How could poor Dionysia help adopting the notions of the old ladies, when their project offered such immediate satisfaction to her indignation, and at the same time served her secret hopes?
“Oh, yes! You are right, dear aunts,” she said. “Quick, don’t lose any time; go at once!”
Unable to resist her entreaties, they started instantly, without listening to the timid objections made by the marchioness. But the good ladies were sadly mistaken as to the state of mind of M. Galpin. The ex-lover of one of their cousins was not bedded on roses by any means. At the beginning of this extraordinary affair he had taken hold of it with eagerness, looking upon it as an admirable opportunity, long looked for, and likely to open wide the doors to his burning ambition. Then having once begun, and the investigation being under way, he had been carried away by the current, without having time to reflect. He had even felt a kind of unhealthy satisfaction at seeing the evidence increasing, until he felt justified and compelled to order his former friend to be sent to prison. At that time he was fairly dazzled by the most magnificent expectations. This preliminary inquiry, which in a few hours already had led to the discovery of a culprit the most unlikely of all men in the province, could not fail to establish his superior ability and matchless skill.
But, a few hours later, M. Galpin looked no longer with the same eye upon these events. Reflection had come; and he had begun to doubt his ability, and to ask himself, if he had not, after all, acted rashly. If Jacques was guilty, so much the better. He was sure, in that case, immediately after the verdict, to obtain brilliant promotion. Yes, but if Jacques should be innocent? When that thought occurred to M. Galpin for the first time, it made him shiver to the marrow of his bones. Jacques innocent!—that was his own condemnation, his career ended, his hopes destroyed, his prospects ruined forever. Jacques innocent!—that was certain disgrace. He would be sent away from Sauveterre, where he could not remain after such a scandal. He would be banished to some out-of-the-way village, and without hope of promotion.
In vain he tried to reason that he had only done his duty. People would answer, if they condescended at all to answer, that there are flagrant blunders, scandalous mistakes, which a magistrate must not commit; and that for the honor of justice, and in the interest of the law, it is better, under certain circumstances, to let a guilty man escape, than to punish an innocent one.
With such anxiety on his mind, the most cruel that can tear the heart of an ambitious man, M. Galpin found his pillow stuffed with thorns. He had been up since six o’clock. At eleven, he had sent for his clerk, Mechinet; and they had gone together to the jail to recommence the examination. It was then that the jailer had handed him the prisoner’s letter for Dionysia. It was a short note, such as a sensible man would write who knows full well that a prisoner cannot count upon the secrecy of his correspondence. It was not even sealed, a fact which M. Blangin had not noticed.
“Dionysia, my darling,” wrote the prisoner, “the thought of the terrible grief I cause you is my most cruel, and almost my only sorrow. Need I stoop to assure you that I am innocent? I am sure it is not needed. I am the victim of a fatal combination of circumstances, which could not but mislead justice. But be reassured, be hopeful. When the time comes, I shall be able to set matters right.
“JACQUES.”
“Well,” M. Galpin had really said after reading this letter. Nevertheless it had stung him to the quick.
“What assurance!” he had said to himself.
Still he had regained courage while ascending the steps of the prison. Jacques had evidently not thought it likely that his note would reach its destination directly, and hence it might be fairly presumed that he had written for the eyes of justice as well as for his lady-love. The fact that the letter was not sealed even, gave some weight to this presumption.
“After all we shall see,” said M. Galpin, while Blangin was unlocking the door.
But he found Jacques as calm as if he had been in his chateau at Boiscoran, haughty and even scornful. It was impossible to get any thing out of him. When he was pressed, he became obstinately silent, or said that he needed time to consider. The magistrate had returned home more troubled than ever. The position assumed by Jacques puzzled him. Ah, if he could have retraced his steps!
But it was too late. He had burnt his vessels, and condemned himself to go on to the end. For his own safety, for his future life, it was henceforth necessary that Jacques de Boiscoran should be found guilty; that he should be tried in open court, and there be sentenced. It must be. It was a question of life or death for him.
He was in this state of mind when the two Misses Lavarande called at his house, and asked to see him. He shook himself; and in an instant his over-excited mind presented to him all possible contingencies. What could the two old ladies want of him?
“Show them in,” he said at last.
They came in, and haughtily declined the chairs that were offered.
“I hardly expected to have the honor of a visit from you, ladies,” he commenced.
The older of the two, Miss Adelaide, cut him short, saying,—
“I suppose not, after what has passed.”
And thereupon, speaking with all the eloquence of a pious woman who is trying to wither an impious man, she poured upon him a stream of reproaches for what she called his infamous treachery. What? How could he appear against Jacques, who was his friend, and who had actually aided him in obtaining the promise of a great match. By that one hope he had become, so to say, a member of the family. Did he not know that among kinsmen it was a sacred duty to set aside all personal feelings for the purpose of protecting that sacred patrimony called family honor?
M. Galpin felt like a man upon whom a handful of stones falls from the fifth story of a house. Still he preserved his self-control, and even asked himself what advantage he might obtain from this extraordinary scene. Might it open a door for reconciliation?
As soon, therefore, as Miss Adelaide stopped, he began justifying himself, painting in hypocritical colors the grief it had given him, swearing that he was able to control the events, and that Jacques was as dear to him now as ever.
“If he is so dear to you,” broke in Miss Adelaide, “why don’t you set him free?”
“Ah! how can I?”
“At least give his family and his friends leave to see him.”
“The law will not let me. If he is innocent, he has only to prove it. If he is guilty, he must confess. In the first case, he will be set free; in the other case, he can see whom he wishes.”
“If he is so dear to you, how could you dare read the letter he had written to Dionysia?”
“It is one of the most painful duties of my profession to do so.”
“Ah! And does that profession also prevent you from giving us that letter after having read it?”
“Yes. But I may tell you what is in it.”
He took it out of a drawer, and the younger of the two sisters, Miss Elizabeth, copied it in pencil. Then they withdrew, almost without saying good-by.
