice—
“Did you see the gentleman?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“Very—very—well.”
“What is his name?”
“Oh, yes!”
“What is his name? Tell us.”
Cocoleu’s features betrayed the fearful anguish of his mind. He hesitated, and at last he answered, making a violent effort,—“Bois—Bois—Boiscoran!”
The name was received with murmurs of indignation and incredulous laughter. There was not a shadow of doubt or of suspicion. The peasants said,—
“M. de Boiscoran an incendiary! Who does he think will believe that story?”
“It is absurd!” said Count Claudieuse.
“Nonsense!” repeated the mayor and his friend.
Dr. Siegnebos had taken off his spectacles, and was wiping them with an air of intense satisfaction.
“What did I tell you?” he exclaimed. “But the gentleman did not condescend to attach any importance to my suggestions.”
The magistrate was by far the most excited man in the crowd. He had turned excessively pale, and made, visibly, the greatest efforts to preserve his equanimity. The commonwealth attorney leaned over towards him, and whispered,—
“If I were in your place, I would stop here, and consider the answer as not given.”
But M. Galpin was one of those men who are blinded by self-conceit, and who would rather be cut to pieces than admit that they have been mistaken. He answered,—
“I shall go on.”
Then turning once more to Cocoleu, in the midst of so deep a silence that the buzzing of a fly would have been distinctly heard, he asked,—
“Do you know, my boy, what you say? Do you know that you are accusing a man of a horrible crime?”
Whether Cocoleu understood, or not, he was evidently deeply agitated. Big drops of perspiration rolled slowly down his temples; and nervous shocks agitated his limbs, and convulsed his features.
“I, I—am—telling the—truth!” he said at last.
“M. de. Boiscoran has set Valpinson on fire?”
“Yes.”
“How did he do it?”
Cocoleu’s restless eyes wandered incessantly from the count, who looked indignant, to the countess, who seemed to listen with painful surprise. The magistrate repeated,—
“Speak!”
After another moment’s hesitation, the idiot began to explain what he had seen; and it took him many minutes to state, amid countless contortions, and painful efforts to speak, that he had seen M. de Boiscoran pull out some papers from his pocket, light them with a match, put them under a rick of straw near by, and push the burning mass towards two enormous piles of wood which were in close contact with a vat full of spirits.
“This is sheer nonsense!” cried the doctor, thus giving words to what they all seemed to feel.
But M. Galpin had mastered his excitement. He said solemnly,—
“At the first sign of applause or of displeasure, I shall send for the gendarmes, and have the room cleared.”
Then, turning once more to Cocoleu, he said,—
“Since you saw M. de Boiscoran so distinctly, tell us how he was dressed.”
“He had light trousers on,” replied the idiot, stammering still most painfully, “a dark-brown shooting-jacket, and a big straw hat. His trousers were stuffed into his boots.”
Two or three peasants looked at each other, as if they had at last hit upon a suspicious fact. The costume which Cocoleu had so accurately described was well known to them all.
“And when he had kindled the fire,” said the magistrate again, “what did he do next?”
“He hid behind the woodpile.”
“And then?”
“He loaded his gun, and, when master came out, he fired.”
Count Claudieuse was so indignant that he forgot the pain which his wounds caused him, and raised himself on his bed.
“It is monstrous,” he exclaimed, “to allow an idiot to charge an honorable man with such a crime! If he really saw M. de Boiscoran set the house on fire, and hide himself in order to murder me, why did he not come and warn me?”
Mr. Galpin repeated the question submissively, to the great amazement of the mayor and M. Daubigeon.
“Why did you not give warning?” he asked Cocoleu.
But the efforts which the unfortunate man had made during the last half-hour had exhausted his little strength. He broke out into stupid laughter; and almost instantly one of his fearful nervous attacks overcame him: he fell down yelling, and had to be carried away.
The magistrate had risen, pale and deeply excited, but evidently meditating on what was to be done next. The commonwealth attorney asked him in an undertone what he was going to do; and the lawyer replied,—
“Prosecute!”
“What?”
“Can I do otherwise in my position? God is my witness that I tried my best, by urging this poor idiot, to prove the absurdity of his accusation. But the result has disappointed me.”
“And now?”
“Now I can no longer hesitate. There have been ten witnesses present at the examination. My honor is at stake. I must establish either the guilt or the innocence of the man whom Cocoleu accuses.” Immediately, walking up to the count’s bed, he asked,—
“Will you have the kindness, Count Claudieuse, to tell me what your relations are to M. de Boiscoran?”
Surprise and indignation caused the wounded man to blush deeply.
“Can it be possible, sir, that you believe the words of that idiot?”
“I believe nothing,” answered the magistrate. “My duty is to unravel the truth; and I mean to do it.”
“The doctor has told you what the state of Cocoleu’s mind is?”
“Count, I beg you will answer my question.”
Count Claudieuse looked angry; but he replied promptly,—
“My relations with M. de Boiscoran are neither good nor bad. We have none.”
“It is reported, I have heard it myself, that you are on bad terms.”
“On no terms at all. I never leave Valpinson, and M. de Boiscoran spends nine months of the year in Paris. He has never called at my house, and I have never been in his.”
“You have been overheard speaking of him in unmeasured terms.”
“That may be. We are neither of the same age, nor have we the same tastes or the same opinions. He is young: I am old. He likes Paris and the great world: I am fond of solitude and hunting. I am a Legitimist: he used to be an Orleanist, and now he is a Republican. I believe that the descendant of our old kings alone can save the country; and he is convinced that the happiness of France is possible only under a Republic. But two men may be enemies, and yet esteem each other. M. de Boiscoran is an honorable man; he has done his duty bravely in the war, he has fought well, and has been wounded.”
