There was no doubt that such almost incredible spoiling, such blind devotion, and perpetual worship, came very near making of Dionysia the most disagreeable little person that ever lived. But fortunately she had one of those happy dispositions which cannot be spoiled; and besides, she was perhaps saved from the danger by its very excess. As she grew older she would say with a laugh,—
“Grandpapa Chandore, my aunts Lavarande, and I, we do just what we choose.”
That was only a joke. Never did a young girl repay such sweet affection with rarer and nobler qualities.
She was thus leading a happy life, free from all care, and was just seventeen years old, when the great event of her life took place. M. de Chandore one morning met Jacques de Boiscoran, whose uncle had been a friend of his, and invited him to dinner. Jacques accepted the invitation, and came. Dionysia saw him, and loved him.
Now, for the first time in her life, she had a secret unknown to Grandpapa Chandore and to her aunts; and for two years the birds and the flowers were the only confidants of this love of hers, which grew up in her heart, sweet like a dream, idealized by absence, and fed by memory.
For Jacques’s eyes remained blind for two years.
But the day on which they were opened he felt that his fate was sealed. Nor did he hesitate a moment; and in less than a month after that, the Marquis de Boiscoran came down to Sauveterre, and in all form asked Dionysia’s hand for his son.
Ah! that was a heavy blow for Grandpapa Chandore.
He had, of course, often thought of the future marriage of his grandchild; he had even at times spoken of it, and told her that he was getting old, and should feel very much relieved when he should have found her a good husband. But he talked of it as a distant thing, very much as we speak of dying. M. de Boiscoran brought his true feelings out. He shuddered at the idea of giving up Dionysia, of seeing her prefer another man to himself, and of loving her children best of all. He was quite inclined to throw the ambassador out of the window.
Still he checked his feelings, and replied that he could give no reply till he had consulted his granddaughter.
Poor grandpapa! At the very first words he uttered, she exclaimed,—
“Oh, I am so happy! But I expected it.”
M. de Chandore bent his head to conceal a tear which burned in his eyes. Then he said very low,—
“Then the thing is settled.”
At once, rather comforted by the joy that was sparkling in his grandchild’s eyes, he began reproaching himself for his selfishness, and for being unhappy, when his Dionysia seemed to be so happy. Jacques had, of course, been allowed to visit the house as a lover; and the very day before the fire at Valpinson, after having long and carefully counted the days absolutely required for all the purchases of the trousseau, and all the formalities of the event, the wedding-day had been finally fixed.
Thus Dionysia was struck down in the very height of her happiness, when she heard, at the same time, of the terrible charges brought against M. de Boiscoran, and of his arrest.
At first, thunderstruck, she had lain nearly ten minutes unconscious in the arms of her aunts, who, like the grandfather, were themselves utterly overcome with terror. But, as soon as she came to, she exclaimed,—
“Am I mad to give way thus? Is it not evident that he is innocent?”
Then she had sent her telegram to the marquis, knowing well, that, before taking any measures, it was all important to come to an understanding with Jacques’s family. Then she had begged to be left alone; and she had spent the night in counting the minutes that must pass till the hour came when the train from Paris would bring her help.
At eight o’clock she had come down to give orders herself that a carriage should be sent to the station for the marchioness, adding that they must drive back as fast as they could. Then she had gone into the sitting-room to join her grandfather and her aunts. They talked to her; but her thoughts were elsewhere.
At last a carriage was heard coming up rapidly, and stopping before the house. She got up, rushed into the hall, and cried,—
“Here is Jacques’s mother!”
III.
We cannot do violence to our natural feelings without paying for it. The marchioness had nearly fainted when she could at last take refuge in the carriage: she was utterly overcome by the great effort she had made to present to the curious people of Sauveterre a smiling face and calm features.
“What a horrible comedy!” she murmured, as she sank back on the cushions.
“Admit, at least, madam,” said the lawyer, “that it was necessary. You have won over, perhaps, a hundred persons to your son’s side.”
She made no reply. Her tears stifled her. What would she not have given for a few moments’ solitude, to give way to all the grief of her heart, to all the anxiety of a mother! The time till she reached the house seemed to her an eternity; and, although the horse was driven at a furious rate, she felt as if they were making no progress. At last the carriage stopped.
The little servant had jumped down, and opened the door, saying,—
“Here we are.”
The marchioness got out with M. Folgat’s assistance; and her foot was hardly on the ground, when the house-door opened, and Dionysia threw herself into her arms, too deeply moved to speak. At last she broke forth,—
“Oh, my mother, my mother! what a terrible misfortune!”
In the passage M. de Chandore was coming forward. He had not been able to follow his granddaughter’s rapid steps.
“Let us go in,” he said to the two ladies: “don’t stand there!”
For at all the windows curious eyes were peeping through the blinds.
He drew them into the sitting-room. Poor M. Folgat was sorely embarrassed what to do with himself. No one seemed to be aware of his existence. He followed them, however. He entered the room, and standing by the door, sharing the general excitement, he was watching by turns, Dionysia, M. de Chandore, and the two spinsters.
Dionysia was then twenty years old. It could not be said that she was uncommonly beautiful; but no one could ever forget her again who had once seen her. Small in form, she was grace personified; and all her movements betrayed a rare and exquisite perfection. Her black hair fell in marvellous masses over her head, and contrasted strangely with her blue eyes and her fair complexion. Her skin was of dazzling whiteness. Every thing in her features spoke of excessive timidity. And yet, from certain movements of her lips and her eyebrows, one might have suspected no lack of energy.
Grandpapa Chandore looked unusually tall by her side. His massive frame was imposing. He did not show his seventy-two years, but was as straight as ever, and seemed to be able to defy all the storms of life. What struck strangers most, perhaps, was his dark-red complexion, which gave him the appearance of an Indian chieftain, while his white beard and hair brought the crimson color still more prominently out. In spite of his herculean frame and his strange complexion, his face bore the expression of almost child-like goodness. But the first glance at his eyes proved that the gentle smile on his lips was not to be taken alone. There were flashes in his gray eyes which made people aware that a man who should dare, for instance, to offend Dionysia, would have to pay for it pretty dearly.
