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

or even from Dr. Seignebos. Thus he could follow at a distance all the phases, and even the smallest changes, in the proceedings. Only one thing he would not do: he would not come down, however important his coming might be for his son. He did not move.

Once only he had received, through Dionysia’s agency, a letter from Jacques himself; and then he ordered his servant to get ready his trunks for the same evening. But at the last moment he had given counter-orders, saying that he had reconsidered, and would not go.

“There is something extraordinary going on in the mind of the marquis,” said the servants to each other.

The fact is, he spent his days, and a part of his nights, in his cabinet, half-buried in an arm-chair, resting little, and sleeping still less, insensible to all that went on around him. On his table he had arranged all his letters from Sauveterre in order; and he read and re-read them incessantly, examining the phrases, and trying, ever in vain, to disengage the truth from this mass of details and statements. He was no longer as sure of his son as at first: far from it! Every day had brought him a new doubt; every letter, additional uncertainty. Hence he was all the time a prey to most harassing apprehensions. He put them aside; but they returned, stronger and more irresistible than before like the waves of the rising tide.

He was thus one morning in his cabinet. It was very early yet; but he was more than ever suffering from anxiety, for M. Folgat had written, “To-morrow all uncertainty will end. To-morrow the close confinement will be raised, and M. Jacques will see M. Magloire, the counsel whom he has chosen. We will write immediately.”

It was for this news the marquis was waiting now. Twice already he had rung to inquire if the mail had not come yet, when all of a sudden his valet appeared and with a frightened air said,—

“The marchioness. She has just come with Anthony, M. Jacques’s own man.”

He hardly said so, when the marchioness herself entered, looking even worse than she had done in the prison parlor; for she was overcome by the fatigue of a night spent on the road.

The marquis had started up suddenly. As soon as the servant had left the room, and shut the door again, he said with trembling voice, as if wishing for an answer, and still fearing to hear it,—

“Has any thing unusual happened?”

“Yes.”

“Good or bad?”

“Sad.”

“Great God! Jacques has not confessed?”

“How could he confess when he is innocent?”

“Then he has explained?”

“As far as I am concerned, and M. Folgat, Dr. Seignebos, and all who know him and love him, yes, but not for the public, for his enemies, or the law. He has explained every thing; but he has no proof.”

The mournful features of the marquis settled into still deeper gloom.

“In other words, he has to be believed on his own word?” he asked.

“Don’t you believe him?”

“I am not the judge of that, but the jury.”

“Well, for the jury he will find proof. M. Folgat, who has come in the same train with me, and whom you will see to-day, hopes to discover proof.”

“Proof of what?”

Perhaps the marchioness was not unprepared for such a reception. She expected it, and still she was disconcerted.

“Jacques,” she began, “has been the lover of the Countess Claudieuse.”

“Ah, ah!” broke in the marquis.

And, in a tone of offensive irony, he added,—

“No doubt another story of adultery; eh?”

The marchioness did not answer. She quietly went on,—

“When the countess heard of Jacques’s marriage, and that he abandoned her, she became exasperated, and determined to be avenged.”

“And, in order to be avenged, she attempted to murder her husband; eh?”

“She wished to be free.”

The Marquis de Boiscoran interrupted his wife with a formidable oath. Then he cried,—

“And that is all Jacques could invent! And to come to such an abortive story—was that the reason of his obstinate silence?”

“You do not let me finish. Our son is the victim of unparalleled coincidences.”

“Of course! Unparalleled coincidences! That is what every one of the thousand or two thousand rascals say who are sentenced every year. Do you think they confess? Not they! Ask them, and they will prove to you that they are the victims of fate, of some dark plot, and, finally, of an error of judgment. As if justice could err in these days of ours, after all these preliminary examinations, long inquiries, and careful investigations.”

“You will see M. Folgat. He will tell you what hope there is.”

“And if all hope fails?”

The marchioness hung her head.

“All would not be lost yet. But then we should have to endure the pain of seeing our son brought up in court.”

The tall figure of the old gentleman had once more risen to its full height; his face grew red; and the most appalling wrath flashed from his eyes.

“Jacques brought up in court?” he cried, with a formidable voice. “And you come and tell me that coolly, as if it were a very simple and quite natural matter! And what will happen then, if he is in court? He will be condemned; and a Boiscoran will go to the galleys. But no, that cannot be! I do not say that a Boiscoran may not commit a crime, passion makes us do strange things; but a Boiscoran, when he regains his senses, knows what becomes him to do. Blood washes out all stains. Jacques prefers the executioner; he waits; he is cunning; he means to plead. If he but save his head, he is quite content. A few years at hard labor, I suppose, will be a trifle to him. And that coward should be a Boiscoran: my blood should flow in his veins! Come, come, madam, Jacques is no son of mine.”

Crushed as the marchioness had seemed to be till now, she rose under this atrocious insult.

“Sir!” she cried.

But M. de Boiscoran was not in a state to listen to her.

“I know what I am saying,” he went on. “I remember every thing, if you have forgotten every thing. Come, let us go back to your past. Remember the time when Jacques was born, and tell me what year it was when M. de Margeril refused to meet