M. Galpin was furious. He exclaimed,—
“Ah, old witches! I see clearly you do not believe in Jacques’s innocence. Why else should his family be so very anxious to see him? No doubt they want to enable him to escape by suicide the punishment of his crime. But, by the great God, that shall not be, if I can help it!”
M. Folgat was, as we have seen, excessively annoyed at this step taken by the Misses Lavarande; but he did not let it be seen. It was very necessary that he at least should retain perfect presence of mind and calmness in this cruelly tried family. M. de Chandore, on the other hand, could not conceal his dissatisfaction so well; and, in spite of his deference to his grandchild’s wishes, he said,—
“I am sure, my dear child, I don’t wish to blame you. But you know your aunts, and you know, also, how uncompromising they are. They are quite capable of exasperating M. Galpin.”
“What does it matter?” asked the young girl haughtily. “Circumspection is all very well for guilty people; but Jacques is innocent.”
“Miss Chandore is right,” said M. Folgat, who seemed to succumb to Dionysia like the rest of the family. “Whatever the ladies may have done, they cannot make matters worse. M. Galpin will be none the less our bitter enemy.”
Grandpapa Chandore started. He said,—
“But”—
“Oh! I do not blame him,” broke in the young lawyer; “but I blame the laws which make him act as he does. How can a magistrate remain perfectly impartial in certain very important cases, like this one, when his whole future career depends upon his success? A man may be a most upright magistrate, incapable of unfairness, and conscientious in fulfilling all his duties, and yet he is but a man. He has his interest at stake. He does not like the court to find that that there is no case. The great rewards are not always given to the lawyer who has taken most pains to find out the truth.”
“But M. Galpin was a friend of ours, sir.”
“Yes; and that is what makes me fear. What will be his fate on the day when M. Jacques’s innocence is established?”
They were just coming home, quite proud of their achievement, and waving in triumph the copy of Jacques’s letter. Dionysia seized upon it; and, while she read it aside, Miss Adelaide described the interview, stating how haughty and disdainful she had been, and how humble and repentant M. Galpin had seemed to be.
“He was completely undone,” said the two old ladies with one voice: “he was crushed, annihilated.”
“Yes, you have done a nice thing,” growled the old baron; “and you have much reason to boast, forsooth.”
“My aunts have done well,” declared Dionysia. “Just see what Jacques has written! It is clear and precise. What can we fear when he says, ‘Be reassured: when the time comes, I shall be able to set matters right’?”
M. Folgat took the letter, read it, and shook his head. Then he said,—
“There was no need of this letter to confirm my opinion. At the bottom of this affair there is a secret which none of us have found out yet. But M. de Boiscoran acts very rashly in playing in this way with a criminal prosecution. Why did he not explain at once? What was easy yesterday may be less easy to-morrow, and perhaps impossible in a week.”
“Jacques, sir, is a superior man,” cried Dionysia, “and whatever he says is perfectly sure to be the right thing.”
His mother’s entrance prevented the young lawyer from making any reply. Two hours’ rest had restored to the old lady a part of her energy, and her usual presence of mind; and she now asked that a telegram should be sent to her husband.
“It is the least we can do,” said M. de Chandore in an undertone, “although it will be useless, I dare say. Boiscoran does not care that much for his son. Pshaw! Ah! if it was a rarefaience, or a plate that is wanting in his collection, then would it be a very different story.”
Still the despatch was drawn up and sent, at the very moment when a servant came in, and announced that dinner was ready. The meal was less sad than they had anticipated. Everybody, to be sure, felt a heaviness at heart as he thought that at the same hour a jailer probably brought Jacques his meal to his cell; nor could Dionysia keep from dropping a tear when she saw M. Folgat sitting in her lover’s place. But no one, except the young advocate, thought that Jacques was in real danger.
M. Seneschal, however, who came in just as coffee was handed round, evidently shared M. Folgat’s apprehensions. The good mayor came to hear the news, and to tell his friends how he had spent the day. The funeral of the firemen had passed off quietly, although amid deep emotion. No disturbance had taken place, as was feared; and Dr. Seignebos had not spoken at the graveyard. Both a disturbance and a row would have been badly received, said M. Seneschal; for he was sorry to say, the immense majority of the people of Sauveterre did not doubt M. de Boiscoran’s guilt. In several groups he had heard people say, “And still you will see they will not condemn him. A poor devil who should commit such a horrible crime would be hanged sure enough; but the son of the Marquis de Boiscoran—you will see, he’ll come out of it as white as snow.”
The rolling of a carriage, which stopped at the door, fortunately interrupted him at this point.
“Who can that be?” asked Dionysia, half frightened.
They heard in the passage the noise of steps and voices, something like a scuffle; and almost instantly the tenant’s son Michael pushed open the door of the sitting-room, crying out,—
“I have gotten him! Here he is!”
And with these words he pushed in Cocoleu, all struggling, and looking around him, like a wild beast caught in a trap.
“Upon my word, my good fellow,” said M. Seneschal, “you have done better than the gendarmes!”
The manner in which Michael winked with his eye showed that he had not a very exalted opinion of the cleverness of the gendarmes.
“I promised the baron,” he said, “I would get hold of Cocoleu somehow or other. I knew that at certain times he went and buried himself, like the wild beast that he is, in a hole which he has scratched under a rock in the densest part of the forest of Rochepommier. I had discovered this den of his one day by accident; for a man might pass by a hundred times, and never dream of where it was. But, as soon as the baron told me that the innocent had disappeared, I said to myself, ‘I am sure he is in his hole: let us go and see.’ So I gathered up my legs; I ran down to the rocks: and there was Cocoleu. But it was not so easy to pull him out of his den. He would not come; and, while defending himself, he bit me in the hand, like the mad dog that he is.”
And Michael held up his left hand, wrapped up in a bloody piece of linen.
“It was pretty hard work to get the madman here. I was compelled to tie him hand and foot, and to carry him bodily to my father’s house. There we put him into the little carriage, and here he is. Just look at the pretty fellow!”
He was hideous at that moment, with his livid face spotted all over with red marks, his hanging lips covered with white foam, and his brutish glances.