M. Galpin noted down these answers with extreme care. When he had done so, he continued,—
“The question is not one of political opinions only. You have had personal difficulties with M. de Boiscoran.”
“Of no importance.”
“I beg pardon: you have been at law.”
“Our estates adjoin each other. There is an unlucky brook between us, which is a source of constant trouble to the neighbors.”
M. Galpin shook his head, and added,—
“These are not the only difficulties you have had with each other. Everybody in the country knows that you have had violent altercations.”
Count Claudieuse seemed to be in great distress.
“It is true: we have used hard words. M. de Boiscoran had two wretched dogs that were continually escaping from his kennels, and came hunting in my fields. You cannot imagine how much game they destroyed.”
“Exactly so. And one day you met M. de Boiscoran, and you warned him that you would shoot his dogs.”
“I must confess I was furious. But I was wrong, a thousand times wrong: I did threaten”—
“That is it. You were both of you armed. You threatened one another: he actually aimed at you. Don’t deny it. A number of persons have seen it; and I know it. He has told me so himself.”
V.
There was not a person in the whole district who did not know of what a fearful disease poor Cocoleu was suffering; and everybody knew, also, that it was perfectly useless to try and help him. The two men who had taken him out had therefore laid him simply on a pile of wet straw, and then they had left him to himself, eager as they were to see and hear what was going on.
It must be said, in justice to the several hundred peasants who were crowding around the smoking ruins of Valpinson, that they treated the madman who had accused M. de Boiscoran of such a crime, neither with cruel jokes nor with fierce curses. Unfortunately, first impulses, which are apt to be good impulses, do not last long. One of those idle good-for-nothings, drunkards, envious scamps who are found in every community, in the country as well as in the city, cried out,—
“And why not?”
These few words opened at once a door to all kinds of bold guesses.
Everybody had heard something about the quarrel between Count Claudieuse and M. de Boiscoran. It was well known, moreover, that the provocation had always come from the count, and that the latter had invariably given way in the end. Why, therefore, might not M. de Boiscoran, impatient at last, have resorted to such means in order to avenge himself on a man whom they thought he must needs hate, and whom he probably feared at the same time?
“Perhaps he would not do it, because he is a nobleman, and because he is rich?” they added sneeringly.
The next step was, of course, to look out for circumstances which might support such a theory; and the opportunity was not lacking. Groups were formed; and soon two men and a woman declared aloud that they could astonish the world if they chose to talk. They were urged to tell what they knew; and, of course, they refused. But they had said too much already. Willing or not willing, they were carried up to the house, where, at that very moment, M. Galpin was examining Count Claudieuse. The excited crowd made such a disturbance, that M. Seneschal, trembling at the idea of a new accident, rushed out to the door.
“What is it now?” he asked.
“More witnesses,” replied the peasants. “Here are some more witnesses.”
The mayor turned round, and, after having exchanged glances with M. Daubigeon, he said to the magistrate,—
“They are bringing you some more witnesses, sir.”
No doubt M. Galpin was little pleased at the interruption; but he knew the people well enough to bear in mind, that, unless he took them at the moment when they were willing to talk, he might never be able to get any thing out of them at any other time.
“We shall return some other time to our conversation,” he said to Count Claudieuse.
Then, replying to M. Seneschal, he said,—
“Let the witnesses come in, but one by one.”
The first who entered was the only son of a well-to-do farmer in the village of Brechy, called Ribot. He was a young fellow of about twenty-five, broad-shouldered, with a very small head, a low brow, and formidable crimson ears. For twenty miles all around, he was reputed to be an irresistible beau,—a reputation of which he was very proud. After having asked him his name, his first names, and his age, M. Galpin said,—
“What do you know?”
The young man straightened himself, and with a marvellously conceited air, which set all the peasants a-laughing, he replied,—
“I was out that night on some little private business of my own. I was on the other side of the chateau of Boiscoran. Somebody was waiting for me, and I was behind time: so I cut right across the marsh. I knew the rains of the last days would have filled all the ditches; but, when a man is out on such important business as mine was, he can always find his way”—
“Spare us those tedious details,” said the magistrate coldly. The handsome fellow looked surprised, rather than offended, by the interruption, and then went on,—
“As your Honor desires. Well, it was about eight o’clock, or a little more, and it was growing dark, when I reached the Seille swamps. They were overflowing; and the water was two inches above the stones of the canal. I asked myself how I should get across without spoiling my clothes, when I saw M. de Boiscoran coming towards me from the other side.”
“Are you quite sure it was he?”
“Why, I should think so! I talked to him. But stop, he was not afraid of getting wet. Without much ado, he rolled up his trousers, stuffed them into the tops of his tall boots, and went right through. Just then he saw me, and seemed to be surprised. I was as much so as he was. ‘Why, is it you, sir?’ I said. He replied ‘Yes: I have to see somebody at Brechy.’ That was very probably so; still I said again, ‘But you have chosen a queer way.’ He laughed. ‘I did not know the swamps were overflowed,’ he answered, ‘and I thought I would shoot some snipes.’ As he said this, he showed me his gun. At that moment I had nothing to say; but now, when I think it over, it looks queer to me.”
M. Galpin had written down the statement as fast as it was given. Then he asked,—
“How was M. de Boiscoran dressed?”
“Stop. He had grayish trousers on, a shooting-jacket of brown velveteen, and a broad-brimmed panama hat.”
The count and the countess looked distressed and almost overcome; nor did the mayor and his friend seem to be less troubled. One circumstance in Ribot’s evidence seemed to have struck them with peculiar force,—the fact that he had seen M. de Boiscoran push his trousers inside his boots.