As to the two aunts, they were as tall and thin as a couple of willow-rods, pale, discreet, ultra-aristocratic in their reserve and their coldness; but they bore in their faces an expression of happy peace and sentimental tenderness, such as is often seen in old maids whose temper has not been soured by celibacy. They dressed absolutely alike, as they had done now for forty years, preferring neutral colors and modest fashions, such as suited their simple taste.
They were crying bitterly at that moment; and M. Folgat felt instinctively that there was no sacrifice of which they were not capable for their beloved niece’s sake.
“Poor Dionysia!” they whispered.
The girl heard them, however; and, drawing herself up, she said,—
“But we are behaving shamefully. What would Jacques say, if he could see us from his prison! Why should we be so sad? Is he not innocent?”
Her eyes shone with unusual brilliancy: her voice had a ring which moved Manuel Folgat deeply.
“I can at least, in justice to myself,” she went on saying, “assure you that I have never doubted him for a moment. And how should I ever have dared to doubt? The very night on which the fire broke out, Jacques wrote me a letter of four pages, which he sent me by one of his tenants, and which reached me at nine o’clock. I showed it to grandpapa. He read it, and then he said I was a thousand times right, because a man who had been meditating such a crime could never have written that letter.”
“I said so, and I still think so,” added M. de Chandore; “and every sensible man will think so too; but”—
His granddaughter did not let him finish.
“It is evident therefore, that Jacques is the victim of an abominable intrigue; and we must unravel it. We have cried enough: now let us act!”
Then, turning to the marchioness, she said,—
“And my dear mother, I sent for you, because we want you to help us in this great work.”
“And here I am,” replied the old lady, “not less certain of my son’s innocence than you are.”
Evidently M. de Chandore had been hoping for something more; for he interrupted her, asking,—
“And the marquis?”
“My husband remained in Paris.”
The old gentleman’s face assumed a curious expression.
“Ah, that is just like him,” he said. “Nothing can move him. His only son is wickedly accused of a crime, arrested, thrown into prison. They write to him; they hope he will come at once. By no means. Let his son get out of trouble as he can. He has hisfaiencesto attend to. Oh, if I had a son!”
“My husband,” pleaded the marchioness, “thinks he can be more useful to Jacques in Paris than here. There will be much to be done there.”
“Have we not the railway?”
“Moreover,” she went on, “he intrusted me to this gentleman.” She pointed out M. Folgat.
“M. Manuel Folgat, who has promised us the assistance of his experience, his talents, and his devotion.”
When thus formally introduced, M. Folgat bowed, and said,—
“I am all hope. But I think with Miss Chandore, that we must go to work without losing a second. Before I can decide, however, upon what is to be done, I must know all the facts.”
“Unfortunately we know nothing,” replied M. de Chandore,—“nothing, except that Jacques is kept in close confinement.”
“Well, then, we must try to find out. You know, no doubt, all the law officers of Sauveterre?”
“Very few. I know the commonwealth attorney.”
“And the magistrate before whom the matter has been brought.”
The older of the two Misses Lavarande rose, and exclaimed,—
“That man, M. Galpin, is a monster of hypocrisy and ingratitude. He called himself Jacques’s friend; and Jacques liked him well enough to induce us, my sister and myself, to give our consent to a marriage between him and one of our cousins, a Lavarande. Poor child. When she learned the sad truth, she cried, ‘Great God! God be blessed that I escaped the disgrace of becoming the wife of such a man!’”
“Yes,” added the other old lady, “if all Sauveterre thinks Jacques guilty, let them also say, ‘His own friend has become his judge.’”
M. Folgat shook his head, and said,—
“I must have more minute information. The marquis mentioned to me a M. Seneschal, mayor of Sauveterre.”
M. de Chandore looked at once for his hat, and said,—
“To be sure! He is a friend of ours; and, if any one is well informed, he is. Let us go to him. Come.”
M. Seneschal was indeed a friend of the Chandores, the Lavarandes, and also of the Boiscorans. Although he was a lawyer he had become attached to the people whose confidential adviser he had been for more than twenty years. Even after having retired from business, M. Seneschal had still retained the full confidence of his former clients. They never decided on any grave question, without consulting him first. His successor did the business for them; but M. Seneschal directed what was to be done.
Nor was the assistance all on one side. The example of great people like M. de Chandore and Jacques’s uncle had brought many a peasant on business into M. Seneschal’s office; and when he was, at a later period of his life, attacked by the fever of political ambition, and offered to “sacrifice himself for his country” by becoming mayor of Sauveterre, and a member of the general council, their support had been of great service to him.
Hence he was well-nigh overcome when he returned, on that fatal morning, to Sauveterre. He looked so pale and undone, that his wife was seriously troubled.
“Great God, Augustus! What has happened?” she asked.
“Something terrible has happened,” he replied in so tragic a manner, that his wife began to tremble.
To be sure, Mrs. Seneschal trembled very easily. She was a woman of forty-five or fifty years, very dark, short, and fat, trying hard to breathe in the corsets which were specially made for her by the Misses Mechinet, the clerk’s sisters. When she was young, she had been rather pretty: now she still kept the red cheeks of her younger days, a forest of jet black hair, and excellent teeth. But she was not happy. Her life had been spent in wishing for children, and she had none.
She consoled herself, it is true, by constantly referring to all the most delicate details on the subject, mentioning not to her intimate friends only, but to any one who would listen, her constant disappointments, the physicians she had consulted, the pilgrimages she had undertaken, and the quantities of fish she had eaten, although she abominated fish. All had been in vain, and as her hopes fled with her years, she had become resigned, and indulged now in a kind of romantic sentimentality, which she carefully kept alive by reading novels and poems without end. She had a tear ready for every unfortunate being, and some words of comfort for every grief. Her charity was well known. Never had a poor woman with children appealed to her in vain. In spite of all that, she was not easily taken in. She managed her household with her hand as well as with her eye; and no one surpassed her in the extent of her washings, or the excellence of her dinners.