“Why would you not come?” asked M. Seneschal.
The idiot looked as if he did not hear.
“Why did you bite Michael?” continued the mayor.
Cocoleu made no reply.
“Do you know that M. de Boiscoran is in prison because of what you have said?”
Still no reply.
“Ah!” said Michael, “it is of no use to question him. You might beat him till to-morrow, and he would rather give up the ghost than say a word.”
“I am—I am hungry,” stammered Cocoleu.
M. Folgat looked indignant.
“And to think,” he said, “that, upon the testimony of such a thing, a capital charge has been made!”
Grandpapa Chandore seemed to be seriously embarrassed. He said,—
“But now, what in the world are we to do with the idiot?”
“I am going to take him,” said M. Seneschal, “to the hospital. I will go with him myself, and let Dr. Seignebos know, and the commonwealth attorney.”
Dr. Seignebos was an eccentric man, beyond doubt; and the absurd stories which his enemies attributed to him were not all unfounded. But he had, at all events, the rare quality of professing for his art, as he called it, a respect very nearly akin to enthusiasm. According to his views, the faculty were infallible, as much so as the pope, whom he denied. He would, to be sure, in confidence, admit that some of his colleagues were amazing donkeys; but he would never have allowed any one else to say so in his presence. From the moment that a man possessed the famous diploma which gives him the right over life and death, that man became in his eyes an august personage for the world at large. It was a crime, he thought, not to submit blindly to the decision of a physician. Hence his obstinacy in opposing M. Galpin, hence the bitterness of his contradictions, and the rudeness with which he had requested the “gentlemen of the law” to leave the room in whichhispatient was lying.
“For these devils,” he said, “would kill one man in order to get the means of cutting off another man’s head.”
And thereupon, resuming his probes and his sponge, he had gone to work once more, with the aid of the countess, digging out grain by grain the lead which had honeycombed the flesh of the count. At nine o’clock the work was done.
“Not that I fancy I have gotten them all out,” he said modestly, “but, if there is any thing left, it is out of reach, and I shall have to wait for certain symptoms which will tell me where they are.”
As he had foreseen, the count had grown rather worse. His first excitement had given way to perfect prostration; and he seemed to be insensible to what was going on around him. Fever began to show itself; and, considering the count’s constitution, it was easily to be foreseen that delirium would set in before the day was out.
“Nevertheless, I think there is hardly any danger,” said the doctor to the countess, after having pointed out to her all the probable symptoms, so as to keep her from being alarmed. Then he recommended to her to let no one approach her husband’s bed, and M. Galpin least of all.
This recommendation was not useless; for almost at the same moment a peasant came in to say that there was a man from Sauveterre at the door who wished to see the count.
“Show him in,” said the doctor; “I’ll speak to him.”
It was a man called Tetard, a former constable, who had given up his place, and become a dealer in stones. But besides being a former officer of justice and a merchant, as his cards told the world, he was also the agent of a fire insurance company. It was in this capacity that he presumed, as he told the countess, to present himself in person. He had been informed that the farm buildings at Valpinson, which were insured in his company, had been destroyed by fire; that they had been purposely set on fire by M. de Boiscoran; and that he wished to confer with Count Claudieuse on the subject. Far from him, he added, to decline the responsibility of his company: he only wished to establish the facts which would enable him to fall back upon M. de Boiscoran, who was a man of fortune, and would certainly be condemned to make compensation for the injury done. For this purpose, certain formalities had to be attended to; and he had come to arrange with Count Claudieuse the necessary measures.
“And I,” said Dr. Seignebos,—“I request you to take to your heels.” He added with a thundering voice,—
“I think you are very bold to dare to speak in that way of M. de Boiscoran.”
M. Tetard disappeared without saying another word; and the doctor, very much excited by this scene, turned to the youngest daughter of the countess, the one with whom she was sitting up when the fire broke out, and who was now decidedly better: after that nothing could keep him at Valpinson. He carefully pocketed the pieces of lead which he had taken from the count’s wounds, and then, drawing the countess out to the door, he said,—
“Before I go away, madam, I should like to know what you think of these events.”
The poor lady, who looked as pale as death itself, could hardly hold up any longer. There seemed to be nothing alive in her but her eyes, which were lighted up with unusual brilliancy.
“Ah! I do not know, sir,” she replied in a feeble voice. “How can I collect my thoughts after such terrible shocks?”
“Still you questioned Cocoleu.”
“Who would not have done so, when the truth was at stake?”
“And you were not surprised at the name he mentioned?”
“You must have seen, sir.”
“I saw; and that is exactly why I ask you, and why I want to know what you really think of the state of mind of the poor creature.”
“Don’t you know that he is idiotic?”
“I know; and that is why I was so surprised to see you insist upon making him talk. Do you really think, that, in spite of his habitual imbecility, he may have glimpses of sense?”
“He had, a few moments before, saved my children from death.”
“That proves his devotion for you.”
“He is very much attached to me indeed, just like a poor animal that I might have picked up and cared for.”
“Perhaps so. And still he showed more than mere animal instinct.”
“That may well be so. I have more than once noticed flashes of intelligence in Cocoleu.”
The doctor had taken off his spectacles, and was wiping them furiously.
“It is a great pity that one of these flashes of intelligence did not enlighten him when he saw M. de Boiscoran make a fire and get ready to murder Count Claudieuse.”
The countess leaned against the door-posts, as if about to faint.
“But it is exactly to his excitement at the sight of the flames, and at hearing the shots fired, that I ascribe Cocoleu’s return to reason.”
“May be,” said the doctor, “may be.”
Then putting on his spectacles again, he added,—
“That is a question to be decided by the professional men who will have to examine the poor imbecile creature.”
“What! Is he going to be examined?”
“Yes, and very thoroughly, madam, I tell you. And now I have the honor of wishing you good-bye. However, I shall come back to-night, unless you should succeed during the day in finding lodgings in Sauveterre,—an arrangement which would be very desirable for myself, in the first place, and not less so for your husband and your daughter. They are not comfortable in this cottage.”
