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

“And you, my good man, you get on your horse, and reassure the count. Tell them all to take courage, not to give up; we are coming to help them.”

But the peasant did not move.

“Before going back to Valpinson,” he said, “I have another commission to attend to in town.”

“Why? What is it?”

“I am to get the doctor to go back with me.”

“The doctor! Why? Has anybody been hurt?”

“Yes, master, Count Claudieuse.”

“How imprudent! I suppose he rushed into danger as usually.”

“Oh, no! He has been shot twice!”

The mayor of Sauveterre nearly dropped his candlestick.

“Shot! Twice!” he said. “Where? When? By whom?”

“Ah! I don’t know.”

“But”—

“All I can tell you is this. They have carried him into a little barn that was not on fire yet. There I saw him myself lying on the straw, pale like a linen sheet, his eyes closed, and bloody all over.”

“Great God! They have not killed him?”

“He was not dead when I left.”

“And the countess?”

“Our lady,” replied the peasant with an accent of profound veneration, “was in the barn on her knees by the count’s side, washing his wounds with fresh water. The two little ladies were there too.”

M. Seneschal trembled with excitement.

“It is a crime that has been committed, I suppose.”

“Why, of course!”

“But who did it? What was the motive?”

“Ah! that is the question.”

“The count is very passionate, to be sure, quite violent, in fact; but still he is the best and fairest of men, everybody knows that.”

“Everybody knows it.”

“He never did any harm to anybody.”

“That is what all say.”

“As for the countess”—

“Oh!” said the peasant eagerly, “she is the saint of saints.”

The mayor tried to come to some conclusion.

“The criminal, therefore, must be a stranger. We are overrun with vagabonds and beggars on the tramp. There is not a day on which a lot of ill-looking fellows do not appear at my office, asking for help to get away.”

The peasant nodded his head, and said,—

“That is what I think. And the proof of it is, that, as I came along, I made up my mind I would first get the doctor, and then report the crime at the police office.”

“Never mind,” said the mayor. “I will do that myself. In ten minutes I shall see the attorney of the Commonwealth. Now go. Don’t spare your horse, and tell your mistress that we are all coming after you.”

In his whole official career M. Seneschal had never been so terribly shocked. He lost his head, just as he did on that unlucky day, when, all of a sudden, nine hundred militia-men fell upon him, and asked to be fed and lodged. Without his wife’s help he would never have been able to dress himself. Still he was ready when his servant returned.

The good fellow had done all he had been told to do, and at that moment the beat of the drum was heard in the upper part of the town.

“Now, put the horse in,” said M. Seneschal: “let me find the carriage at the door when I come back.”

In the streets he found all in an uproar. At every window a head popped out, full of curiosity or terror; on all sides house doors were opened, and promptly closed again.

“Great God!” he thought, “I hope I shall find Daubigeon at home!” M. Daubigeon, who had been first in the service of the empire, and then in the service of the republic, was one of M. Seneschal’s best friends. He was a man of about forty years, with a cunning look in his eye, a permanent smile on his face, and a confirmed bachelor, with no small pride in his consistency. The good people of Sauveterre thought he did not look stern and solemn enough for his profession. To be sure he was very highly esteemed; but his optimism was not popular; they reproached him for being too kind-hearted, too reluctant to press criminals whom he had to prosecute, and thus prone to encourage evil-doers.

He accused himself of not being inspired with the “holy fire,” and, as he expressed it in his own way, “of robbing Themis of all the time he could, to devote it to the friendly Muses.” He was a passionate lover of fine books, rare editions, costly bindings, and fine illustrations; and much the larger part of his annual income of about ten thousand francs went to buying books. A scholar of the old-fashioned type, he professed boundless admiration for Virgil and Juvenal, but, above all, for Horace, and proved his devotion by constant quotations.

Roused, like everybody else in the midst of his slumbers, this excellent man hastened to put on his clothes, when his old housekeeper came in, quite excited, and told him that M. Seneschal was there, and wanted to see him.

“Show him in!” he said, “show him in!”

And, as soon as the mayor entered, he continued:—

“For you will be able to tell me the meaning of all this noise, this beating of drums,—

“‘Clamorque, virum, clangorque tubarum.’”

“A terrible misfortune has happened,” answered the mayor. From the tone of his voice one might have imagined it was he himself who had been afflicted; and the lawyer was so strongly impressed in this way, that he said,—

“My dear friend, what is the matter? Quid? Courage, my friend, keep cool! Remember that the poet advises us, in misfortune never to lose our balance of mind:—

“‘AEquam, memento, rebus in arduis, Sevare mentem.’”

“Incendiaries have set Valpinson on fire!” broke in the mayor.

“You do not say so? Great God!

“‘Jupiter, Quod verbum audio.’”

“More than that. Count Claudieuse has been shot, and by this time he is probably dead.”

“Oh!”

“You hear the drummer is beating the alarm. I am going to the fire; and I have only come here to report the matter officially to you, and to ask you to see to it that justice be done promptly and energetically.”