She was quite ready, therefore, to sigh and to sob when her husband told her what had happened during the night. When he had ended, she said,—
“That poor Dionysia is capable of dying of it. In your place, I would go at once to M. de Chandore, and inform him in the most cautious manner of what has happened.”
“I shall take good care not to do so,” replied M. Seneschal; “and I tell you expressly not to go there yourself.”
For he was by no means a philosopher; and, if he had been his own master, he would have taken the first train, and gone off a hundred miles, so as not to see the grief of the Misses Lavarande and Grandpapa Chandore. He was exceedingly fond of Dionysia: he had been hard at work for years to settle and to add to her fortune, as if she had been his own daughter, and now to witness her grief! He shuddered at the idea. Besides, he really did not know what to believe, and influenced by M. Galpin’s assurance, misled by public opinion, he had come to ask himself if Jacques might not, after all, have committed the crimes with which he was charged.
Fortunately his duties were on that day so numerous and so troublesome, that he had no time to think. He had to provide for the recovery and the transportation of the remains of the two unfortunate victims of the fire; he had to receive the mother of one, and the widow and children of the other, and to listen to their complaints, and try to console them by promising the former a small pension, and the latter some help in the education of their children. Then he had to give directions to have the wounded men brought home; and, after that, he had gone out in search of a house for Count Claudieuse and his wife, which had given him much trouble. Finally, a large part of the afternoon had been taken up by an angry discussion with Dr. Seignebos. The doctor, in the name of outraged society, as he called it, and in the name of justice and humanity, demanded the immediate arrest of Cocoleu, that wretch whose unconscious statement formed the basis of the accusation. He demanded with a furious oath that the epileptic idiot should be sent to the hospital, and kept there so as to be professionally examined by experts. The mayor had for some time refused to grant the request, which seemed to him unreasonable; but he doctor had talked so loud and insisted so strongly, that at last he had sent two gendarmes to Brechy with orders to bring back Cocoleu.
They had returned several hours later with empty hands. The idiot had disappeared; and no one in the whole district had been able to give any information as to this whereabouts.
“And you think that is natural?” exclaimed Dr. Seignebos, whose eyes were glaring at the mayor from under his spectacles. “To me that looks like an absolute proof that a plot has been hatched to ruin M. de Boiscoran.”
“But can’t you be quiet?” M. Seneschal said angrily. “Do you think Cocoleu is lost? He will turn up again.”
The doctor had left him without insisting any longer; but before going home, he had dropped in at his club, and there, in the presence of twenty people he had declared that he had positive proof of a plot formed against M. de Boiscoran, whom the Monarchists had never forgiven for having left them; and that the Jesuits were certainly mixed up with the business.
This interference was more injurious than useful to Jacques; and the consequences were soon seen. That same evening, when M. Galpin crossed the New-Market Place, he was wantonly insulted. Very naturally he went, almost in a fury, to call upon the mayor, to hold him responsible for this insult offered to Justice in his person, and asking for energetic punishment. M. Seneschal promised to take the proper measures, and went to the commonwealth attorney to act in concert with him. There he learned what had happened at Boiscoran, and the terrible result of the examination.
So he had come home, quite sorrowful, distressed at Jacques’s situation, and very much disturbed by the political aspect which the matter was beginning to wear. He had spent a bad night, and in the morning had displayed such fearful temper, that his wife had hardly dared to say a word to him. But even that was not all. At two o’clock precisely, the funeral of Bolton and Guillebault was to take place; and he had promised Capt. Parenteau that he would be present in his official costume, and accompanied by the whole municipal council. He had already given orders to have his uniform gotten ready, when the servant announced visitors,—M. de Chandore and friend.
“That was all that was wanting!” he exclaimed
But, thinking it over, he added,—
“Well, it had to come sooner or later. Show them in!”
M. Seneschal was too good to be so troubled in advance, and to prepare himself for a heart-rending scene. He was amazed at the easy, almost cheerful manner with which M. de Chandore presented to him his companion.
“M. Manuel Folgat, my dear Seneschal, a famous lawyer from Paris, who has been kind enough to come down with the Marchioness de Boiscoran.”
“I am a stranger here, M. Seneschal,” said Folgat: “I do not know the manner of thinking, the customs, the interests, the prejudices, of this country; in fact, I am totally ignorant, and I know I would commit many a grievous blunder, unless I could secure the assistance of an able and experienced counsellor. M. de Boiscoran and M. de Chandore have both encouraged me to hope that I might find such a man in you.”
“Certainly, sir, and with all my heart,” replied M. Seneschal, bowing politely, and evidently flattered by this deference on the part of a great Paris lawyer.
He had offered his guests seats. He had sat down himself, and resting his elbow on the arm of his big office-chair, he rubbed his clean-shaven chin with his hand.
“This is a very serious matter, gentlemen,” he said at last.
“A criminal charge is always serious,” replied M. Folgat.
“Upon my word,” cried M. de Chandore, “you are not in doubt about Jacques’s innocence?”
M. Seneschal did not say, No. He was silent, thinking of the wise remarks made by his wife the evening before.
“How can we know,” he began at last, “what may be going on in young brains of twenty-five when they are set on fire by the remembrance of certain insults! Wrath is a dangerous counsellor.”
Grandpapa Chandore refused to hear any more.
“What! do you talk to me of wrath?” he broke in; “and what do you see of wrath in this Valpinson affair? I see nothing in it, for my part, but the very meanest crime, long prepared and coolly carried out.”
The mayor very seriously shook his head, and said,—
“You do not know all that has happened.”
“Sir,” added M. Folgat, “it is precisely for the purpose of hearing what has happened that we come to you.”
“Very well,” said M. Seneschal.
Thereupon he went to work to describe the events which he had witnessed at Valpinson, and those, which, as he had learned from the commonwealth attorney, had taken place at Boiscoran; and this he did with all the lucidity of an experienced old lawyer who is accustomed to unravel the mysteries of complicated suits. He wound up by saying,—
“Finally, do you know what Daubigeon said to me, whose evidence you will certainly know how to appreciate? He said in so many words, ‘Galpin could not but order the arrest of M. de Boiscoran. Is he guilty? I do not know what to think of it. The accusation is overwhelming. He swears by all the gods that he is innocent; but he will not tell how he spent the night.’”