“You can go,” said M. Galpin to the young man. “Let another witness come in.”
The next one was an old man of bad reputation, who lived alone in an old hut two miles from Valpinson. He was called Father Gaudry. Unlike young Ribot, who had shown great assurance, the old man looked humble and cringing in his dirty, ill-smelling rags. After having given his name, he said,—
“It might have been eleven o’clock at night, and I was going through the forest of Rochepommier, along one of the little by-paths”—
“You were stealing wood!” said the magistrate sternly.
“Great God, what an idea!” cried the old man, raising his hands to heaven. “How can you say such a thing! I steal wood! No, my dear sir, I was very quietly going to sleep in the forest, so as to be up with daylight, and gather champignons and other mushrooms to sell at Sauveterre. Well, I was trotting along, when, all of a sudden, I hear footsteps behind me. Naturally, I was frightened.”
“Because you were stealing!”
“Oh, no! my dear sir; only, at night, you understand. Well, I hid behind a tree; and almost at the same moment I saw M. de Boiscoran pass by. I recognized him perfectly in spite of the dark; for he seemed to be in a great rage, talked loud to himself, swore, gesticulated, and tore handfuls of leaves from the branches.”
“Did he have a gun?”
“Yes, my dear sir; for that was the very thing that frightened me so. I thought he was a keeper.”
The third and last witness was a good old woman, Mrs. Courtois, whose little farm lay on the other side of the forest of Rochepommier. When she was asked, she hesitated a moment, and then she said,—
“I do not know much; but I will tell you all I do know. As we expected to have a house full of workmen a few days hence, and as I was going to bake bread to-morrow, I was going with my ass to the mill on Sauveterre Mountain to fetch flour. The miller had not any ready; but he told me, if I could wait, he would let me have some: and so I staid to supper. About ten o’clock, they gave me a bag full of flour. The boys put it on my ass, and I went home. I was about half-way, and it was, perhaps, eleven o’clock, when, just at the edge of the forest of Rochepommier, my ass stumbled, and the bag fell off. I had a great deal of trouble, for I was not strong enough to lift it alone; and just then a man came out of the woods, quite near me. I called to him, and he came. It was M. de Boiscoran: I ask him to help me; and at once, without losing a moment, he puts his gun down, lifts the bag from the ground, and puts it on my ass. I thank him. He says, ‘Welcome,’ and—that is all.”
The mayor had been all this time standing in the door of the chamber, performing the humble duty of a doorkeeper, and barring the entrance to the eager and curious crowd outside. When Mrs. Courtois retired, quite bewildered by her own words, and regretting what she had said, he called out,—
“Is there any one else who knows any thing?”
As nobody appeared, he closed the door, and said curtly,—
“Well, then, you can go home now, my friends. Let the law have free course.”
The law, represented by the magistrate, was a prey at that moment to the most cruel perplexity. M. Galpin was utterly overcome by consternation. He sat at the little table, on which he had been writing, his head resting on his hands, thinking, apparently, how he could find a way out of this labyrinth.
All of a sudden he rose, and forgetting, for a moment, his customary rigidity, he let his mask of icy impassiveness drop off his face, and said,—
“Well?” as if, in his despair, he had hoped for some help or advice in his troubles,—“well?”
No answer came.
All the others were as much troubled as he was. They all tried to shake off the overwhelming impression made by this accumulation of evidence; but in vain. At last, after a moment’s silence, the magistrate said with strange bitterness,—
“You see, gentlemen, I was right in examining Cocoleu. Oh! don’t attempt to deny it: you share my doubts and my suspicions, I see it. Is there one among you who would dare assert that the terrible excitement of this poor man has not restored to him for a time the use of his reason? When he told you that he had witnessed the crime, and when he gave the name of the criminal, you looked incredulous. But then other witnesses came; and their united evidence, corresponding without a missing link, constitutes a terrible presumption.”
He became animated again. Professional habits, stronger than every thing else, obtained once more the mastery.
“M. de Boiscoran was at Valpinson to-night: that is clearly established. Well, how did he get here? By concealing himself. Between his own house and Valpinson there are two public roads,—one by Brechy, and another around the swamps. Does M. de Boiscoran take either of the two? No. He cuts straight across the marshes, at the risk of sinking in, or of getting wet from head to foot. On his return he chooses, in spite of the darkness, the forest of Rochepommier, unmindful of the danger he runs to lose his way, and to wander about in it till daybreak. What was he doing this for? Evidently, in order not to be seen. And, in fact, whom does he meet?—a loose fellow, Ribot, who is himself in hiding on account of some love-intrigue; a wood-stealer, Gaudry, whose only anxiety is to avoid the gendarmes; an old woman, finally, Mrs. Courtois, who has been belated by an accident. All his precautions were well chosen; but Providence was watching.”
“O Providence!” growled Dr. Seignebos,—“Providence!”
But M. Galpin did not even hear the interruption. Speaking faster and faster, he went on,—
“Would it at least be possible to plead in behalf of M. de Boiscoran a difference in time? No. At what time was he seen to come to this place? At nightfall. ‘It was half-past eight,’ says Ribot, ‘when M. de Boiscoran crossed the canal at the Seille swamps.’ He might, therefore, have easily reached Valpinson at half-past nine. At that hour the crime had not yet been committed. When was he seen returning home? Gaudry and the woman Courtois have told you the hour,—after eleven o’clock. At that time Count Claudieuse had been shot, and Valpinson was on fire. Do we know any thing of M. de Boiscoran’s temper at that time? Yes, we do. When he came this way he was quite cool. He is very much surprised at meeting Ribot; but he explains to him very fully how he happens to be at that place, and also why he has a gun.