Thereupon he lifted his hat, returned to town, and immediately asked M. Seneschal in the most imperious manner to have Cocoleu arrested. Unfortunately the gendarmes had been unsuccessful; and Dr. Seignebos, who saw how unfortunate all this was for Jacques, began to get terribly impatient, when on Saturday night, towards ten o’clock, M. Seneschal came in, and said,—
“Cocoleu is found.”
The doctor jumped up, and in a moment his hat on his head, and stick in hand, asked,—
“Where is he?”
“At the hospital. I have seen him myself put into a separate room.”
“I am going there.”
“What, at this hour?”
“Am I not one of the hospital physicians? And is it not open to me by night and by day?”
“The sisters will be in bed.”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders furiously; then he said,—
“To be sure, it would be a sacrilege to break the slumbers of these good sisters, these dear sisters, as you say. Ah, my dear mayor! When shall we have laymen for our hospitals? And when will you put good stout nurses in the place of these holy damsels?”
M. Seneschal had too often discussed that subject with the doctor, to open it anew. He kept silent, and that was wise; for Dr. Seignebos sat down, saying,—
“Well, I must wait till to-morrow.”
VI.
“The hospital in Sauveterre,” says the guide book, “is, in spite of its limited size, one of the best institutions of the kind in the department. The chapel and the new additions were built at the expense of the Countess de Maupaison, the widow of one of the ministers of Louis Philippe.”
But what the guide book does not say is, that the hospital was endowed with three free beds for pregnant women, by Mrs. Seneschal, or that the two wings on both sides of the great entrance-gate have also been built by her liberality. One of these wings, the one on the right, is used by the janitor, a fine-looking old man, who formerly was beadle at the cathedral, and who loves to think of the happy days when he added to the splendor of the church by his magnificent presence, his red uniform, his gold bandelaire, his halbert, and his gold-headed cane.
This janitor was, on Sunday morning, a little before eight o’clock, smoking his pipe in the yard, when he saw Dr. Seignebos coming in. The doctor was walking faster than usual, his hat over his face, and his hands thrust deep into his pockets, evident signs of a storm. Instead of coming, as he did every day before making the rounds, into the office of the sister-druggist, he went straight up to the room of the lady superior. There, after the usual salutations, he said,—
“They have no doubt brought you, my sister, last night, a patient, an idiot, called Cocoleu?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Where has he been put?”
“The mayor saw him himself put into the little room opposite the linen room.”
“And how did he behave?”
“Perfectly well: the sister who kept the watch did not hear him stir.”
“Thanks, my sister!” said Dr. Seignebos.
He was already in the door, when the lady superior recalled him.
“Are you going to see the poor man, doctor?” she asked.
“Yes, my sister; why?”
“Because you cannot see him.”
“I cannot?”
“No. The commonwealth attorney has sent us orders not to let any one, except the sister who nurses him, come near Cocoleu,—no one, doctor, not even the physician, a case of urgency, of course, excepted.”
Dr. Seignebos smiled ironically. Then he said, laughing scornfully,—
“Ah, these are your orders, are they? Well, I tell you that I do not mind them in the least. Who can prevent me from seeing my patient? Tell me that! Let the commonwealth attorney give his orders in his court-house as much as he chooses: that is all right. But in my hospital! My sister, I am going to Cocoleu’s room.”
“Doctor, you cannot go there. There is a gendarme at the door.”
“A gendarme?”
“Yes, he came this morning with the strictest orders.”
For a moment the doctor was overcome. Then he suddenly broke out with unusual violence, and a voice that made the windows shake,—
“This is unheard of! This is an abominable abuse of power! I’ll have my rights, and justice shall be done me, if I have to go to Thiers!”
Then he rushed out without ceremony, crossed the yard, and disappeared like an arrow, in the direction of the court-house. At that very moment M. Daubigeon was getting up, feeling badly because he had had a bad, sleepless night, thanks to this unfortunate affair of M. de Boiscoran, which troubled him sorely; for he was almost of M. Galpin’s opinion. In vain he recalled Jacques’s noble character, his well-known uprightness, his keen sense of honor, the evidence was so strong, so overwhelming! He wanted to doubt; but experience told him that a man’s past is no guarantee for his future. And, besides, like many great criminal lawyers, he thought, what he would never have ventured to say openly, that some great criminals act while they are under the influence of a kind of vertigo, and that this explains the stupidity of certain crimes committed by men of superior intelligence.
Since his return from Boiscoran, he had kept close in his house; and he had just made up his mind not to leave the house that day, when some one rang his bell furiously. A moment later Dr. Seignebos fell into the room like a bombshell.
“I know what brings you, doctor,” said M. Daubigeon. “You come about that order I have given concerning Cocoleu.”
“Yes, indeed, sir! That order is an insult.”
“I have been asked to give it as a matter of necessity, by M. Galpin.”
“And why did you not refuse? You alone are responsible for it in my eyes. You are commonwealth attorney, consequently the head of the bar, and superior to M. Galpin.”
M. Daubigeon shook his head and said,—
“There you are mistaken, doctor. The magistrate in such a case is independent of myself and of the court. He is not even bound to obey the attorney-general, who can make suggestions to him, but cannot give him orders. M. Galpin, in his capacity as examining magistrate, has his independent jurisdiction, and is armed with almost unlimited power. No one in the world can say so well as an examining magistrate what the poet calls,—
“‘Such is my will, such are my orders, and my will is sufficient.’
“‘Hoc volo, hoc jubeo, sit pro ratione voluntas.’”
For once Dr. Seignebos seemed to be convinced by M. Daubigeon’s words. He said,—
“Then, M. Galpin has even the right to deprive a sick man of his physician’s assistance.”
“If he assumes the responsibility, yes. But he does not mean to go so far. He was, on the contrary, about to ask you, although it is Sunday, to come and be present at a second examination of Cocoleu. I am surprised that you have not received his note, and that you did not meet him at the hospital.”
“Well, I am going at once.”