M. de Chandore, in spite of his vigor, was near fainting, although his face remained as crimson as ever. Nothing on earth could make him turn pale.
“Great God!” he murmured, “what will Dionysia say?”
Then, turning to M. Folgat, he said aloud,—
“And yet Jacques had something in his mind for that evening.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am sure of it. But for that, he would certainly have come to the house, as he has done every evening for a month. Besides, he said so himself in the letter which he sent Dionysia by one of his tenants, and which she mentioned to you. He wrote, ‘I curse from the bottom of my heart the business which prevents me from spending the evening with you; but I cannot possibly defer it any longer. To-morrow!’”
“You see,” said M. Seneschal.
“The letter is of such a nature,” continued the old gentleman, “that I repeat, No man who premeditated such a hideous crime could possibly have written it. Nevertheless, I confess to you, that, when I heard the fatal news, this very allusion to some pressing business impressed me painfully.”
But the young lawyer seemed to be far from being convinced.
“It is evident,” he said, “that M. de Boiscoran will on no account let it be known where he went.”
“He told a falsehood, sir,” insisted M. Seneschal. “He commenced by denying that he had gone the way on which the witnesses met him.”
“Very naturally, since he desires to keep the place unknown to which he went.”
“He did not say any more when he was told that he was under arrest.”
“Because he hopes he will get out of this trouble without betraying his secret.”
“If that were so, it would be very strange.”
“Stranger things than that have happened.”
“To allow himself to be accused of incendiarism and murder when he is innocent!”
“To be innocent, and to allow one’s self to be condemned, is still stranger; and yet there are instances”—
The young lawyer spoke in that short, imperious tone which is, so to say, the privilege of his profession, and with such an accent of assurance, that M. de Chandore felt his hopes revive. M. Seneschal was sorely troubled.
“And what do you think, sir?” he asked.
“That M. de Boiscoran must be innocent,” replied the young advocate. And, without leaving time for objections, he continued,—
“That is the opinion of a man who is not influenced by any consideration. I come here without any preconceived notions. I do not know Count Claudieuse any more than M. de Boiscoran. A crime has been committed: I am told the circumstances; and I at once come to the conclusion that the reasons which led to the arrest of the accused would lead me to set him at liberty.”
“Oh!”
“Let me explain. If M. de Boiscoran is guilty, he has shown, in the way in which he received M. Galpin at the house, a perfectly unheard-of self-control, and a matchless genius for comedy. Therefore, if he is guilty, he is immensely clever”—
“But.”
“Allow me to finish. If he is guilty, he has in the examination shown a marvellous want of self-control, and, to be brief, a nameless stupidity: therefore, if he is guilty, he is immensely stupid”—
“But.”
“Allow me to finish. Can one and the same person be at once so unusually clever and so unusually stupid? Judge yourself. But again: if M. de Boiscoran is guilty, he ought to be sent to the insane asylum, and not to prison; for any one else but a madman would have poured out the dirty water in which he had washed his blackened hands, and would have buried anywhere that famous breech-loader, of which the prosecution makes such good use.”
“Jacques is safe!” exclaimed M. de Chandore.
M. Seneschal was not so easily won over.
“That is specious pleading,” he said. “Unfortunately, we want something more than a logic conclusion to meet a jury with an abundance of witnesses on the other side.”
“We will find more on our side.”
“What do you propose to do?”
“I do not know. I have just told you my first impression. Now I must study the case, and examine the witnesses, beginning with old Anthony.”
M. de Chandore had risen. He said,—
“We can reach Boiscoran in an hour. Shall I send for my carriage?”
“As quickly as possible,” replied the young lawyer.
M. de Chandore’s servant was back in a quarter of an hour, and announced that the carriage was at the door. M. de Chandore and M. Folgat took their seats; and, while they were getting in, the mayor warned the young Paris lawyer,—
“Above all, be prudent and circumspect. The public mind is already but too much inflamed. Politics are mixed up with the case. I am afraid of some disturbance at the burial of the firemen; and they bring me word that Dr. Seignebos wants to make a speech at the graveyard. Good-by and good luck!”
The driver whipped the horse, and, as the carriage was going down through the suburbs, M. de Chandore said,—
“I cannot understand why Anthony did not come to me immediately after his master had been arrested. What can have happened to him?”
IV.
M. Seneschal’s horse was perhaps one of the very best in the whole province; but M. de Chandore’s was still better. In less than fifty minutes they had driven the whole distance to Boiscoran; and during this time M. de Chandore and M. Folgat had not exchanged fifty words.
When they reached Boiscoran, the courtyard was silent and deserted. Doors and windows were hermetically closed. On the steps of the porch sat a stout young peasant, who, at the sight of the newcomers, rose, and carried his hand to his cap.
“Where is Anthony?” asked M. de Chandore.
“Up stairs, sir.”
The old gentleman tried to open the door: it resisted.
“O sir! Anthony has barricaded the door from the inside.”
“A curious idea,” said M. de Chandore, knocking with the butt-end of his whip.
He was knocking fiercer and fiercer, when at last Anthony’s voice was heard from within,—
“Who is there?”
“It is I, Baron Chandore.”
The bars were removed instantly, and the old valet showed himself in the door. He looked pale and undone. The disordered condition of his beard, his hair, and his dress, showed that he had not been to bed. And this disorder was full of meaning in a man who ordinarily prided himself upon appearing always in the dress of an English gentleman.
M. de Chandore was so struck by this, that he asked, first of all,—
“What is the matter with you, my good Anthony?”
Instead of replying, Anthony drew the baron and his companion inside; and, when he had fastened the door again, he crossed his arms, and said,—
“The matter is—well, I am afraid.”
The old gentleman and the lawyer looked at each other. They evidently both thought the poor man had lost his mind. Anthony saw it, and said quickly,—
“No, I am not mad, although, certainly, there are things passing here which could make one doubtful of one’s own senses. If I am afraid, it is for good reasons.”
