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

he ever tell Jacques the true secret of his hesitation? Turning his eyes aside, he answered,—

“I hoped I should be able to serve you better by remaining in Paris.” But his embarrassment was too evident to escape Jacques.

“You did not doubt your own child, father?” he asked sadly.

“Never!” cried the marquis, “I never doubted a moment. Ask your mother, and she will tell you that it was this proud assurance I felt which kept me from coming down with her. When I heard of what they accused you, I said ‘It is absurd!’”

Jacques shook his head, and said,—

“The accusation was absurd; and yet you see what it has brought me to.”

Two big tears, which he could no longer retain, burnt in the eyes of the old gentleman.

“You blame me, Jacques,” he said. “You blame your father.”

There is not a man alive who could see his father shed tears, and not feel his heart melt within him. All the resolutions Jacques had formed vanished in an instant. Pressing his father’s hand in his own, he said,—

“No, I do not blame you, father. And still I have no words to tell you how much your absence has added to my sufferings. I thought I was abandoned, disowned.”

For the first time since his imprisonment, the unfortunate man found a heart to whom he could confide all the bitterness that overflowed in his own heart. With his mother and with Dionysia, honor forbade him to show despair. The incredulity of M. Magloire had made all confidence impossible; and M. Folgat, although as sympathetic as man could be was, after all, a perfect stranger.

But now he had near him a friend, the dearest and most precious friend that a man can ever have,—his father: now he had nothing to fear.

“Is there a human being in this world,” he said, “whose misfortunes equal mine? To be innocent, and not to be able to prove it! To know the guilty one, and not to dare mention the name. Ah! at first I did not take in the whole horror of my situation. I was frightened, to be sure; but I had recovered, thinking that surely justice would not be slow in discovering the truth. Justice! It was my friend Galpin who represented it, and he cared little enough for truth: his only aim was to prove that the man whom he accused was the guilty man. Read the papers, father, and you will see how I have been victimized by the most unheard-of combination of circumstances. Every thing is against me. Never has that mysterious, blind, and absurd power manifested itself so clearly,—that awful power which we call fate.

“First I was kept by a sense of honor from mentioning the name of the Countess Claudieuse, and then by prudence. The first time I mentioned it to M. Magloire, he told me I lied. Then I thought every thing lost. I saw no other end but the court, and, after the trial, the galleys or the scaffold. I wanted to kill myself. My friends made me understand that I did not belong to myself, and that, as long as I had a spark of energy and a ray of intelligence left me, I had no right to dispose of my life.”

“Poor, poor child!” said the marquis. “No, you have no such right.”

“Yesterday,” continued Jacques, “Dionysia came to see me. Do you know what brought her here? She offered to flee with me. Father, that temptation was terrible. Once free, and Dionysia by my side, what cared I for the world? She insisted, like the matchless girl that she is; and look there, there, on the spot where you now stand, she threw herself at my feet, imploring me to flee. I doubt whether I can save my life; but I remain here.”

He felt deeply moved, and sank upon the rough bench, hiding his face in his hands, perhaps to conceal his tears.

Suddenly, however, he was seized with one of those attacks of rage which had come to him but too often during his imprisonment, and he exclaimed,—

“But what have I done to deserve such fearful punishment?”

The brow of the marquis suddenly darkened; and he replied solemnly,—

“You have coveted your neighbor’s wife, my son.”

Jacques shrugged his shoulders. He said,—

“I loved the Countess Claudieuse, and she loved me.”

“Adultery is a crime, Jacques.”

“A crime? Magloire said the same thing. But, father, do you really think so? Then it is a crime which has nothing appalling about it, to which every thing invites and encourages, of which everybody boasts, and at which the world smiles. The law, it is true, gives the husband the right of life and death; but, if you appeal to the law, it gives the guilty man six months’ imprisonment, or makes him pay a few thousand francs.”

Ah, if he had known, the unfortunate man!

“Jacques,” said the marquis, “the Countess Claudieuse hints, as you say, that one of her daughters, the youngest, is your child?”

“That may be so.”

The Marquis de Boiscoran shuddered. Then he exclaimed bitterly,—

“That may be so! You say that carelessly, indifferently, madman! Did you never think of the grief Count Claudieuse would feel if he should learn the truth? And even if he merely suspected it! Can you not comprehend that such a suspicion is quite sufficient to embitter a whole life, to ruin the life of that girl? Have you never told yourself that such a doubt inflicts a more atrocious punishment than any thing you have yet suffered?”

He paused. A few words more, and he would have betrayed his secret. Checking his excitement by an heroic effort, he said,—

“But I did not come here to discuss this question; I came to tell you, that, whatever may happen, your father will stand by you, and that, if you must undergo the disgrace of appearing in court, I will take a seat by your side.”

In spite of his own great trouble, Jacques had not been able to avoid seeing his father’s unusual excitement and his sudden vehemence. For a second, he had a vague perception of the truth; but, before the suspicion could assume any shape, it had vanished before this promise which his father made, to face by his side the overwhelming humiliation of a judgment in court,—a promise full of divine self-abnegation and paternal love. His gratitude burst forth in the words,—

“Ah, father! I ought to ask your pardon for ever having doubted your heart for a moment.”

M. de Boiscoran tried his best to recover his self-possession. At last he said in an earnest voice,—

“Yes, I love you, my son; and still you must not make me out more of a hero than I am. I still hope we may be spared the appearance in court.”

“Has any thing new been discovered?”

“M. Folgat has found some traces which justify legitimate hopes, although,