And he went back hurriedly, and was glad he had done so; for at the door of the hospital he came face to face against M. Galpin, who was just coming in, accompanied by his faithful clerk, Mechinet.
“You came just in time, doctor,” began the magistrate, with his usual solemnity.
But, short and rapid as the doctor’s walk had been, it had given him time to reflect, and to grow cool. Instead of breaking out into recriminations, he replied in a tone of mock politeness,—
“Yes, I know. It is that poor devil to whom you have given a gendarme for a nurse. Let us go up: I am at your service.”
The room in which Cocoleu had been put was large, whitewashed, and empty, except that a bed, a table and two chairs, stood about. The bed was no doubt a good one; but the idiot had taken off the mattress and the blankets, and lain down in his clothes on the straw bed. Thus the magistrate and the physician found him as they entered. He rose at their appearance; but, when he saw the gendarme, he uttered a cry, and tried to hide under the bed. M. Galpin ordered the gendarme to pull him out again. Then he walked up to him, and said,—
“Don’t be afraid, Cocoleu. We want to do you no harm; only you must answer our questions. Do you recollect what happened the other night at Valpinson?”
Cocoleu laughed,—the laugh of an idiot,—but he made no reply. And then, for a whole hour, begging, threatening, and promising by turns, the magistrate tried in vain to obtain one word from him. Not even the name of the Countess Claudieuse had the slightest effect. At last, utterly out of patience, he said,—
“Let us go. The wretch is worse than a brute.”
“Was he any better,” asked the doctor, “when he denounced M. de Boiscoran?”
But the magistrate pretended not to hear; and, when they were about to leave the room, he said to the doctor,—
“You know that I expect your report, doctor?”
“In forty-eight hours I shall have the honor to hand it to you,” replied the latter.
But as he went off, he said half aloud,—
“And that report is going to give you some trouble, my good man.”
The report was ready then, and his reason for not giving it in, was that he thought, the longer he could delay it, the more chance he would probably have to defeat the plan of the prosecution.
“As I mean to keep it two days longer,” he thought on his way home, “why should I not show it to this Paris lawyer who has come down with the marchioness? Nothing can prevent me, as far as I see, since that poor Galpin, in his utter confusion, has forgotten to put me under oath.”
But he paused. According to the laws of medical jurisprudence, had he the right, or not, to communicate a paper belonging to the case to the counsel of the accused? This question troubled him; for, although he boasted that he did not believe in God, he believed firmly in professional duty, and would have allowed himself to be cut in pieces rather than break its laws.
“But I have clearly the right to do so,” he growled. “I can only be bound by my oath. The authorities are clear on that subject. I have in my favor the decisions of the Court of Appeals of 27 November, and 27 December, 1828; those of the 13th June, 1835; of the 3d May, 1844; of the 26th June, 1866.”
The result of this mediation was, that, as soon as he had breakfasted, he put his report in his pocket, and went by side streets to M. de Chandore’s house. The marchioness and the two aunts were still at church, where they had thought it best to show themselves; and there was no one in the sitting-room but Dionysia, the old baron, and M. Folgat. The old gentleman was very much surprised to see the doctor. The latter was his family physician, it is true; but, except in cases of sickness, the two never saw each other, their political opinions were so very different.
“If you see me here,” said the physician, still in the door, “it is simply because, upon my honor and my conscience, I believe M. Boiscoran is innocent.”
Dionysia would have liked to embrace the doctor for these words of his; and with the greatest eagerness she pushed a large easy-chair towards him, and said in her sweetest voice,—
“Pray sit down, my dear doctor.”
“Thanks,” he answered bruskly. “I am very much obliged to you.” Then turning to M. Folgat, he said, according to his odd notion,—
“I am convinced that M. Boiscoran is the victim of his republican opinions which he has so boldly professed; for, baron, your future son-in-law is a republican.”
Grandpapa Chandore did not move. If they had come and told him Jacques had been a member of the Commune, he would not have been any more moved. Dionysia loved Jacques. That was enough for him.
“Well,” the doctor went on, “I am a Radical, I, M.”—
“Folgat,” supplied the young lawyer.
“Yes, M. Folgat, I am a Radical; and it is my duty to defend a man whose political opinions so closely resemble mine. I come, therefore, to show you my medical report, if you can make any use of it in your defence of M. Boiscoran, or suggest to me any ideas.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the young man. “That is a very valuable service.”
“But let us understand each other,” said the physician earnestly. “If I speak of listening to your suggestions, I take it for granted that they are based upon facts. If I had a son, and he was to die on the scaffold I would not use the slightest falsehood to save him.”
He had, meanwhile, drawn the report from a pocket in his long coat, and now put in on the table with these words,—
“I shall call for it again to-morrow morning. In the meantime you can think it over. I should like, however, to point out to you the main point, the culminating point, if I may say so.”
At all events he was “saying so” with much hesitation, and looking fixedly at Dionysia as if to make her understand that he would like her to leave the room. Seeing that she did not take the hint, he added,—
“A medical and legal discussion would hardly interest the young lady.”
“Why, sir, why, should I not be deeply, passionately, interested in any thing that regards the man who is to be my husband?”
“Because ladies are generally very sensational,” said the doctor uncivilly, “very sensitive.”
“Don’t think so, doctor. For Jacques’s sake, I promise you I will show you quite masculine energy.”
The doctor knew Dionysia well enough to see that she did not mean to go: so he growled,—
“As you like it.”
Then, turning again to M. Folgat, he said,—
“You know there were two shots fired at Count Claudieuse. One, which hit him in the side, nearly missed him; the other, which struck his shoulder and his neck, hit well.”
“I know,” said the advocate.
“The difference in the effect shows that the two shots were fired from different distances, the second much nearer than the first.”
“I know, I know!”
“Excuse me. If I refer to these details, it is because they are important. When I was sent for in the middle of the night to come and see Count Claudieuse, I at once set to work extracting the particles of lead that had lodged in his flesh. While I was thus busy, M. Galpin arrived. I expected he would ask me to show him the shot: but no, he did not think of it; he was too full of his own ideas. He thought only of the culprit, ofhisculprit. I did not recall to him the A B C of his profession: that was none of my business. The physician has to obey the directions of justice, but not to anticipate them.”