“He says he is on his way to meet somebody at Brechy, and he thought he would shoot some birds. Is that admissible? Is it even likely? However, let us look at him on his way back. Gaudry says he was walking very fast: he seemed to be furious, and was pulling handfuls of leaves from the branches. What does Mrs. Courtois say? Nothing. When she calls him, he does not venture to run; that would have been a confession, but he is in a great hurry to help her. And then? His way for a quarter of an hour is the same as the woman’s: does he keep her company? No. He leaves her hastily. He goes ahead, and hurries home; for he thinks Count Claudieuse is dead; he knows Valpinson is in flames; and he fears he will hear the bells ring, and see the fire raging.”
It is not often that magistrates allow themselves such familiarity; for judges, and even lawyers, generally fancy they are too high above common mortals, on such occasions, to explain their views, to state their impressions, and to ask, as it were, for advice. Still, when the inquiry is only begun, there are, properly speaking, no fixed rules prescribed. As soon as a crime has been reported to a French magistrate, he is at liberty to do any thing he chooses in order to discover the guilty one. Absolutely master of the case, responsible only to his conscience, and endowed with extraordinary powers, he proceeds as he thinks best. But, in this affair at Valpinson, M. Galpin had been carried away by the rapidity of the events themselves. Since the first question addressed to Cocoleu, up to the present moment, he had not had time to consider. And his proceedings had been public; thus he felt naturally tempted to explain them.
“And you call this a legal inquiry?” asked Dr. Seignebos.
He had taken off his spectacles, and was wiping them furiously.
“An inquiry founded upon what?” he went on with such vehemence that no one dared interrupt him,—“founded upon the evidence of an unfortunate creature, whom I, a physician, testify to be not responsible for what he says. Reason does not go out and become lighted again, like the gas in a street-lamp. A man is an idiot, or he is not an idiot. He has always been one; and he always will be one. But you say the other statements are conclusive. Say, rather, that you think they are. Why? Because you are prejudiced by Cocoleu’s accusation. But for it, you would never have troubled yourselves about what M. De Boiscoran did, or did not. He walked about the whole evening. He has a right to do so. He crossed the marsh. What hindered him? He went through the woods. Why should he not? He is met with by people. Is not that quite natural? But no: an idiot accuses him, and forthwith all he does looks suspicious. He talks. It is the insolence of a hardened criminal. He is silent. It is the remorse of a guilty man trembling with fear. Instead of naming M. de Boiscoran, Cocoleu might just as well have named me, Dr. Seignebos. At once, all my doings would have appeared suspicious; and I am quite sure a thousand evidences of my guilt would have been discovered. It would have been an easy matter. Are not my opinions more radical even than those of M. de Boiscoran? For there is the key to the whole matter. M. de Boiscoran is a Republican; M. de Boiscoran acknowledges no sovereignty but that of the people”—
“Doctor,” broke in the commonwealth attorney,—“doctor, you are not thinking of what you say.”
“I do think of it, I assure you”—
But he was once more interrupted, and this time by Count Claudieuse, who said,—
“For my part, I admit all the arguments brought up by the magistrate. But, above all probabilities, I put a fact,—the character of the accused. M. de Boiscoran is a man of honor and an excellent man. He is incapable of committing a mean and odious crime.”
The others assented. M. Seneschal added,—
“And I, I will tell you another thing. What would have been the purpose of such a crime? Ah, if M. de Boiscoran had nothing to lose! But do you know among all your friends a happier man than he is?—young, handsome, in excellent health, immensely wealthy, esteemed and popular with everybody. Finally, there is another fact, which is a family secret, but which I may tell you, and which will remove at once all suspicions,—M. de Boiscoran is desperately in love with Miss Dionysia de Chandore. She returns his love; and the day before yesterday the wedding-day was fixed on the 20th of the next month.”
In the meantime the hours had sped on. It was half-past three by the clock of the church in Brechy. Day was breaking; and the light of the lamps was turning pale. The morning mists began to disappear; and the sunlight fell upon the window-panes. But no one noticed this: all these men gathered around the bed of the wounded man were too deeply excited. M. Galpin had listened to the objection made by the others, without a word or a gesture. He had so far recovered his self-control, that it would have been difficult to see what impressions they made upon his mind. At last, shaking his head gravely, he said,—
“More than you, gentlemen, I feel a desire to believe M. de Boiscoran innocent. M. Daubigeon, who knows what I mean, will tell you so. In my heart I pleaded his cause long before you. But I am the representative of the law; and my duty is above my affections. Does it depend on me to set aside Cocoleu’s accusation, however stupid, however absurd, it may be? Can I undo the three statements made by the witnesses, and confirming so strongly the suspicions aroused by the first charge?”
Count Claudieuse was distressed beyond expression. At last he said,—
“The worst thing about it is, that M. de Boiscoran thinks I am his enemy. I should not wonder if he went and imagined that these charges and vile suspicions have been suggested by my wife or by myself. If I could only get up! At least, let M. de Boiscoran know distinctly that I am ready to answer for him, as I would answer for myself. Cocoleu, the wretched idiot! Ah, Genevieve, my darling wife! Why did you induce him to talk? If you had not insisted, he would have kept silent forever.”
The countess succumbed at last to the anxieties of this terrible night. At first she had been supported by that exaltation which is apt to accompany a great crisis; but latterly she had felt exhausted. She had sunk upon a stool, near the bed on which her two daughters were lying; and, her head hid in the pillow, she seemed to sleep. But she was not asleep. When her husband reproached her thus, she rose, pale, with swollen eyes and distorted features, and said in a piercing voice,—
“What? They have tried to kill my Trivulce; our children have been near unto death in the flames; and I should have allowed any means to be unused by which the guilty one may be found out? No! I have only done what it was my duty to do. Whatever may come of it, I regret nothing.”
