Within an Inch of His Life by Emile Gaboriau (latest novels to read txt) 📕

all events, I shall not have to reproach myself for having shrunk from a step which in my heart I thought it my duty to take.”

“Whatever may happen, be prudent, and do not allow yourself to get angry. Remember that a scene with her would compel us to change our whole line of defence, and that that is the only one which promises any success.”

“Oh, do not fear!”

Thereupon, shaking hands once more, they parted, M. Magloire returning to his house, and M. Folgat going up the street. It struck half-past five, and the young advocate hurried on for fear of being too late. He found them waiting for him to go to dinner; but, as he entered the room, he forgot all his excuses in his painful surprise at the mournful and dejected appearance of the prisoner’s friends and relatives.

“Have we any bad news?” he asked with a hesitating voice.

“The worst we had to fear,” replied the Marquis de Boiscoran. “We had all foreseen it; and still, as you see, it has surprised us all, like a clap of thunder.”

The young lawyer beat his forehead, and cried,—

“The court has ordered the trial!”

The marquis only bent his head, as if his voice, had failed him to answer the question.

“It is still a great secret,” said Dionysia; “and we only know it, thanks to the indiscretion of our kind, our devoted Mechinet. Jacques will have to appear before the Assizes.”

She was interrupted by a servant, who entered to announce that dinner was on the table.

They all went into the dining-room; but the last event made it well-nigh impossible for them to eat. Dionysia alone, deriving from feverish excitement an amazing energy, aided M. Folgat in keeping up the conversation. From her the young advocate learned that Count Claudieuse was decidedly worse, and that he would have received, in the day, the last sacrament, but for the decided opposition of Dr. Seignebos, who had declared that the slightest excitement might kill his patient.

“And if he dies,” said M. de Chandore, “that is the finishing stroke. Public opinion, already incensed against Jacques, will become implacable.”

However, the meal came to an end; and M. Folgat went up to Dionysia, saying,—

“I must beg of you, madam, to trust me with the key to the little garden-gate.”

She looked at him quite astonished.

“I have to see a detective secretly, who has promised me his assistance.”

“Is he here?”

“He came this morning.”

When Dionysia had handed him the key, M. Folgat hastened to reach the end of the garden; and, at the third stroke of nine o’clock, the minstrel of the New-Market Square, Goudar, pushed the little gate, and, his violin under his arm, slipped into the garden.

“A day lost!” he exclaimed, without thinking of saluting the young lawyer,—“a whole day; for I could do nothing till I had seen you.”

He seemed to be so angry, that M. Folgat tried to soothe him.

“Let me first of all compliment you on your disguise,” he said. But Goudar did not seem to be open to praise.

“What would a detective be worth if he could not disguise himself! A great merit, forsooth! And I tell you, I hate it! But I could not think of coming to Sauveterre in my own person, a detective. Ugh! Everybody would have run away; and what a pack of lies they would have told me! So I had to assume that hideous masquerade. To think that I once took six months’ lessons from a music-teacher merely to fit myself for that character! A wandering musician, you see, can go anywhere, and nobody is surprised; he goes about the streets, or he travels along the high-road; he enters into yards, and slips into houses; he asks alms: and in so doing, he accosts everybody, speaks to them, follows them. And as to my precious dialect, you must know I have been down here once for half a year, hunting up counterfeiters; and, if you don’t catch a provincial accent in six months, you don’t deserve belonging to the police. And I do belong to it, to the great distress of my wife, and to my own disgust.”

“If your ambition is really what you say, my dear, Goudar,” said M. Folgat, interrupting him, “you may be able to leave your profession very soon—if you succeed in saving M. de Boiscoran.”

“He would give me his house in Vine Street?”

“With all his heart!”

The detective looked up, and repeated slowly,—

“The house in Vine Street, the paradise of this world. An immense garden, a soil of marvellous beauty. And what an exposure! There are walls there on which I could raise finer peaches than they have at Montreuil, and richer Chasselas than those of Fontainebleau!”

“Did you find any thing there?” asked M. Folgat.

Goudar, thus recalled to business, looked angry again.

“Nothing at all,” he replied. “Nor did I learn any thing from the tradesmen. I am no further advanced than I was the first day.”

“Let us hope you will have more luck here.”

“I hope so; but I need your assistance to commence operations. I must see Dr. Seignebos, and Mechinet the clerk. Ask them to meet me at the place I shall assign in a note which I will send them.”

“I will tell them.”

“Now, if you want my incognito to be respected, you must get me a permit from the mayor, for Goudar, street-musician. I keep my name, because here nobody knows me. But I must have the permit this evening. Wherever I might present myself, asking for a bed, they would call for my papers.”

“Wait here for a quarter of an hour, there is a bench,” said M. Folgat, “and I’ll go at once to the mayor.”

A quarter of an hour later, Goudar had his permit in his pocket, and went to take lodgings at the Red Lamb, the worst tavern in all Sauveterre.

When a painful and inevitable duty is to be performed, the true character of a man is apt to appear in its true light. Some people postpone it as long as they can, and delay, like those pious persons who keep the biggest sin for the end of their confession: others, on the contrary, are in a hurry to be relieved of their anxiety, and make an end of it as soon as they can. M. Folgat belonged to this latter class.

Next morning he woke up at daylight, and said to himself,—

“I will call upon the Countess Claudieuse this morning.”

At eight o’clock, he left the house, dressed more carefully than usual, and told the servant that he did not wish to be waited for if he should