“Well, then?”
“Then M. Galpin went off to Boiscoran, and I completed my work. I have extracted fifty-seven shot from the count’s wound in the side, and a hundred and nine from the wound on the shoulder and the neck; and, when I had done that, do you know what I found out?”
He paused, waiting to see the effect of his words; and, when everybody’s attention seemed to him fully roused, he went on,—
“I found out that the shot in the two wounds was not alike.”
M. de Chandore and M. Folgat exclaimed at one time,—
“Oh!”
“The shot that was first fired,” continued Dr. Seignebos, “and which has touched the side, is the very smallest sized ‘dust.’ That in the shoulder, on the other hand, is quite large sized, such as I think is used in shooting hares. However, I have some samples.”
And with these words, he opened a piece of white paper, in which were ten or twelve pieces of lead, stained with coagulated blood, and showing at once a considerable difference in size. M. Folgat looked puzzled.
“Could there have been two murderers?” he asked half aloud.
“I rather think,” said M. de Chandore, “that the murderer had, like many sportsmen, one barrel ready for birds, and another for hares or rabbits.”
“At all events, this fact puts all premeditation out of question. A man does not load his gun with small-shot in order to commit murder.”
Dr. Seignebos thought he had said enough about it, and was rising to take leave, when M. de Chandore asked him how Count Claudieuse was doing.
“He is not doing well,” replied the doctor. “The removal, in spite of all possible precautions, has worn him out completely; for he is here in Sauveterre since yesterday, in a house which M. Seneschal has rented for him provisionally. He has been delirious all night through; and, when I came to see him this morning, I do not think he knew me.”
“And the countess?” asked Dionysia.
“The countess, madam, is quite as sick as her husband, and, if she had listened to me, she would have gone to bed, too. But she is a woman of uncommon energy, who derives from her affection for her husband an almost incomprehensible power of resistance. As to Cocoleu,” he added, standing already near the door, “an examination of his mental condition might produce results which no one seems to expect now. But we will talk of that hereafter. And now, I must bid you all good-by.”
“Well?” asked Dionysia and M. de Chandore, as soon as they had heard the street door close behind Dr. Seignebos.
But M. Folgat’s enthusiasm had cooled off very rapidly.
“Before giving an opinion,” he said cautiously, “I must study the report of this estimable doctor.”
Unfortunately, the report contained nothing that the doctor had not mentioned. In vain did the young advocate try all the afternoon to find something in it that might be useful for the defence. There were arguments in it, to be sure, which might be very valuable when the trial should come on, but nothing that could be used to make the prosecution give up the case.
The whole house was, therefore, cruelly disappointed and dejected, when, about five o’clock, old Anthony came in from Boiscoran. He looked very sad, and said,—
“I have been relieved of my duties. At two o’clock M. Galpin came to take off the seals. He was accompanied by his clerk Mechinet, and brought Master Jacques with him, who was guarded by two gendarmes in citizen’s clothes. When the room was opened, that unlucky man Galpin asked Master Jacques if those were the clothes which he wore the night of the fire, his boots, his gun, and the water in which he washed his hands. When he had acknowledged every thing, the water was carefully poured into a bottle, which they sealed, and handed to one of the gendarmes. Then they put master’s clothes in a large trunk, his gun, several parcels of cartridge, and some other articles, which the magistrate said were needed for the trial. That trunk was sealed like the bottle, and put on the carriage; then that man Galpin went off, and told me that I was free.”
“And Jacques,” Dionysia asked eagerly,—“how did he look?”
“Master, madam, laughed contemptuously.”
“Did you speak to him?” asked M. Folgat.
“Oh, no, sir! M. Galpin would not allow me.”
“And did you have time to look at the gun?”
“I could but just glance at the lock.”
“And what did you see?”
The brow of the old servant grew still darker, as he replied sadly,—
“I saw that I had done well to keep silent. The lock is black. Master must have used his gun since I cleaned it.”
Grandpapa Chandore and M. Folgat exchanged looks of distress. One more hope was lost.
“Now,” said the young lawyer, “tell me how M. de Boiscoran usually charged his gun.”
“He used cartridges, sir, of course. They sent him, I think, two thousand with the gun,—some for balls, some with large shot, and others with shot of every size. At this season, when hunting is prohibited, master could shoot nothing but rabbits, or those little birds, you know, which come to our marshes: so he always loaded one barrel with tolerably large shot, and the other with small-shot.”
But he stopped suddenly, shocked at the impression which his statement seemed to produce. Dionysia cried,—
“That is terrible! Every thing is against us!”
M. Folgat did not give her time to say any more. He asked,—
“My dear Anthony, did M. Galpin take all of your master’s cartridges away with him?”
“Oh, no! certainly not.”
“Well, you must instantly go back to Boiscoran, and bring me three or four cartridges of every number of shot.”
“All right,” said the old man. “I’ll be back in a short time.”
He started immediately; and, thanks to his great promptness, he reappeared at seven o’clock, at the moment when the family got up from dinner, and put a large package of cartridges on the table.
M. de Chandore and M. Folgat had quickly opened some of them; and, after a few failures, they found two numbers of shot which seemed to correspond exactly to the samples left them by the doctor.
“There is an incomprehensible fatality in all this,” said the old gentleman in an undertone.
The young lawyer, also, looked discouraged.
“It is madness,” he said, “to try to establish M. de Boiscoran’s innocence without having first communicated with him.”
“And if you could do so to-morrow?” asked Dionysia.
“Then, madam, he might give us the key to this mystery, which we are in vain trying to solve; or, at least, he might tell us the way to find it all out. But that is not to be thought of. M. de Boiscoran is held in close confinement, and you may rest assured M. Galpin will see to it that no communication is held with his prisoner.”
“Who knows?” said the young girl.