“You do not doubt your master?” asked M. Folgat.
The servant cast such fierce, threatening glances at the lawyer, that M. de Chandore hastened to interfere.
“My dear Anthony,” he said, “this gentleman is a friend of mine, a lawyer, who has come down from Paris with the marchioness to defend Jacques. You need not mistrust him, nay, more than that, you must tell him all you know, even if”—
The trusty old servant’s face brightened up, and he exclaimed,—
“Ah! If the gentleman is a lawyer. Welcome, sir. Now I can say all that weighs on my heart. No, most assuredly I do not think Master Jacques guilty. It is impossible he should be so: it is absurd to think of it. But what I believe, what I am sure of, is this,—there is a plot to charge him with all the horrors of Valpinson.”
“A plot?” broke in M. Folgat, “whose? how? and what for?”
“Ah! that is more than I know. But I am not mistaken; and you would think so too, if you had been present at the examination, as I was. It was fearful, gentlemen, it was unbearable, so that even I was stupefied for a moment, and thought my master was guilty, and advised him to flee. The like has never been heard of before, I am sure. Every thing went against him. Every answer he made sounded like a confession. A crime had been committed at Valpinson; he had been seen going there and coming back by side paths. A fire had been kindled; his hands bore traces of charcoal. Shots had been fired; they found one of his cartridge-cases close to the spot where Count Claudieuse had been wounded. There it was I saw the plot. How could all these circumstances have agreed so precisely if they had not been pre-arranged, and calculated beforehand? Our poor M. Daubigeon had tears in his eyes; and even that meddlesome fellow, Mechinet, the clerk, was quite overcome. M. Galpin was the only one who looked pleased; but then he was the magistrate, and he put the questions. He, my master’s friend!—a man who was constantly coming here, who ate our bread, slept in our beds, and shot our game. Then it was, ‘My dear Jacques,’ and ‘My dear Boiscoran’ always, and no end of compliments and caresses; so that I often thought one of these days I should find him blackening my master’s boots. Ah! he took his revenge yesterday; and you ought to have seen with what an air he said to master, ‘We are friends no longer.’ The rascal! No, we are friends no longer; and, if God was just, you ought to have all the shot in your body that has wounded Count Claudieuse.”
M. de Chandore was growing more and more impatient. As soon, therefore, as Anthony’s breath gave out a moment, he said,—
“Why did you not come and tell me all that immediately?”
The old servant ventured to shrug his shoulders slightly, and replied,—
“How could I? When the examination was over, that man, Galpin, put the seals everywhere,—strips of linen, fastened on with sealing-wax, as they do with dead people. He put one on every opening, and on some of them two. He put three on the outer door. Then he told me that he appointed me keeper of the house, that I would be paid for it, but that I would be sent to the galleys if any one touched the seals with the tip of the finger. When he had handed master over to the gendarmes, that man, Galpin, went away, leaving me here alone, dumfounded, like a man who has been knocked in the head. Nevertheless, I should have come to you, sir, but I had an idea, and that gave me the shivers.”
Grandpapa Chandore stamped his foot, and said,—
“Come to the point, to the point!”
“It was this: you must know, gentlemen, that, in the examination, that breech-loading gun played a prominent part. That man, Galpin looked at it carefully, and asked master when he had last fired it off. Master said, ‘About five days ago. You hear, I say, five days.’ Thereupon, that man, Galpin, puts the gun down, without looking at the barrels.”
“Well?” asked M. Folgat.
“Well, sir, I—Anthony—I had the evening before—I say the evening before—cleaned the gun, washed it, and”—
“Upon my word,” cried M. de Chandore, “why did you not say so at once? If the barrels are clean, that is an absolute proof that Jacques is innocent.”
The old servant shook his head, and said,—
“To be sure, sir. But are they clean?”
“Oh!”
“Master may have been mistaken as to the time when he last fired the gun, and then the barrels would be soiled; and, instead of helping him, my evidence might ruin him definitely. Before I say any thing, I ought to be sure.”
“Yes,” said Folgat, approvingly, “and you have done well to keep silence, my good man, and I cannot urge you too earnestly not to say a word of it to any one. That fact may become a decisive argument for thedefence.”
“Oh! I can keep my tongue, sir. Only you may imagine how impatient it has made me to see these accursed seals which prevent me from going to look at the gun. Oh, if I had dared to break one of them!”
“Poor fellow!”
“I thought of doing it; but I checked myself. Then it occurred to me that other people might think of the same thing. The rascals who have formed this abominable plot against Master Jacques are capable of any thing, don’t you think so? Why might not they come some night, and break the seals? I put the steward on guard in the garden, beneath the windows. I put his son as a sentinel into the courtyard; and I have myself stood watch before the seals with arms in my hands all the time. Let the rascals come on; they will find somebody to receive them.”
In spite of all that is said, lawyers are better than their reputation. Lawyers, accused of being sceptics above all men, are, on the contrary, credulous and simple-minded. Their enthusiasm is sincere; and, when we think they play a part, they are in earnest. In the majority of cases, they fancy their own side the just one, even though they should be beaten. Hour by hour, ever since his arrival at Sauveterre, M. Folgat’s faith in Jacques’s innocence had steadily increased. Old Anthony’s tale was not made to shake his growing conviction. He did not admit the existence of a plot, however; but he was not disinclined to believe in the cunning calculations of some rascal, who, availing himself of circumstances known to him alone, tried to let all suspicion fall upon M. de Boiscoran, instead of himself.
But there were many more questions to be asked; and Anthony was in such a state of feverish excitement, that it was difficult to induce him to answer. For it is not so easy to examine a man, however inclined he may be to answer. It requires no small self-possession, much care, and an imperturbable method, without which the most important facts are apt to be overlooked. M. Folgat began, therefore, after a moment’s pause, once more, saying,—
“My good Anthony, I cannot praise your conduct in this matter too highly. However, we have not done with it yet. But as I have eaten nothing since I left Paris last night, and as I hear the bell strike twelve o’clock”—
M. de Chandore seemed to be heartily ashamed, and broke in,—
“Ah, forgetful old man that I am! Why did I not think of it? But you will pardon me, I am sure. I am so completely upset. Anthony, what can you let us have?”
