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

that Goudar was one of those men whom nobody remembers. Of middle height, he was neither stout nor thin, neither dark nor light haired, neither young nor old. A clerk in a passport office would certainly have written him down thus: Forehead, ordinary; nose, ordinary; mouth, ordinary, eyes, neutral color; special marks, none.

It could not be said that he looked stupid; but neither did he look intelligent. Every thing in him was ordinary, indifferent, and undecided. Not one marked feature. He would necessarily pass unobserved, and be forgotten as soon as he had passed.

“You find me busy securing my crops for the winter,” he said to M. Folgat. “A pleasant job. However, I am at your service. Let me put these three bunches into their three bags, and I’ll come down.”

This was the work of an instant; and, as soon as he had reached the ground, he turned round, and asked,—

“Well, and what do you think of my garden?”

And at once he begged M. Folgat to visit his domain, and, with all the enthusiasm of the land-owner, he praised the flavor of his duchess pears, the bright colors of his dahlias, the new arrangements in his poultry-yard, which was full of rabbit-houses, and the beauty of his pond, with its ducks of all colors and all possible varieties.

In his heart, M. Folgat swore at this enthusiasm. What time he was losing! But, when you expect a service from a man, you must, at least, flatter his weak side. He did not spare praise, therefore. He even pulled out his cigar-case, and, still with a view to win the great man’s good graces, he offered it to him, saying,—

“Can I offer you one?”

“Thanks! I never smoke,” replied Goudar.

And, when he saw the astonishment of the advocate, he explained,—

“At least not at home. I am disposed to think the odor is unpleasant to my wife.”

Positively, if M. Folgat had not known the man, he would have taken him for some good and simple retired grocer, inoffensive, and any thing but bright, and, bowing to him politely, he would have taken his leave. But he had seen him at work; and so he followed him obediently to his greenhouse, his melon-house, and his marvellous asparagus-beds.

At last Goudar took his guest to the end of the garden, to a bower in which were some chairs and a table, saying,—

“Now let us sit down, and tell me your business; for I know you did not come solely for the pleasure of seeing my domain.”

Goudar was one of those men who have heard in their lives more confessions than ten priests, ten lawyers, and ten doctors all together. You could tell him every thing. Without a moment’s hesitation, therefore, and without a break, M. Folgat told him the whole story of Jacques and the Countess Claudieuse. He listened, without saying a word, without moving a muscle in his face. When the lawyer had finished, he simply said,—

“Well?”

“First of all,” replied M. Folgat, “I should like to hear your opinion. Do you believe the statement made by M. de Boiscoran?”

“Why not? I have seen much stranger cases than that.”

“Then you think, that, in spite of the charges brought against him, we must believe in his innocence?”

“Pardon me, I think nothing at all. Why, you must study a matter before you can have an opinion.”

He smiled; and, looking at the young advocate, he said,—

“But why all these preliminaries? What do you want of me?”

“Your assistance to get at the truth.”

The detective evidently expected something of the kind. After a minute’s reflection, he looked fixedly at M. Folgat, and said,—

“If I understand you correctly, you would like to begin a counter-investigation for the benefit of the defence?”

“Exactly.”

“And unknown to the prosecution?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, I cannot possibly serve you.”

The young advocate knew too well how such things work not to be prepared for a certain amount of resistance; and he had thought of means to overcome it.

“That is not your final decision, my dear Goudar?” he said.

“Pardon me. I am not my own master. I have my duty to fulfil, and my daily occupation.”

“You can at any time obtain leave of absence for a month.”

“So I might; but they would certainly wonder at such a furlough at headquarters. They would probably have me watched; and, if they found out that I was doing police work for private individuals, they would scold me grievously, and deprive themselves henceforth of my services.”

“Oh!”

“There is no ‘oh!’ about it. They would do what I tell you, and they would be right; for, after all, what would become of us, and what would become of the safety and liberty of us all, if any one could come and use the agents of the police for his private purposes? And what would become of me if I should lose my place?”

“M. de Boiscoran’s family is very rich, and they would prove their gratitude magnificently to the man who would save him.”

“And if I did not save him? And if, instead of gathering proof of his innocence, I should only meet with more evidence of his guilt?”

The objection was so well founded, that M. Folgat preferred not to discuss it.

“I might,” he said, “hand you at once, and as a retainer, a considerable sum, which you could keep, whatever the result might be.”

“What sum? A hundred Napoleons? Certainly a hundred Napoleons are not to be despised; but what would they do for me if I were turned out? I have to think of somebody else besides myself. I have a wife and a child; and my whole fortune consists in this little cottage, which is not even entirely paid for. My place is not a gold-mine; but, with the special rewards which I receive, it brings me, good years and bad years, seven or eight thousand francs, and I can lay by two or three thousand.”

The young lawyer stopped him by a friendly gesture, and said,—

“If I were to offer you ten thousand francs?”

“A year’s income.”

“If I offered you fifteen thousand!”

Goudar made no reply; but his eyes spoke.

“It is a most interesting case, this case of M. de Boiscoran,” continued M. Folgat, “and such as does not occur often. The man who should expose the emptiness of the accusation would make