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

“Whom else should I accuse? A crime has been committed, and under such circumstances that it cannot have been committed by any one except by her or by myself. I am innocent: consequently she is guilty.”

“Why did you not say so at once?”

Jacques shrugged his shoulders, and replied in a tone of bitter irony,—

“How many times, and in how many ways, do you want me to give you my reasons? I kept silent the first day, because I did not then know the circumstances of the crime, and because I was reluctant to accuse a woman who had given me her love, and who had become criminal from passion; because, in fine, I did not think at that time that I was in danger. After that I kept silent because I hoped justice would be able to discover the truth, or the countess would be unable to bear the idea that I, the innocent one, should be accused. Still later, when I saw my danger, I was afraid.”

The advocates’ feelings seemed to be revolted. He broke in,—

“You do not tell the truth, Jacques; and I will tell you why you kept silent. It is very difficult to make up a story which is to account for every thing. But you are a clever man: you thought it over, and you made out a story. There is nothing lacking in it, except probability. You might tell me that the Countess Claudieuse has unfairly enjoyed the reputation of a saint, and that she has given you her love; perhaps I might be willing to believe it. But when you say she has set her own house on fire, and taken up a gun to shoot her husband, that I can never, never admit.”

“Still it is the truth.”

“No; for the evidence of Count Claudieuse is precise. He has seen his murderer; it was a man who fired at him.”

“And who tells you that Count Claudieuse does not know all, and wants to save his wife, and ruin me? There would be a vengeance for him.”

The objection took the advocate by surprise; but he rejected it at once, and said,—

“Ah! be silent, or prove.”

“All the letters are burned.”

“When one has been a woman’s lover for five years, there are always proofs.”

“But you see there are none.”

“Do not insist,” repeated M. Magloire.

And, in a voice full of pity and emotion, he added,—

“Unhappy man! Do you not feel, that, in order to escape from one crime, you are committing another which is a thousand times worse?”

Jacques stood wringing his hand, and said—

“It is enough to drive me mad.”

“And even if I, your friend,” continued M. Magloire, “should believe you, how would that help you? Would any one else believe it? Look here I will tell you exactly what I think. Even if I were perfectly sure of all the facts you mention, I should never plead them in my defence, unless I had proofs. To plead them, understand me well, would be to ruin yourself inevitably.”

“Still they must be pleaded; for they are the truth.”

“Then,” said M. Magloire, “you must look for another advocate.”

And he went toward the door. He was on the point of leaving, when Jacques cried out, almost in agony,—

“Great God, he forsakes me!”

“No,” replied the advocate; “but I cannot discuss matters with you in the state of excitement in which you now are. You will think it over, and I will come again to-morrow.”

He left; and Jacques de Boiscoran fell, utterly undone, on one of the prison chairs.

“It is all over,” he stammered: “I am lost.”

XV.

During all this time, they were suffering intense anxiety at M. de Chandore’s house. Ever since eight o’clock in the morning the two aunts, the old gentleman, the marchioness, and M. Folgat had been assembled in the dining-room, and were there waiting for the result of the interview. Dionysia had only come down later; and her grandfather could not help noticing that she had dressed more carefully than usual.

“Are we not going to see Jacques again?” she replied with a smile full of confidence and joy.

She had actually persuaded herself that one word from Jacques would suffice to convince the celebrated lawyer, and that he would reappear triumphant on M. Magloire’s arm. The others did not share these expectations. The two aunts, looking as yellow as their old laces, sat immovable in a corner. The marchioness was trying to hide her tears; and M. Folgat endeavored to look absorbed in a volume of engravings. M. de Chandore, who possessed less self-control, walked up and down in the room, repeating every ten minutes,—

“It is wonderful how long time seems when you are waiting!”

At ten o’clock no news had come.

“Could M. Magloire have forgotten his promise?” said Dionysia, becoming anxious.

“No, he has not forgotten it,” replied a newcomer, M. Seneschal. It was really the excellent mayor, who had met M. Magloire about an hour before, and who now came to hear the news, for his own sake, as he said, but especially for his wife’s sake, who was actually ill with anxiety.

Eleven o’clock, and no news. The marchioness got up, and said,—

“I cannot stand this uncertainty a minute longer. I am going to the prison.”

“And I will go with you, dear mother,” declared Dionysia.

But such a proceeding was hardly suitable. M. de Chandore opposed it, and was supported by M. Folgat, as well as by M. Seneschal.

“We might at least send somebody,” suggested the two aunts timidly.

“That is a good idea,” replied M. de Chandore.

He rang the bell; and old Anthony came in. He had established himself the evening before in Sauveterre, having heard that the preliminary investigation was finished.

As soon as he had been told what they wanted him to do, he said,—

“I shall be back in half an hour.”

He nearly ran down the steep street, hastened along National Street, and then climbed up more slowly Castle Street. When M. Blangin, the keeper, saw him appear, he turned very pale; for M. Blangin had not slept since Dionysia had given him the seventeen thousand francs. He, once upon a time the special friend of all gendarmes, now trembled when one of them entered the jail. Not that he felt any remorse about having betrayed his duty; oh, no! but he feared discovery.

More than ten times he had changed the hiding-place of his precious