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

“But it is a question of life and death with Jacques, sir, with a friend.”

“And a fellow Republican, to be sure. But I cannot help you without abusing the confidence of the Countess Claudieuse.”

“Ah, sir! Has not that woman committed a crime for which M. de Boiscoran, though innocent, will be arraigned in court?”

“I think so; but still”—

He reflected a moment, and then suddenly snatched up his broad-brimmed hat, drew it over his head, and cried,—

“In fact, so much the worse for her! There are sacred interests which override every thing. Come!”

XXV.

Count Claudieuse and his wife had installed themselves, the day after the fire, in Mautrec Street. The house which the mayor had taken for them had been for more than a century in the possession of the great Julias family, and is still considered one of the finest and most magnificent mansions in Sauveterre.

In less than ten minutes Dr. Seignebos and M. Folgat had reached the house. From the street, nothing was visible but a tall wall, as old as the castle, according to the claims of archaeologists, and covered all over with a mass of wild flowers. In this wall there is a huge entrance-gate with folding-doors. During the day one-half is opened, and a light, low open-work railing put in, which rings a bell as soon as it is pushed open.

You then cross a large garden, in which a dozen statues, covered with green moss, are falling to pieces on their pedestals, overshadowed by magnificent old linden-trees. The house has only two stories. A large hall extends from end to end of the lower story; and at the end a wide staircase with stone steps and a superb iron railing leads up stairs. When they entered the hall, Dr. Seignebos opened a door on the right hand.

“Step in here and wait,” he said to M. Folgat. “I will go up stairs and see the count, whose room is in the second story, and I will send you the countess.”

The young advocate did as he was bid, and found himself in a large room, brilliantly lighted up by three tall windows that went down to the ground, and looked out upon the garden. This room must have been superb formerly. The walls were wainscoted with arabesques and lines in gold. The ceiling was painted, and represented a number of fat little angels sporting in a sky full of golden stars.

But time had passed its destroying hand over all this splendor of the past age, had half effaced the paintings, tarnished the gold of the arabesques, and faded the blue of the ceiling and the rosy little loves. Nor was the furniture calculated to make compensation for this decay. The windows had no curtains. On the mantelpiece stood a worn-out clock and half-broken candelabra; then, here and there, pieces of furniture that would not match, such as had been rescued from the fire at Valpinson,—chairs, sofas, arm-chairs, and a round table, all battered and blackened by the flames.

But M. Folgat paid little attention to these details. He only thought of the grave step on which he was venturing, and which he now only looked at in its full strangeness and extreme boldness. Perhaps he would have fled at the last moment if he could have done so; and he was only able by a supreme effort to control his excitement.

At last he heard a rapid, light step in the hall; and almost immediately the Countess Claudieuse appeared. He recognized her at once, such as Jacques had described her to him, calm, serious, and serene, as if her soul were soaring high above all human passions. Far from diminishing her exquisite beauty, the terrible events of the last months had only surrounded her, as it were, with a divine halo. She had fallen off a little, however. And the dark semicircle under her eyes, and the disorder of her hair, betrayed the fatigue and the anxiety of the long nights which she had spent by her husband’s bedside.

As M. Folgat was bowing, she asked,—

“You are M. de Boiscoran’s counsel?”

“Yes, madam,” replied the young advocate.

“The doctor tells me you wish to speak to me.”

“Yes, madam.”

With a queenly air, she pointed to a chair, and, sitting down herself, she said,—

“I hear, sir.”

M. Folgat began with beating heart, but a firm voice,—

“I ought, first of all, madam, to state to you my client’s true position.”

“That is useless, sir. I know.”

“You know, madam, that he has been summoned to trial, and that he may be condemned?”

She shook her head with a painful movement, and said very softly,—

“I know, sir, that Count Claudieuse has been the victim of a most infamous attempt at murder; that he is still in danger, and that, unless God works a miracle, I shall soon be without a husband, and my children without a father.”

“But M. de Boiscoran is innocent, madam.”

The features of the countess assumed an expression of profound surprise; and, looking fixedly at M. Folgat, she said,—

“And who, then, is the murderer?”

Ah! It cost the young advocate no small effort to prevent his lips from uttering the fatal word, “You,” prompted by his indignant conscience. But he thought of the success of his mission; and, instead of replying, he said,—

“To a prisoner, madam, to an unfortunate man on the eve of judgment, an advocate is a confessor, to whom he tells every thing. I must add that the counsel of the accused is like a priest: he must forget the secrets which have been confided to him.”

“I do not understand, sir.”

“My client, madam, had a very simple means to prove his innocence. He had only to tell the truth. He has preferred risking his own honor rather than to betray the honor of another person.”

The countess looked impatient, and broke in, saying,—

“My moments are counted, sir. May I beg you will be more explicit?”

But M. Folgat had gone as far as he well could go.

“I am desired by M. de Boiscoran, madam, to hand you a letter.”

The Countess Claudieuse seemed to be overwhelmed with surprise.

“To me?” she said. “On what ground?”

Without saying a word, M. Folgat drew Jacques’s letter from his portfolio, and handed it to her.

“Here it is!” he said.

She took it with a perfectly steady hand, and opened it slowly. But, as soon as she had run her eye over it, she