“The housekeeper has eggs, potted fowl, ham”—
“Whatever can be made ready first will be the best,” said the young lawyer.
“In a quarter of an hour the table shall be set,” replied the servant.
He hurried away, while M. de Chandore invited M. Folgat into the sitting-room. The poor grandfather summoned all his energy to keep up appearances.
“This fact about the gun will save him, won’t it?” he asked.
“Perhaps so,” replied the famous advocate.
And they were silent,—the grandfather thinking of the grief of his grandchild, and cursing the day on which he had opened his house to Jacques, and with him to such heart-rending anguish; the lawyer arranging in his mind the facts he had learned, and preparing the questions he was going to ask. They were both so fully absorbed by their thoughts, that they started when Anthony reappeared, and said,—
“Gentlemen, breakfast is ready!”
The table had been set in the dining-room; and, when the two gentlemen had taken their seats, old Anthony placed himself, his napkin over his arm, behind them; but M. de Chandore called him, saying,—
“Put another plate, Anthony, and breakfast with us.”
“Oh, sir,” protested the old servant,—“sir”—
“Sit down,” repeated the baron: “if you eat after us, you will make us lose time, and an old servant like you is a member of the family.”
Anthony obeyed, quite overcome, but blushing with delight at the honor that was done him; for the Baron de Chandore did not usually distinguish himself to familiarity. When the ham and eggs of the housekeeper had been disposed of, M. Folgat said,—
“Now let us go back to business. Keep cool, my dear Anthony, and remember, that, unless we get the court to say that there is no case, your answers may become the basis of our defence. What were M. de Boiscoran’s habits when he was here?”
“When he was here, sir, he had, so to say, no habits. We came here very rarely, and only for a short time.”
“Never mind: what was he doing here?”
“He used to rise late; he walked about a good deal; he sometimes went out hunting; he sketched; he read, for master is a great reader, and is as fond of his books as the marquis, his father, is of his porcelains.”
“Who came here to see him?”
“M. Galpin most frequently, Dr. Seignebos, the priest from Brechy, M. Seneschal, M. Daubigeon.”
“How did he spend his evenings?”
“At M. de Chandore’s, who can tell you all about it.”
“He had no other relatives in this country?”
“No.”
“You do not know that he had any lady friend?”
Anthony looked as if he would have blushed.
“Oh, sir!” he said, “you do not know, I presume, that master is engaged to Miss Dionysia?”
The Baron de Chandore was not a baby, as he liked to call it. Deeply interested as he was, he got up, and said,—
“I want to take a little fresh air.”
And he went out, understanding very well that his being Dionysia’s grandfather might keep Anthony from telling the truth.
“That is a sensible man,” thought M. Folgat.
Then he added aloud,—
“Now we are alone, my dear Anthony, you can speak frankly. Did M. de Boiscoran keep a mistress?”
“No, sir.”
“Did he ever have one?”
“Never. They will tell you, perhaps, that once upon a time he was rather pleased with a great, big red-haired woman, the daughter of a miller in the neighborhood, and that the gypsy of a woman came more frequently to the chateau than was needful,—now on one pretext, and now on another. But that was mere childishness. Besides, that was five years ago, and the woman has been married these three years to a basket-maker at Marennes.”
“You are quite sure of what you say?”
“As sure as I am of myself. And you would be as sure of it yourself, if you knew the country as I know it, and the abominable tongues the people have. There is no concealing any thing from them. I defy a man to talk three times to a woman without their finding it out, and making a story of it. I say nothing of Paris”—
M. Folgat listened attentively. He asked,—
“Ah! was there any thing of the kind in Paris?”
Anthony hesitated; at last he said,—
“You see, master’s secrets are not my secrets, and, after the oath I have sworn,”—
“It may be, however, that his safety depends upon your frankness in telling me all,” said the lawyer. “You may be sure he will not blame you for having spoken.”
For several seconds the old servant remained undecided; then he said,—
“Master, they say, has had a great love-affair.”
“When?”
“I do not know when. That was before I entered his service. All I know is, that, for the purpose of meeting the person, master had bought at Passy, at the end of Vine Street, a beautiful house, in the centre of a large garden, which he had furnished magnificently.”
“Ah!”
“That is a secret, which, of course, neither master’s father nor his mother knows to this day; and I only know it, because one day master fell down the steps, and dislocated his foot, so that he had to send for me to nurse him. He may have bought the house under his own name; but he was not known by it there. He passed for an Englishmen, a Mr. Burnett; and he had an English maid-servant.”
“And the person?”
“Ah, sir! I not only do not know who she is, but I cannot even guess it, she took such extraordinary precautions! Now that I mean to tell you every thing, I will confess to you that I had the curiosity to question the English maid. She told me that she was no farther than I was, that she knew, to be sure, a lady was coming there from time to time; but that she had never seen even the end of her nose. Master always arranged it so well, that the girl was invariably out on some errand or other when the lady came and when she went away. While she was in the house, master waited upon her himself. And when they wanted to walk in the garden, they sent the servant away, on some fool’s errand, to Versailles or to Fontainebleau; and she was mad, I tell you.”
M. Folgat began to twist his mustache, as he was in the habit of doing when he was specially interested. For a moment, he thought he saw the woman—that inevitable woman who is always at the bottom of every great event in man’s life; and just then she vanished from his sight; for he tortured his mind in vain to discover a possible if not probable connection between the mysterious visitor in Vine Street and the events that had happened at Valpinson. He could not see a trace. Rather discouraged, he asked once more,—
“After all, my dear Anthony, this great love-affair of your master’s has come to an end?”
“It seems so, sir, since Master Jacques was going to marry Miss Dionysia.”
That reason was perhaps not quite as conclusive as the good old servant imagined; but the young advocate made no remark.
“And when do you think it came to an end?”