“But, Genevieve, M. de Boiscoran is not guilty: he cannot possibly be guilty. How could a man who has the happiness of being loved by Dionysia de Chandore, and who counts the days to his wedding,—how could he devise such a hideous crime?”
“Let him prove his innocence,” replied the countess mercilessly.
The doctor smacked his lips in the most impertinent manner.
“There is a woman’s logic for you,” he murmured.
“Certainly,” said M. Seneschal, “M. de Boiscoran’s innocence will be promptly established. Nevertheless, the suspicion will remain. And our people are so constituted, that this suspicion will overshadow his whole life. Twenty years hence, they will meet him, and they will say, ‘Oh, yes! the man who set Valpinson on fire!’”
It was not M. Galpin this time who replied, but the commonwealth attorney. He said sadly,—
“I cannot share your views; but that does not matter. After what has passed, our friend, M. Galpin cannot retrace his steps: his duty makes that impossible, and, even more so, what is due to the accused. What would all these people say, who have heard Cocoleu’s deposition, and the evidence given by the witnesses, if the inquiry were stopped? They would certainly say M. de Boiscoran was guilty, but that he was not held responsible because he was rich and noble. Upon my honor I believe him to be innocent. But precisely because this is my conviction, I maintain that his innocence must be clearly established. No doubt he has the means of doing so. When he met Ribot, he told him he was on his way to see somebody at Brechy.”
“But suppose he never went there?” objected M. Seneschal. “Suppose he did not see anybody there? Suppose it was only a pretext to satisfy Ribot’s impertinent curiosity?”
“Well, then, he would only have to tell the truth in court. And look! Here’s an important proof which almost by itself relieves M. de Boiscoran. Would he not have loaded his gun with a ball, if he should ever have really thought of murdering the count? But it was loaded with nothing but small-shot.”
“And he would never have missed me at ten yards’ distance,” said the count.
Suddenly somebody was heard knocking furiously at the door.
“Come in!” cried M. Seneschal.
The door opened and three peasants appeared, looking bewildered, but evidently well pleased.
“We have just,” said one of them, “found something curious.”
“What?” asked M. Galpin.
“It looks very much like a case; but Pitard says it is the paper of a cartridge.”
Count Claudieuse raised himself on his pillows, and said eagerly,—
“Let me see! I have during these last days fired several times quite near to the house to frighten the birds away that eat my fruit. I want to see if the paper is mine.”
The peasant gave it to him.
It was a very thin lead form, such as contain the cartridges used in American breech-loading guns. What was singular was that it was blackened by burnt powder; but it had not been torn, nor had it blazed up in the discharge. It was so perfectly uninjured, that one could read the embossed letters of the name of the manufacturer, Clebb.
“That cartridge never belonged to me,” said the count.
But as he uttered these words he turned deadly pale, so pale, that his wife came close to him, and looked at him with a glance full of terrible anguish.
“Well?”
He made no reply.
But at that moment such silence was so eloquent, that the countess felt sickened, and whispered to him,—
“Then Cocoleu was right, after all!”
Not one feature of this dramatic scene had escaped M. Galpin’s eye. He had seen on every face signs of a kind of terror; still he made no remark. He took the metal case from the count’s hands, knowing that it might become an important piece of evidence; and for nearly a minute he turned it round and round, looking at it from all sides, and examining it in the light with the utmost attention.
Then turning to the peasants, who were standing respectfully and uncovered close by the door, he asked them,—
“Where did you find this cartridge, my friends?”
“Close by the old tower, where they keep the tools, and where the ivy is growing all over the old castle.”
M. Seneschal had in the meantime succeeded in recovering his self-control, and said now,—
“Surely the murderer cannot have fired from there. You cannot even see the door of the house from the old tower.”
“That may be,” replied the magistrate; “but the cartridge-case does not necessarily fall to the ground at the place where the gun is discharged. It falls as soon as the gun is cocked to reload.”
This was so true, that even Dr. Seignebos had nothing to say.
“Now, my friends,” said M. Galpin, “which of you has found the cartridge-case?”
“We were all together when we saw it, and picked it up.”
“Well, then, all three of you must give me your names and your domicile, so that I can send for you when you are wanted.”
This was done; and, when all formalities were attended to, they went off with numberless bows and doffings of hats. Just at that moment the furious gallop of a horse was heard approaching the house; the next moment the man who had been sent to Sauveterre for medicines came in. He was furious.
“That rascal of a druggist!” he said. “I thought he would never open his shop!”
Dr. Seignebos had eagerly seized the things that were sent him, then, bowing with mock respect to the magistrate, he said,—
“I know very well, sir, how pressing the necessity is to have the head of the culprit cut off; but I think it is almost as pressing to save the life of the murdered man. I have probably delayed the binding up of the count’s wounds longer than I ought to have done; and I beg you will now leave me alone, so as to enable me to do my duty to him.”
VI.
There was nothing more to be done for the magistrate, the commonwealth attorney, or the mayor. The doctor might assuredly have used more polite language; but people were accustomed to his brutal ways; for it is surprising with what readiness men are tolerated in France, under the pretext that they are as they are, and that they must be taken as they are. The three gentlemen, therefore, left the room, after having bid farewell to the countess, and after having promised to send the count news of all that might be discovered.