And immediately she drew M. de Chandore aside into one of the little card-rooms adjoining the parlor, and asked him,—
“Grandpapa, am I rich?”
Never in her life had she thought of that, and she was to a certain extent utterly ignorant of the value of money.
“Yes, you are rich, my child,” replied the old gentleman.
“How much do I have?”
“You have in your own right, as coming to you from your poor father and from your mother, twenty-five thousand francs a year, or a capital of about five hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
“And is that a good deal?”
“It is so much, that you are one of the richest heiresses of the district; but you have, besides, considerable expectations.”
Dionysia was so preoccupied, that she did not even protest. She went on asking,—
“What do they call here to be well off?”
“That depends, my child. If you will tell me”—
She interrupted him, putting down her foot impatiently, saying,—
“Nothing. Please answer me!”
“Well, in our little town, an income of eight hundred or a thousand francs makes anybody very well off.”
“Let us say a thousand.”
“Well, a thousand would make a man very comfortable.”
“And what capital would produce such an income?”
“At five per cent, it would take twenty thousand francs.”
“That is to say, about the income of a year.”
“Exactly.”
“Never mind. I presume that is quite a large sum, and it would be rather difficult for you, grandpapa, to get it together by to-morrow morning?”
“Not at all. I have that much in railway coupon-bonds; and they are just as good as current money.”
“Ah! Do you mean to say, that, if I gave anybody twenty thousand francs in such bonds, it would be just the same to him as if I gave him twenty thousand francs in bank-notes?”
“Just so.”
Dionysia smiled. She thought she saw light. Then she went on,—
“If that is so, I must beg you, grandpapa, to give me twenty thousand francs in coupon-bonds.”
The old gentleman started.
“You are joking,” he said. “What do you want with so much money? You are surely joking.”
“Not at all. I have never in my life been more serious,” replied the young girl in a tone of voice which could not be mistaken. “I beseech you, grandpapa, if you love me, give me these twenty thousand francs this evening, right now. You hesitate? O God! You may kill me if you refuse.”
No, M. de Chandore was hesitating no longer.
“Since you will have it so,” he said, “I am going up stairs to get it.”
She clapped her hands with joy.
“That’s it,” she said. “Make haste and dress; for I have to go out, and you must go with me.”
Then going up to her aunts and the marchioness, she said to them,—
“I hope you will excuse me, if I leave you; but I must go out.”
“At this hour?” cried Aunt Elizabeth. “Where are you going?”
“To my dressmakers, the Misses Mechinet. I want a dress.”
“Great God!” cried Aunt Adelaide, “the child is losing her mind!”
“I assure you I am not, aunt.”
“Then let me go with you.”
“Thank you, no. I shall go alone; that is to say, alone with dear grandpapa.”
And as M. de Chandore came back, his pockets full of bonds, his hat on his head, and his cane in his hand, she carried him off, saying,—
“Come, quick, dear grandpapa, we are in a great hurry.”
VII.
Although M. de Chandore was literally worshipping his grandchild on his knees, and had transferred all his hopes and his affections to her who alone survived of his large family, he had still had his thoughts when he went up stairs to take from his money-box so large a sum of money. As soon, therefore, as they were outside of the house, he said,—
“Now that we are alone, my dear child, will you tell me what you mean to do with all this money?”
“That is my secret,” she replied.
“And you have not confidence enough in your old grandfather to tell him what it is, darling?”
He stopped a moment; but she drew him on, saying,—
“You shall know it all, and in less than an hour. But, oh! You must not be angry, grandpapa. I have a plan, which is no doubt very foolish. If I told you, I am afraid you would stop me; and if you succeeded, and then something happened to Jacques, I should not survive the misery. And think of it, what you would feel, if you were to think afterwards, ‘If I had only let her have her way!’”
“Dionysia, you are cruel!”
“On the other hand, if you did not induce me to give up my project, you would certainly take away all my courage; and I need it all, I tell you, grandpapa, for what I am going to risk.”
“You see, my dear child, and you must pardon me for repeating it once more, twenty thousand francs are a big sum of money; and there are many excellent and clever people who work hard, and deny themselves every thing, a whole life long, without laying up that much.”
“Ah, so much the better!” cried the young girl. “So much the better. I do hope there will be enough so as to meet with no refusal!”
Grandpapa Chandore began to comprehend.
“After all,” he said, “you have not told me where we are going.”
“To my dressmakers.”
“To the Misses Mechinet?”
“Yes.”
M. de Chandore was sure now.
“We shall not find them at home,” he said. “This is Sunday; and they are no doubt at church.”
“We shall find them, grandpapa; for they always take tea at half-past seven, for their brother’s, the clerk’s sake. But we must make haste.”
The old gentleman did make haste; but it is a long way from the New-Market Place to Hill Street; for the sisters Mechinet lived on the Square, and, if you please, in a house of their own,—a house which was to be the delight of their days, and which had become the trouble of their nights.
They bought the house the year before the war, upon their brother’s advice, and going halves with him, paying a sum of forty-seven thousand francs, every thing included. It was a capital bargain; for they rented out the basement and the first story to the first grocer in Sauveterre. The sisters did not think they were imprudent in paying down ten thousand francs in cash, and in binding themselves to pay the rest in three yearly instalments. The first year all went well; but then came the war and numerous disasters. The income of the sisters and of the brother was much reduced, and they had nothing to live upon but his pay as clerk; so that they had to use the utmost economy, and even contract some debts, in order to pay the second instalment. When peace came, their income increased again, and no one doubted in Sauveterre but that they would manage to get out of their difficulties, as the brother was one of the hardest working men, and the sisters were patronized by “the most distinguished” ladies of the whole country.
“Grandpapa, they are at home,” said Dionysia, when they reached the Square.
“Do you think so?”
“I am sure. I see light in their windows.”
M. de Chandore stopped.
“What am I to do next?” he asked.
“You are going to give me the bonds, grandpapa, and to wait for me here, walking up and down, whilst I am going to the Misses Mechinet. I would ask you to come up too; but they would be frightened at seeing you. Moreover, if my enterprise does not succeed, it would not matter much as long as it concerned only a little girl.”