“During the war, master and the lady must have been parted; for master did not stay in Paris. He commanded a volunteer company; and he was even wounded in the head, which procured him the cross.”
“Does he still own the house in Vine Street?”
“I believe so.”
“Why?”
“Because, some time ago, when master and I went to Paris for a week, he said to me one day, ‘The War and the commune have cost me dear. My cottage has had more than twenty shells, and it has been in turn occupied byFrancs-tireurs, Communists and Regulars. The walls are broken; and there is not a piece of furniture uninjured. My architect tells me, that all in all, the repairs will cost me some ten thousand dollars.’”
“What? Repairs? Then he thought of going back there?”
“At that time, sir, master’s marriage had not been settled. Yet”—
“Still that would go to prove that he had at that time met the mysterious lady once more, and that the war had not broken off their relations.”
“That may be.”
“And has he never mentioned the lady again?”
“Never.”
At this moment M. de Chandore’s cough was heard in the hall,—that cough which men affect when they wish to announce their coming. Immediately afterwards he reappeared; and M. Folgat said to him, to show that his presence was no longer inconvenient,—
“Upon my word, sir, I was just on the point of going in search of you, for fear that you felt really unwell.”
“Thank you,” replied the old gentleman, “the fresh air has done me good.”
He sat down; and the young advocate turned again to Anthony, saying,—
“Well, let us go on. How was he the day before the fire?”
“Just as usual.”
“What did he do before he went out?”
“He dined as usual with a good appetite; then he went up stairs and remained there for an hour. When he came down, he had a letter in his hand, which he gave to Michael, our tenant’s son, and told him to carry it to Sauveterre, to Miss Chandore.”
“Yes. In that letter, M. de Boiscoran told Miss Dionysia that he was retained here by a matter of great importance.”
“Ah!”
“Have you any idea what that could have been?”
“Not at all, sir, I assure you.”
“Still let us see. M. de Boiscoran must have had powerful reasons to deprive himself of the pleasure of spending the evening with Miss Dionysia?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“He must also have had his reasons for taking to the marshes, on his way out, instead of going by the turnpike, and for coming back through the woods.”
Old Anthony was literally tearing his hair, as he exclaimed,—
“Ah, sir! These are the very words M. Galpin said.”
“Unfortunately every man in his senses will say so.”
“I know, sir: I know it but too well. And Master Jacques himself knew it so well that at first he tried to find some pretext; but he has never told a falsehood. And he who is such a clever man could not find a pretext that had any sense in it. He said he had gone to Brechy to see his wood-merchant”—
“And why should he not?”
Anthony shook his head, and said,—
“Because the wood-merchant at Brechy is a thief, and everybody knows that master has kicked him out of the house some three years ago. We sell all our wood at Sauveterre.”
M. Folgat had taken out a note-book, and wrote down some of Anthony’s statements, preparing thus the outline of his defence. This being done, he commenced again,—
“Now we come to Cocoleu.”
“Ah the wretch!” cried Anthony.
“You know him?”
“How could I help knowing him, when I lived all my life here at Boiscoran in the service of master’s uncle?”
“Then what kind of a man is he?”
“An idiot, sir or, as they here call it, an innocent, who has Saint Vitus dance into the bargain, and epilepsy moreover.”
“Then it is perfectly notorious that he is imbecile?”
“Yes, sir, although I have heard people insist that he is not quite so stupid as he looks, and that, as they say here, he plays the ass in order to get his oats”—
M. de Chandore interrupted him, and said,—
“On this subject Dr. Seignebos can give you all the information you may want: he kept Cocoleu for nearly two years at his own house.”
“I mean to see the doctor,” replied M. Folgat. “But first of all we must find this unfortunate idiot.”
“You heard what M. Seneschal said: he has put the gendarmes on his track.”
Anthony made a face, and said,—
“If the gendarmes should take Cocoleu, Cocoleu must have given himself up voluntarily.”
“Why so?”
“Because, gentlemen, there is no one who knows all the by-ways and out-of-the-way corners of the country so well as that idiot; for he has been hiding all his life like a savage in all the holes and hiding-places that are about here; and, as he can live perfectly well on roots and berries, he may stay away three months without being seen by any one.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed M. Folgat angrily.
“I know only one man,” continued Anthony, “who could find out Cocoleu, and that is our tenant’s son Michael,—the young man you saw down stairs.”
“Send for him,” said M. de Chandore.
Michael appeared promptly, and, when he had heard what he was expected to do, he replied,—
“The thing can be done, certainly; but it is not very easy. Cocoleu has not the sense of a man; but he has all the instincts of a brute. However, I’ll try.”
There was nothing to keep either M. de Chandore or M. Folgat any longer at Boiscoran; hence, after having warned Anthony to watch the seals well, and get a glimpse, if possible, of Jacques’s gun, when the officers should come for the different articles, they left the chateau. It was five o’clock when they drove into town again. Dionysia was waiting for them in the sitting-room. She rose as they entered, looking quite pale, with dry, brilliant eyes.
“What? You are alone here!” said M. de Chandore. “Why have they left you alone?”
“Don’t be angry, grandpapa. I have just prevailed on the marchioness, who was exhausted with fatigue to lie down for an hour or so before dinner.”
“And your aunts?”
“They have gone out, grandpapa. They are probably, by this time at M. Galpin’s.”
M. Folgat started, and said,—
“Oh!”
“But that is foolish in them!” exclaimed the old gentleman.
The young girl closed his lips by a single word. She said,—
“I asked them to go.”
V.
Yes, the step taken by the Misses Lavarande was foolish. At the point which things had reached now, their going to see M. Galpin was perhaps equivalent to furnishing him the means to crush Jacques. But whose fault was it, but M. de Chandore’s and M. Folgat’s? Had they not committed an unpardonable blunder in leaving Sauveterre without any other precaution than to send word through M. Seneschal’s servant, that they would be back for dinner, and that they need not be troubled about them?
Not be troubled? And that to the Marchioness de Boiscoran and Dionysia, to Jacques’s mother and Jacques’s betrothed.