The fire was going out for want of fuel. A few hours had sufficed to destroy all that the hard work and incessant cares of many years had accomplished. This charming and much envied estate presented now nothing but a few half calcined walls, heaps of black and gray ashes, and still glowing timbers, from which columns of smoke were slowly rising upward. Thanks to Capt. Parenteau, all that they had been able to save had been carried to a distance, and safely stored away under the shelter of the ruins of the old castle. There, furniture and other articles were piled up pell-mell. There, carts and agricultural machines were standing about, empty casks, and sacks of oats and rye. There, also, the cattle were gathered, that had been drawn from their stalls with infinite labor, and at great risk of life,—horses, oxen, some sheep, and a dozen cows, who lowed piteously. Few of the people had left as yet. With greater zeal than ever the firemen, aided by the peasants, deluged the remains of the dwelling-house with water. They had nothing to fear from the fire; but they desired to keep the bodies of their unfortunate companions from being entirely consumed.
“What a terrible scourge fire is!” said M. Seneschal.
Neither M. Galpin nor the mayor made any answer. They also felt their hearts oppressed by the sad sight before them, in spite of all the intense excitement before; for a fire is nothing as long as the feverish excitement, and the hope of saving something, continue to keep us up, and as long as the red flames illumine the horizon; but the next day, when all is over, then we realize the extent of the misfortune.
The firemen recognized the mayor, and greeted him with cheers. He went rapidly towards them; and, for the first time since the alarm had been raised, the magistrate and the attorney were alone. They were standing close by each other, and for a moment kept silent, while each one tried to read in the other’s eyes the secret of his thoughts. At last M. Daubigeon asked,—
“Well?”
M. Galpin trembled.
“This is a fearful calamity,” he said.
“What is your opinion?”
“Ah! do I know it myself? I have lost my head: the whole thing looks to me like a nightmare.”
“You cannot really believe that M. de Boiscoran is guilty?”
“I believe nothing. My reason tells me he is innocent. I feel he must be innocent; and yet I see terrible evidence rising against him.”
The attorney was overwhelmed.
“Alas!” he said, “why did you, contrary to everybody’s opinion, insist upon examining Cocoleu, a poor idiotic wretch?”
But the magistrate remonstrated—
“You do not mean to reproach me, sir, for having followed the impulses of my conscience?”
“I reproach you for nothing.”
“A horrible crime has been committed; and my duty compelled me to do all that lies in the power of man to discover the culprit.”
“Yes; and the man who is accused of the crime is your friend, and only yesterday you spoke of his friendship as your best chance of success in life.”
“Sir?”
“Are you surprised to find me so well informed? Ah, you do not know that nothing escapes the idle curiosity of a village. I know that your dearest hope was to become a member of M. de Boiscoran’s family, and that you counted upon him to back you in your efforts to obtain the hand of one of his cousins.”
“I do not deny that.”
“Unfortunately, you have been tempted by the prestige you might gain in a great and famous trial. You have laid aside all prudence; and your projects are forgotten. Whether M. de Boiscoran is innocent or guilty, his family will never forgive you your interference. If he is guilty, they will blame you for having handed him over to justice: if he is innocent, they will blame you even more for having suspected him.”
M. Galpin hung his head as if to conceal his trouble. Then he asked,—
“And what would you do in my place?”
“I would withdraw from the case, although it is rather late.”
“If I did so, I should risk my career.”
“Even that would be better for you than to engage in an affair in which you cannot feel the calmness nor the impartiality which are the first and indispensable virtues of an upright magistrate.”
The latter was becoming impatient. He exclaimed,—
“Sir, do you think I am a man to be turned aside from my duty by considerations of friendship or personal interest?”
“I said nothing of the kind.”
“Did you not see just now how I carried on the inquiry? Did you see me start when Cocoleu first mentioned M. de Boiscoran’s name? If he had denounced any one else, I should probably have let the matter rest there. But precisely because M. de Boiscoran is a friend of mine, and because I have great expectations from him, I have insisted and persisted, and I do so still.”
The commonwealth attorney shrugged his shoulders.
“That is it exactly,” he said. “Because M. de Boiscoran is a friend of yours, you are afraid of being accused of weakness; and you are going to be hard, pitiless, unjust even, against him. Because you had great expectations from him, you will insist upon finding him guilty. And you call yourself impartial?”
M. Galpin assumed all his usual rigidity, and said solemnly,—
“I am sure of myself!”
“Have a care!”
“My mind is made up, sir.”
It was time for M. Seneschal to join them again: he returned, accompanied by Capt. Parenteau.
“Well, gentlemen,” he asked, “what have you resolved?”
“We are going to Boiscoran,” replied the magistrate.
“What! Immediately?”
“Yes: I wish to find M. de Boiscoran in bed. I am so anxious about it, that I shall do without my clerk.”
Capt. Parenteau bowed, and said,—
“Your clerk is here, sir: he was but just inquiring for you.” Thereupon he called out as loud as he could,—
“Mechinet, Mechinet!”
A small gray-haired man, jovial and cheerful, came running up, and at once proceeded to tell at full length how a neighbor had told him what had happened, and how the magistrate had left town, whereupon he, also, had started on foot, and come after him as fast as he could.
“Now will you go to Boiscoran?” asked the mayor.
“I do not know yet. Mechinet will have to look for some conveyance.”
Quick like lightning, the clerk was starting off, when M. Seneschal held him back, saying,—
“Don’t go. I place my horse and my carriage at your disposal. Any one of these peasants can drive you. Capt. Parenteau and I will get into some farmer’s wagon, and thus get back to Sauveterre; for we ought to be back as soon as possible. I have just heard alarming news. There may be some disorder. The peasant-women who attend the market have brought in most exciting reports, and exaggerated the calamities of last night. They have started reports that ten or twelve men have been killed, and that the incendiary, M. de Boiscoran, has been arrested. The crowd has gone to poor Guillebault’s widow; and there have been demonstrations before the houses of several of the principal inhabitants of Sauveterre.”
