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

M. Daubigeon smiled sarcastically, and said, much more for the purpose of teasing his visitor than because he believed it himself,—

“Take care! do not trust appearances. You have to do with very clever people. I always told you Cocoleu is probably the mainspring of the whole case. The very fact that M. Gransiere will speak ought to make you tremble. If he should not succeed, he would, of course, blame you, and never forgive you in all his life. Now, you know he may fail. ‘There is many a slip between the cup and the lip.’

“And I am disposed to think with Villon,—

‘Nothing is so certain as uncertain things.’”

M. Galpin could tell very well that he should gain nothing by prolonging the discussion, and so he said,—

“Happen what may, I shall always know that my conscience supports me.”

Then he made great haste to take leave, lest an answer should come from M. Daubigeon. He went out; and as he descended the stairs, he said to himself,—

“It is losing time to reason with that old fogy who sees in the events of the day only so many opportunities for quotations.”

But he struggled in vain against his own feelings; he had lost his self-confidence. M. Daubigeon had revealed to him a new danger which he had not foreseen. And what a danger!—the resentment of one of the most eminent men of the French bar, one of those bitter, bilious men who never forgive. M. Galpin had, no doubt, thought of the possibility of failure, that is to say, of an acquittal; but he had never considered the consequences of such a check.

Who would have to pay for it? The prosecuting attorney first and foremost, because, in France, the prosecuting attorney makes the accusation a personal matter, and considers himself insulted and humiliated, if he misses his man.

Now, what would happen in such a case?

M. Gransiere, no doubt, would hold him responsible. He would say,—

“I had to draw my arguments from your part of the work. I did not obtain a condemnation, because your work was imperfect. A man like myself ought not to be exposed to such an humiliation, and, least of all, in a case which is sure to create an immense sensation. You do not understand your business.”

Such words were a public disgrace. Instead of the hoped-for promotion, they would bring him an order to go into exile, to Corsica, or to Algiers.

M. Galpin shuddered at the idea. He saw himself buried under the ruins of his castles in Spain. And, unluckily, he went once more over all the papers of the investigation, analyzing the evidence he had, like a soldier, who, on the eve of a battle, furbishes up his arms. However, he only found one objection, the same which M. Daubigeon had made,—what interest could Jacques have had in committing so great a crime?

“There,” he said, “is evidently the weak part of the armor; and I would do well to point it out to M. Gransiere. Jacques’s counsel are capable of making that the turning-point of their plea.”

And, in spite of all he had said to M. Daubigeon, he was very much afraid of the counsel for the defence. He knew perfectly well the prestige which M. Magloire derived from his integrity and disinterestedness. It was no secret to him, that a cause which M. Magloire espoused was at once considered a good cause. They said of him,—

“He may be mistaken; but whatever he says he believes.” He could not but have a powerful influence, therefore, not on judges who came into court with well-established opinions, but with jurymen who are under the influence of the moment, and may be carried off by the eloquence of a speech. It is true, M. Magloire did not possess that burning eloquence which thrills a crowd, but M. Folgat had it, and in an uncommon degree. M. Galpin had made inquiries; and one of his Paris friends had written to him,—

“Mistrust Folgat. He is a far more dangerous logician than Lachant, and possesses the same skill in troubling the consciences of jurymen, in moving them, drawing tears from them, and forcing them into an acquittal. Mind, especially, any incidents that may happen during the trial; for he has always some kind of surprise in reserve.”

“These are my adversaries,” thought M. Galpin. “What surprise, I wonder, is there in store for me? Have they really given up all idea of using Cocoleu?”

He had no reason for mistrusting his agent; and yet his apprehensions became so serious, that he went out of his way to look in at the hospital. The lady superior received him, as a matter of course, with all the signs of profound respect; and, when he inquired about Cocoleu, she added,—

“Would you like to see him?”

“I confess I should be very glad to do so.”

“Come with me, then.”

She took him into the garden, and there asked a gardener,—

“Where is the idiot?”

The man put his spade into the ground; and, with that affected reverence which characterizes all persons employed in a convent, he answered,—

“The idiot is down there in the middle avenue, mother, in his usual place, you know, which nothing will induce him to leave.”

M. Galpin and the lady superior found him there. They had taken off the rags which he wore when he was admitted, and put him into the hospital-dress, which was a large gray coat and a cotton cap. He did not look any more intelligent for that; but he was less repulsive. He was seated on the ground, playing with the gravel.

“Well, my boy,” asked M. Galpin, “how do you like this?”

He raised his inane face, and fixed his dull eye on the lady superior; but he made no reply.

“Would you like to go back to Valpinson?” asked the lawyer again. He shuddered, but did not open his lips.

“Look here,” said M. Galpin, “answer me, and I’ll give you a ten-cent piece.”

No: Cocoleu was at his play again.

“That is the way he is always,” declared the lady superior. “Since he is here, no one has ever gotten a word out of him. Promises, threats, nothing has any effect. One day I thought I would try an experiment; and, instead of letting him have his breakfast, I said to him, ‘You shall have nothing to eat till you say, “I am hungry.”’ At the end of twenty-four hours I had to let him have his pittance; for he would have starved himself sooner than utter a word.”

“What does Dr. Seignebos think of him?”

“The doctor does not want to hear his name mentioned,” replied the lady superior.

And, raising her eyes to heaven, she added,—