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

kind of stupor which deprived her even of the faculty of suffering.

It was bright daylight, it was eight o’clock, when she felt somebody pulling her sleeve. The jailer’s wife said to her,—

“My dear young lady, this would be a good time for you to slip away. Perhaps they will wonder to see you alone in the street; but they will think you are coming home from seven o’clock mass.”

Without saying a word, Dionysia jumped down, and in a moment she had arranged her hair and her dress. Then Blangin came, rather troubled at not seeing her leave the house; and she said to him, giving him one of the thousand-franc rolls that were still in her bag,—

“This is for you: I want you to remember me, if I should need you again.”

And, dropping her veil over her face, she went away.

XI.

Baron Chandore had had one terrible night in his life, every minute of which he had counted by the ebbing pulse of his only son.

The evening before, the physicians had said,—

“If he lives this night, he may be saved.”

At daybreak he had expired.

Well, the old gentleman had hardly suffered more during that fatal night than he did this night, during which Dionysia was away from the house. He knew very well that Blangin and his wife were honest people, in spite of their avarice and their covetousness; he knew that Jacques de Boiscoran was an honourable man.

But still, during the whole night, his old servant heard him walk up and down his room; and at seven o’clock in the morning he was at the door, looking anxiously up and down the street. Towards half-past seven, M. Folgat came up; but he hardly wished him good-morning, and he certainly did not hear a word of what the lawyer told him to reassure him. At last, however, the old man cried,—

“Ah, there she is!”

He was not mistaken. Dionysia was coming round the corner. She came up to the house in feverish haste, as if she had known that her strength was at an end, and would barely suffice to carry her to the door.

Grandpapa Chandore met her with a kind of fierce joy, pressed her in his arms, and said over and over again,—

“O Dionysia! Oh, my darling child, how I have suffered! How long you have been! But it is all over now. Come, come, come!”

And he almost carried her into the parlor, and put her down tenderly into a large easy-chair. He knelt down by her, smiling with happiness; but, when he had taken her hands in his, he said,—

“Your hands are burning. You have a fever!”

He looked at her: she had raised her veil.

“You are pale as death!” he went on. “Your eyes are red and swollen!”

“I have cried, dear papa,” she replied gently.

“Cried! Why?”

“Alas, I have failed!”

As if moved by a sudden shock, M. de Chandore started up, and cried,—

“By God’s holy name the like has not been heard since the world was made! What! you went, you Dionysia de Chandore, to him in his prison; you begged him”—

“And he remained inflexible. Yes, dear papa. He will say nothing till after the preliminary investigation is over.”

“We were mistaken in the man: he has no courage and no feeling.”

Dionysia had risen painfully, and said feebly,—

“Ah, dear papa! Do not blame him, do not accuse him! he is so unhappy!”

“But what reasons does he give?”

“He says the facts are so very improbable that he should certainly not be believed; and that he should ruin himself if he were to speak as long as he is kept in close confinement, and has no advocate. He says his position is the result of a wicked conspiracy. He says he thinks he knows the guilty one, and that he will denounce the person, since he is forced to do so in self-defence.”

M. Folgat, who had until now remained a silent witness of the scene, came up, and asked,—

“Are you quite sure, madam, that that was what M. de Boiscoran said?”

“Oh, quite sure, sir! And, if I lived a thousand years, I should never forget the look of his eyes, or the tone of his voice.”

M. de Chandore did not allow her to be interrupted again.

“But surely, my dear child, Jacques told you—you—something more precise?”

“No.”

“You did not ask him even what those improbable facts were?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Well?”

“He said that I was the very last person who could be told.”

“That man ought to be burnt over a slow fire,” said M. de Chandore to himself. Then he added in a louder voice,—

“And you do not think all this very strange, very extraordinary?”

“It seems to me horrible!”

“I understand. But what do you think of Jacques?”

“I think, dear papa, that he cannot act otherwise, or he would not do it. Jacques is too intelligent and too courageous to deceive himself easily. As he alone knows every thing, he alone can judge. I, of course, am bound to respect his will more than anybody else.”

But the old gentleman did not think himself bound to respect it; and, exasperated as he was by this resignation of his grandchild, he was on the point of telling her his mind fully, when she got up with some effort, and said, in an almost inaudible voice,—

“I am broken to pieces! Excuse me, grandpapa, if I go to my room.” She left the parlor. M. de Chandore accompanied her to the door, remained there till he had seen her get up stairs, where her maid was waiting for her, and then came back to M. Folgat.

“They are going to kill me, sir!” he cried, with an explosion of wrath and despair which was almost frightful in a man of his age. “She had in her eyes the same look that her mother had when she told me, after her husband’s death, ‘I shall not survive him.’ And she did not survive my poor son. And then I, old man, was left alone with that child; and who knows but she may have in her the germ of the same disease which killed her mother? Alone! And for these twenty years I have held my breath to listen if she is still breathing as naturally and regularly”—