In ordinary times, M. Seneschal would not have intrusted his famous horse, Caraby, for any thing in the world, to the hands of a stranger. He considered it the best horse in the province. But he was evidently terribly upset, and betrayed it in his manner, and by the very efforts he made to regain his official dignity and self-possession.
He made a sign, and his carriage was brought up, all ready. But, when he asked for somebody to drive, no one came forward. All these good people who had spent the night abroad were in great haste to return home, where their cattle required their presence. When young Ribot saw the others hesitate, he said,—
“Well, I’ll drive the justice.”
And, taking hold of the whip and the reins, he took his seat on the front-bench, while the magistrate, the commonwealth attorney, and the clerk filled the vehicle.
“Above all, take care of Caraby,” begged M. Seneschal, who at the last moment felt almost overcome with anxiety for his favorite.
“Don’t be afraid, sir,” replied the young man, as he started the horse. “If I strike too hard, M. Mechinet will stop me.”
This Mechinet, the magistrate’s clerk, was almost a power in Sauveterre; and the greatest personages there paid their court to him. His official duties were of very humble nature, and ill paid; but he knew how to eke out his income by other occupations, of which the court took no notice; and these added largely both to his importance in the community and to his modest income.
As he was a skilful lithographer, he printed all the visiting-cards which the people of Sauveterre ordered at the principal printing-office of Sauveterre, where “The Independent” was published. An able accountant, he kept books and made up accounts for some of the principal merchants in town. Some of the country people who were fond of litigation came to him for legal advice; and he drew up all kinds of law papers. For many years now, he had been director of the firemen’s band, and manager of the Orpheon. He was a correspondent of certain Paris societies, and thus obtained free admission to the theatre not only, but also to the sacred precincts behind the scenes. Finally he was always ready to give writing-lessons, French lessons to little girls, or music-lessons on the flute and the horn, to amateurs.
These varied talents had drawn upon him the hostility of all the other teachers and public servants of the community, especially that of the mayor’s clerk, and the clerks of the bank and great institutions of Sauveterre. But all these enemies he had gradually conquered by the unmistakable superiority of his ability; so that they fell in with the universal habit, and, when any thing special happened, said to each other,—
“Let us go and consult Mechinet.”
He himself concealed, under an appearance of imperturbable good nature, the ambition by which he was devoured: he wanted to become rich, and to rise in the world. In fact, Mechinet was a diplomat, working in secret, but as cunning as Talleyrand. He had succeeded already in making himself the one great personage of Sauveterre. The town was full of him; nothing was done without him; and yet he had not an enemy in the place.
The fact is, people were afraid of him, and dreaded his terrible tongue. Not that he had ever injured anybody, he was too wise for that; but they knew the harm he might do, if he chose, as he was master of every important secret in Sauveterre, and the best informed man in town as regarded all their little intrigues, their private foibles, and their dark antecedents.
This gave him quite an exceptional position. As he was unmarried, he lived with his sisters, the Misses Mechinet, who were the best dressmakers in town, and, moreover, devout members of all kinds of religious societies. Through them he heard all that was going on in society, and was able to compare the current gossip with what he heard in court, or at the newspaper office. Thus he could say pleasantly,—
“How could any thing escape me, when I have the church and the press, the court and the theatre, to keep me informed?”
Such a man would have considered himself disgraced if he had not known every detail of M. de Boiscoran’s private affairs. He did not hesitate, therefore, while the carriage was rolling along on an excellent road, in the fresh spring morning, to explain to his companions the “case,” as he called it, of the accused nobleman.
M. de Boiscoran, called Jacques by his friends, was rarely on his estate, and then only staid a month or so there. He was living in Paris, where his family owned a comfortable house in University Street. His parents were still alive.
His father, the Marquis de Boiscoran, the owner of a large landed estate, a deputy under Louis Philippe, a representative in 1848, had withdrawn from public life when the Second Empire was established, and spent, since that time, all his money, and all his energies, in collecting rare old books, and especially costly porcelain, on which he had written a monograph.
His mother, a Chalusse by birth, had enjoyed the reputation of being one of the most beautiful and most gifted ladies at the court of the Citizen King. At a certain period in her life, unfortunately, slander had attacked her; and about 1845 or 1846, it was reported that she had had a remarkable affair with a young lawyer of distinction, who had since become one of the austerest and most renowned judges. As she grew old, the marchioness devoted herself more and more to politics, as other women become pious. While her husband boasted that he had not read a newspaper for ten years, she had made hersalona kind of parliamentary centre, which had its influence on political affairs.
Although Jacques de Boiscoran’s parents were still alive, he possessed a considerable fortune of his own—five or six thousand dollars a year. This fortune, which consisted of the Chateau of Boiscoran, the farms, meadows, and forests belonging to it, had been left to him by one of his uncles, the oldest brother of his father, who had died a widower, and childless, in 1868. M. de Boiscoran was at this moment about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, dark complexion, tall, strong, well made, not exactly a handsome man, but having, what was worth more, one of those frank, intelligent faces which prepossess one at first sight.
His character was less well known at Sauveterre than his person. Those who had had any business with him described him as an honorable, upright man: his companions spoke of him as cheerful and gay, fond of pleasure, and always in good humor. At the time of the Prussian invasion, he had been made a captain of one of the volunteer companies of the district. He had led his men bravely under fire, and conducted himself so well on the battlefield, that Gen. Chanzy had rewarded him, when wounded, with the cross of the legion of honor.
“And such a man should have committed such a crime at Valpinson,” said M. Daubigeon to the magistrate. “No, it is impossible! And no doubt he will very easily scatter all our doubts to the four winds.”
