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

“Blangin is taking all possible precautions against detection, although he is quite prepared for the worst. He has arranged it this way: To-morrow evening, at six o’clock, you will pass by the jail. The door will stand open, and Blangin’s wife, whom you know very well, as she has formerly been in your service, will be standing in the door. If she does not speak to you, you keep on: something has happened. If she does speak to you, go up to her, you, quite alone, and she will show you into a small room which adjoins her own. There you will stay till Blangin, perhaps at a late hour, thinks he can safely take you to M. de Boiscoran’s cell. When the interview is over, you come back into the little room, where a bed will be ready for you, and you spend the night there; for this is the hardest part of it: you cannot leave the prison till next day.”

This was certainly terrible; still, after a moment’s reflection, Dionysia said,—

“Never mind! I accept. Tell Blangin, M. Mechinet, that it is all right.”

That Dionysia should accept all the conditions of Blangin the jailer was perfectly natural; but to obtain M. de Chandore’s consent was a much more difficult task. The poor girl understood this so well, that, for the first time in her life, she felt embarrassed in her grandfather’s presence. She hesitated, she prepared her little speech, and she selected carefully her words. But in spite of all her skill, in spite of all the art with which she managed to present her strange request, M. de Chandore had no sooner understood her project than he exclaimed,—

“Never, never, never!”

Perhaps in his whole life the old gentleman had never expressed himself in so positive a manner. His brow had never looked so dark. Usually, when his granddaughter had a petition, his lips might say, “No;” but his eyes always said, “Yes.”

“Impossible!” he repeated, and in a tone of voice which seemed to admit of no reply.

Surely, in all these painful events, he had not spared himself, and he had so far done for Dionysia all that she could possibly expect of him. Her will had been his will. As she had prompted, he had said, “Yes,” or “No.” What more could he have said or done?

Without telling him what she was going to do with it, Dionysia had asked him for twenty thousand francs, and he had given them to her, however big the sum might be everywhere, however immense in a small town like Sauveterre. He was quite ready to give her as much again, or twice as much, without asking any more questions.

But for Dionysia to leave her home one evening at six o’clock, and not to return to it till the next morning—

“That I cannot permit,” he repeated.

But for Dionysia to spend a night in the Sauveterre jail, in order to have an interview with her betrothed, who was accused of incendiarism and murder; to remain there all night, alone, absolutely at the mercy of the jailer, a hard, coarse, covetous man—

“That I will never permit,” exclaimed the old gentleman once more.

Dionysia remained calm, and let the storm pass. When her grandfather became silent, she said,—

“But if I must?”

M. de Chandore shrugged his shoulders. She repeated in a louder tone,—

“If I must, in order to decide Jacques to abandon this system that will ruin him, to induce him to speak before the investigation is completed?”

“That is not your business, my child,” said the old gentleman.

“Oh!”

“That is the business of his mother, the Marchioness of Boiscoran. Whatever Blangin agrees to venture for your sake, he will do as well for her sake. Let the marchioness go and spend the night at the jail. I agree to that. Let her see her son. That is her duty.”

“But surely she will never shake Jacques’s resolution.”

“And you think you have more influence over him than his mother?”

“It is not the same thing, dear papa.”

“Never mind!”

This “never mind” of Grandpapa Chandore was as positive as his “impossible;” but he had begun to discuss the question, and to discuss means to listen to arguments on the other side.

“Do not insist, my dear child,” he said again. “My mind is made up; and I assure you”—

“Don’t say so, papa,” said the young girl.

And her attitude was so determined, and her voice so firm, that the old gentleman was quite overwhelmed for a moment.

“But, if I am not willing,” he said.

“You will consent, dear papa, you will certainly not force your little granddaughter, who loves you so dearly, to the painful necessity of disobeying you for the first time in her life.”

“Because, for the first time in her life I am not doing what my granddaughter wants me to do?”

“Dear papa, let me tell you.”

“Rather listen to me, poor child, and let me show you to what dangers, to what misfortunes, you expose yourself. To go and spend a night at this prison would be risking, understand me well, your honor,—that tender, delicate honor which is tarnished by a breath, which involves the happiness and the peace of your whole life.”

“But Jacques’s honor and life are at stake.”

“Poor imprudent girl! How do you know but he would be the very first to blame you cruelly for such a step?”

“He?”

“Men are made so: the most perfect devotion irritates them at times.”

“Be it so. I would rather endure Jacques’s unjust reproaches than the idea of not having done my duty.”

M. de Chandore began to despair.

“And if I were to beg you, Dionysia, instead of commanding. If your old grandfather were to beseech you on his knees to abandon your fatal project.”

“You would cause me fearful pain, dear papa: but it would be all in vain; for I must resist your prayers, as I must resist your orders.”

“Inexorable!” cried the old gentleman. “She is immovable!” And suddenly changing his tone, he cried,—

“But, after all, I am master here.”

“Dear papa, pray!”

“And since nothing can move you, I will speak to Mechinet, I will let Blangin know my will.”

Dionysia, turning as pale as death, but with burning eyes, drew back a step, and said,—

“If you