The old gentleman’s last doubts began to vanish.
“You won’t succeed, my poor girl,” he said.
“O God!” she replied, checking her tears with difficulty, “why will you discourage me?”
He said nothing. Suppressing a sigh, he pulled the papers out of his pockets, and helped Dionysia to stuff them, as well as she could, into her pocket and a little bag she had in her hand. When she had done, she said,—
“Well, good-bye, grandpapa. I won’t be long.”
And lightly, like a bird, she crossed the street, and ran up to her dressmakers. The old ladies and their brother were just finishing their supper, which consisted of a small piece of pork and a light salad, with an abundance of vinegar. At the unexpected entrance of Miss Chandore they all started up.
“You, miss,” cried the elder of the two,—“you!”
Dionysia understood perfectly well what that simple “you” meant. It meant, with the help of the tone of voice, “What? your betrothed is charged with an abominable crime; there is overwhelming evidence against him; he is in jail, in close confinement; everybody knows he will be tried at the assizes, and he will be condemned—and you are here?”
But Dionysia kept on smiling, as she had entered.
“Yes,” she replied, “it is I. I must have two dresses for next week; and I come to ask you to show me some samples.”
The Misses Mechinet, always acting upon their brother’s advice, had made an arrangement with a large house in Bordeaux, by which they received samples of all their goods, and were allowed a discount on whatever they sold.
“I will do so with pleasure,” said the older sister. “Just allow me to light a lamp. It is almost dark.”
While she was wiping the chimney, and trimming the wick, she asked her brother,—
“Are you not going to the Orpheon?”
“Not to-night,” he replied.
“Are you not expected to be there?”
“No: I sent them word I would not come. I have to lithograph two plates for the printer, and some very urgent copying to do for the court.”
While he was thus replying, he had folded up his napkin, and lighted a candle.
“Good-night!” he said to his sisters. “I won’t see you again to-night,” and, bowing deeply to Miss Chandore, he went out, his candle in his hand.
“Where is your brother going?” Dionysia asked eagerly.
“To his room, madam. His room is just opposite on the other side of the staircase.”
Dionysia was as red as fire. Was she thus to let her opportunity slip,—an opportunity such as she had never dared hope for? Gathering up all her courage, she said,—
“But, now I think of it, I want to say a few words to your brother, my dear ladies. Wait for me a moment. I shall be back in a moment.” And she rushed out, leaving the dressmakers stupefied, gazing after her with open mouths, and asking themselves if the grand calamity had bereft the poor lady of reason.
The clerk was still on the landing, fumbling in his pocket for the key of his room.
“I want to speak to you instantly,” said Dionysia.
Mechinet was so utterly amazed, that he could not utter a word. He made a movement as if he wanted to go back to his sisters; but the young girl said,—
“No, in your room. We must not be overheard. Open sir, please. Open, somebody might come.”
The fact is, he was so completely overcome, that it took him half a minute to find the keyhole, and put the key in. At last, when the door was opened, he moved aside to let Dionysia pass: but she said, “No, go in!”
He obeyed. She followed him, and, as soon as she was in the room, she shut the door again, pushing even a bolt which she had noticed. Mechinet the clerk was famous in Sauveterre for his coolness. Dionysia was timidity personified, and blushed for the smallest trifle, remaining speechless for some time. At this moment, however, it was certainly not the young girl who was embarrassed.
“Sit down, M. Mechinet,” she said, “and listen to me.”
He put his candlestick on a table, and sat down.
“You know me, don’t you?” asked Dionysia.
“Certainly I do, madam.”
“You have surely heard that I am to be married to M. de Boiscoran?”
The clerk started up, as if he had been moved by a spring, beat his forehead furiously with his hand, and said,—
“Ah, what a fool I was! Now I see.”
“Yes, you are right,” replied the girl. “I come to talk to you about M. de Boiscoran, my betrothed, my husband.”
She paused; and for a minute Mechinet and the young girl remained there face to face, silent and immovable, looking at each other, he asking himself what she could want of him, and she trying to guess how far she might venture.
“You can no doubt imagine, M. Mechinet, what I have suffered, since M. de Boiscoran has been sent to prison, charged with the meanest of all crimes!”
“Oh, surely, I do!” replied Mechinet.
And, carried away by his emotion, he added,—
“But I can assure you, madam, that I, who have been present at all the examinations, and who have no small experience in criminal matters,—that I believe M. de Boiscoran innocent. I know M. Galpin does not think so, nor M. Daubigeon, nor any of the gentlemen of the bar, nor the town; but, nevertheless, that is my conviction. You see, I was there when they fell upon M. de Boiscoran, asleep in his bed. Well, the very tone of his voice, as he cried out, ‘Oh, my dear Galpin!’ told me that the man is not guilty.”
“Oh, sir,” stammered Dionysia, “thanks, thanks!”
“There is nothing to thank me for, madam; for time has only confirmed my conviction. As if a guilty man ever bore himself as M. de Boiscoran does! You ought to have seen him just now, when we had gone to remove the seals, calm, dignified, answering coldly all the questions that were asked. I could not help telling M. Galpin what I thought. He said I was a fool. Well, I maintain, on the contrary, that he is. Ah! I beg your pardon, I mean that he is mistaken. The more I see of M. de Boiscoran, the more he gives me the impression that he has only a word to say to clear up the whole matter.”
Dionysia listened to him with such absorbing interest, that she well-nigh forgot why she had come.
“Then,” she asked, “you think M. de Boiscoran is not much overcome?”
“I should lie if I said he did not look sad, madam,” was the reply. “But he is not overcome. After the first astonishment, his presence of mind returned; and M. Galpin has in vain tried these three days by all his ingenuity and his cleverness”—
Here he stopped suddenly, like a drunken man who recovers his consciousness for a moment, and becomes aware that he has said too much in his cups. He exclaimed,—
“Great God! what am I talking about? For Heaven’s sake, madam, do not let anybody hear what I was led by my respectful sympathy to tell you just now.”