“And that will be done at once,” said young Ribot; “for here we are.”
In many of the provinces of France the name ofchateauis given to almost any little country-house with a weathercock on its pointed roof. But Boiscoran was a real chateau. It had been built towards the end of the seventeenth century, in wretched taste, but massively, like a fortress. Its position is superb. It is surrounded on all sides by woods and forests; and at the foot of the sloping garden flows a little river, merrily splashing over its pebbly bed, and called the Magpie on account of its perpetual babbling.
VII.
It was seven o’clock when the carriage containing the justice drove into the courtyard at Boiscoran,—a vast court, planted with lime-trees, and surrounded by farm buildings. The chateau was wide awake. Before her house-door, the farmer’s wife was cleaning the huge caldron in which she had prepared the morning soup; the maids were going and coming; and at the stable a groom was rubbing down with great energy a thorough-bred horse.
On the front-steps stood Master Anthony, M. de Boiscoran’s own man, smoking his cigar in the bright sunlight, and overlooking the farm operations. He was a man of nearly fifty, still very active, who had been bequeathed to his new master by his uncle, together with his possessions. He was a widower now; and his daughter was in the marchioness’ service.
As he had been born in the family, and never left it afterwards, he looked upon himself as one of them, and saw no difference between his own interests and those of his master. In fact, he was treated less like a servant than like a friend; and he fancied he knew every thing about M. de Boiscoran’s affairs.
When he saw the magistrate and the commonwealth attorney come up to the door, he threw away his cigar, came down quickly, and, bowing deeply, said to them with his most engaging smile,—
“Ah, gentlemen! What a pleasant surprise! My master will be delighted.”
With strangers, Anthony would not have allowed himself such familiarity, for he was very formal; but he had seen M. Daubigeon more than once at the chateau; and he knew the plans that had been discussed between M. Galpin and his master. Hence he was not a little amazed at the embarrassed stiffness of the two gentlemen, and at the tone of voice in which the magistrate asked him,—
“Has M. de Boiscoran gotten up yet?”
“Not yet,” he replied; “and I have orders not to wake him. He came home late last night, and wanted to make up this morning.”
Instinctively the magistrate and the attorney looked away, each fearing to meet the other’s eyes.
“Ah! M. de Boiscoran came home late last night?” repeated M. Galpin.
“Towards midnight, rather after midnight than before.”
“And when had he gone out?”
“He left here about eight.”
“How was he dressed?”
“As usually. He had light gray trousers, a shooting-jacket of brown velveteen, and a large straw hat.”
“Did he take his gun?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know where he went?”
But for the respect which he felt for his master’s friends, Anthony would not have answered these questions, which he thought were extremely impertinent. But this last question seemed to him to go beyond all fair limits. He replied, therefore, in a tone of injured self-respect,—
“I am not in the habit of asking my master where he goes when he leaves the house, nor where he has been when he comes back.”
M. Daubigeon understood perfectly well the honorable feelings which actuated the faithful servant. He said to him with an air of unmistakable kindness,—
“Do not imagine, my friend, that I ask you these questions from idle curiosity. Tell me what you know; for your frankness may be more useful to your master than you imagine.”
Anthony looked with an air of perfect stupefaction, by turns at the magistrate and the commonwealth attorney, at Mechinet, and finally at Ribot, who had taken the lines, and tied Caraby to a tree.
“I assure you, gentlemen, I do not know where M. de Boiscoran has spent the evening.”
“You have no suspicion?”
“No.”
“Perhaps he went to Brechy to see a friend?”
“I do not know that he has any friends in Brechy.”
“What did he do after he came home?”
The old servant showed evident signs of embarrassment.
“Let me think,” he said. “My master went up to his bedroom, and remained there four or five minutes. Then he came down, ate a piece of a pie, and drank a glass of wine. Then he lit a cigar, and told me to go to bed, adding that he would take a little walk, and undress without my help.”
“And then you went to bed?”
“Of course.”
“So that you do not know what your master may have done?”
“I beg your pardon. I heard him open the garden door.”
“He did not appear to you different from usual?”
“No: he was as he always is,—quite cheerful: he was singing.”
“Can you show me the gun he took with him?”
“No. My master probably took it to his room.”
M. Daubigeon was about to make a remark, when the magistrate stopped him by a gesture, and eagerly asked,—
“How long is it since your master and Count Claudieuse have ceased seeing each other?”
Anthony trembled, as if a dark presentiment had entered his mind. He replied,—
“A long time: at least I think so.”
“You are aware that they are on bad terms?”
“Oh!”
“They have had great difficulties between them?”
“Something unpleasant has happened, I know; but it was not much. As they do not visit each other, they cannot well hate each other. Besides, I have heard master say a hundred times, that he looked upon Count Claudieuse as one of the best and most honorable men; that he respected him highly, and”—
For a minute or so M. Galpin kept silent, thinking whether he had forgotten any thing. Then he asked suddenly,—
“How far is it from here to Valpinson?”
“Three miles, sir,” replied Anthony.
“If you were going there, what road would you take?”
“The high road which passes Brechy.”
“You would not go across the marsh?”
“Certainly not.”
“Why not?”
“Because the Seille is out of its banks, and the ditches are full of water.”
“Is not the way much shorter through the forest?”
“Yes, the way is shorter; but it would take more time. The paths are very indistinct, and overgrown with briers.”
The commonwealth attorney could hardly conceal his disappointment. Anthony’s answers seemed to become worse and worse.
“Now,” said the magistrate again, “if fire should break out at Valpinson, would you see it from here?”
“I think not, sir. There are hills and tall woods between.”
“Can you hear the Brechy bells from here?”
“When the wind is north, yes, sir.”