Certainly, at first, the two wretched women preserved their self-control in a manner, trying to set each other an example of courage and confidence. But, as hour after hour passed by, their anxiety became intolerable; and gradually, as they confided their apprehensions to each other, their grief broke out openly. They thought of Jacques being innocent, and yet treated like one of the worst criminals, alone in the depth of his prison, given up to the most horrible inspirations of despair. What could have been his feelings during the twenty-four hours which had brought him no news from his friends? Must he not fancy himself despised and abandoned.
“That is an intolerable thought!” exclaimed Dionysia at lat. “We must get to him at any price.”
“How?” asked the marchioness.
“I do not know; but there must be some way. There are things which I would not have ventured upon as long as I was alone; but, with you by my side, I can risk any thing. Let us go to the prison.”
The old lady promptly put a shawl around her shoulders, and said,—
“I am ready; let us go.”
They had both heard repeatedly that Jacques was kept in close confinement; but neither of them realized fully what that meant. They had no idea of this atrocious measure, which is, nevertheless, rendered necessary by the peculiar forms of French law-proceedings,—a measure which, so to say, immures a man alive, and leaves him in his cell alone with the crime with which he is charged, and utterly at the mercy of another man, whose duty it is to extort the truth from him. The two ladies only saw the want of liberty, a cell with its dismal outfittings, the bars at the window, the bolts at the door, the jailer shaking his bunch of keys at his belt, and the tramp of the solitary sentinel in the long passages.
“They cannot refuse me permission,” said the old lady, “to see my son.”
“They cannot,” repeated Dionysia. “And, besides, I know the jailer, Blangin: his wife was formerly in our service.”
When the young girl, therefore, raised the heavy knocker at the prison-door, she was full of cheerful confidence. Blangin himself came to the door; and, at the sight of the two poor ladies, his broad face displayed the utmost astonishment.
“We come to see M. de Boiscoran,” said Dionysia boldly.
“Have you a permit, ladies?” asked the keeper.
“From whom?”
“From M. Galpin.”
“We have no permit.”
“Then I am very sorry to have to tell you, ladies, that you cannot possibly see M. de Boiscoran. He is kept in close confinement, and I have the strictest orders.”
Dionysia looked threatening, and said sharply,—
“Your orders cannot apply to this lady, who is the Marchioness de Boiscoran.”
“My orders apply to everybody, madam.”
“You would not, I am sure, keep a poor, distressed mother from seeing her son!”
“Ah! but—madam—it does not rest with me. I? Who am I? Nothing more than one of the bolts, drawn or pushed at will.”
For the first time, it entered the poor girl’s head that her effort might fail: still she tried once more, with tears in her eyes,—
“But I, my dear M. Blangin, think of me! You would not refuse me? Don’t you know who I am? Have you never heard your wife speak of me?”
The jailer was certainly touched. He replied,—
“I know how much my wife and myself are indebted to your kindness, madam. But—I have my orders, and you surely would not want me to lose my place, madam?”
“If you lose your place, M. Blangin, I, Dionysia de Chandore, promise you another place twice as good.”
“Madame!”
“You do not doubt my word, M. Blangin, do you?”
“God forbid, madam! But it is not my place only. If I did what you want me to do, I should be severely punished.”
The marchioness judged from the jailer’s tone that Dionysia was not likely to prevail over him, and so she said,—
“Don’t insist, my child. Let us go back.”
“What? Without finding out what is going on behind these pitiless walls; without knowing even whether Jacques is dead or alive?”
There was evidently a great struggle going on in the jailer’s heart. All of a sudden he cast a rapid glance around, and then said, speaking very hurriedly,—
“I ought not to tell you—but never mind—I cannot let you go away without telling you that M. de Boiscoran is quite well.”
“Ah!”
“Yesterday, when they brought him here, he was, so to say, overcome. He threw himself upon his bed, and he remained there without stirring for over two hours. I think he must have been crying.”
A sob, which Dionysia could not suppress, made Blangin start.
“Oh, reassure yourself, madame!” he added quickly. “That state of things did not last long. Soon M. de Boiscoran got up, and said, ‘Why, I am a fool to despair!’”
“Did you hear him say so?” asked the old lady.
“Not I. It was Trumence who heard it.”
“Trumence?”
“Yes, one of our jail-birds. Oh! he is only a vagabond, not bad at all; and he has been ordered to stand guard at the door of M. de Boiscoran’s cell, and not for a moment to lose sight of it. It was M. Galpin who had that idea, because the prisoners sometimes in their first despair,—a misfortune happens so easily,—they become weary of life—Trumence would be there to prevent it.”
The old lady trembled with horror. This precautionary measure, more than any thing else, gave her the full measure of her son’s situation.
“However,” M. Blangin went on, “there is nothing to fear. M. de Boiscoran became quite calm again, and even cheerful, if I may say so. When he got up this morning, after having slept all night like a dormouse, he sent for me, and asked me for paper, ink, and pen. All the prisoners ask for that the second day. I had orders to let him have it, and so I gave it to him. When I carried him his breakfast, he handed me a letter for Miss Chandore.”
“What?” cried Dionysia, “you have a letter for me, and you don’t give it to me?”
“I do not have it now, madam. I had to hand it, as is my duty, to M. Galpin, when he came accompanied by his clerk, Mechinet, to examine M. de Boiscoran.”
“And what did he say?”
“He opened the letter, read it, put it into his pocket, and said, ‘Well.’”
Tears of anger this time sprang from Dionysia’s eyes; and she cried,—
“What a shame? This man reads a letter written by Jacques to me! That is infamous!”
And, without thinking of thanking Blangin, she drew off the old lady, and all the way home did not say a word.
“Ah, poor child, you did not succeed,” exclaimed the two old aunts, when they saw their niece come back.
But, when they had heard every thing, they said,—
“Well, we’ll go and see him, this little magistrate, who but the day before yesterday was paying us abject court to obtain the hand of our cousin. And we’ll tell him the truth; and, if we cannot make him give us back Jacques, we will at least trouble him in his triumph, and take down his pride.”