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WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
BOSTON
1794.
FROM SERB SHOF
EMILE GABORIAU.
AUTHOR OF "THE WIDOW LEROUGE," "THE MYSTERY OF ORCIVAL,' ETC, ETC.

AND CO.
BOSTON:
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,
(LATE TICKNOR & Fields, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co.) .
1874.


Ghawi
RFS92
UNIVERSITY
1 LIBRARY
lech 8,1941)
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
JAMES R. OSGOOD & Co.,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
BOSTON:
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY.


CONTENTS
PART I.
PAGE
FIRE AT VALPINSON
.
.
PART II.
THE BOISCORAN TRIAL.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
. 38
PART III.
COCOLEU .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
. 194





WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
FIKST PAKT.
FIRE AT VALPINSON.
These were the facts: —
I.
In the night from the 22d to the 23d
of June, 1871, towards one o'clock in the
morning, the Paris suburb of Sauveterre,
the principal and most densely populated
suburbs of that pretty town, was startled
by the furious gallop of a horse on its
ill paved streets.
A number of peaceful citizens rushed
to the windows.
The dark night allowed these only to
see a peasant in his shirt-sleeves, and
bareheaded, who belabored a large gray
mare, on which he rode bareback, with
his heels and a huge stick.
This man, after having passed the
suburbs, turned into National Street,
formerly Imperial Street, crossed New-
Market Square, and stopped at last
before the fine house which stands at the
corner of Castle Street.
This was the house of the mayor of
Sauveterre, M. Seneschal, a former law-
yer, and now a member of the general
council.
Having alighted, the peasant seized
the bell-knob, and began to ring so furi-
ously, that, in a few moments, the whole
house was in an uproar.
A minute later, a big, stout servant-
man, his eyes heavy with sleep, came and
opened the door, and then cried out in an
angry voice, —
"Who are you, my man? AVhat do
you want? Have you taken too much
wine? Don't you know at whose house
you are making such a row?"
"I wish to see the mayor," replied the
peasant instantly. "Wake him up I"
M. Seneschal was wide awake.
Dressed in a large dressing-gown of
gray flannel, a candlestick in his hand,
troubled, and unable to disguise his
trouble, he had just come down into the
hall, and heard all that was said.
"Here is the mayor," he said in an ill-
satisfied tone. "What do you want of
him at this hour, when all honest people
are* in bed?"
Pushing the servant aside, the peasant
came up to him, and said, making not the
slightest attempt at politeness, —
"I come to tell you to send the fire-
engine."
"The engine I"
"Yes; at once. Make haste I"
The mayor shook his head.
"Hm!" he said, according to a habit
he had when he was at a loss what to do;
"hm, hm I"
And who would not have been embar-
rassed in his place?
To get the engine out, and to assemble
the firemen, he had to rouse the whole
town; and to do this in the middle of the
night was nothing less than to frighten
the poor people of Sauveterre, who had
heard the drums beating the alarm but
too often during the war with the Ger-
mans, and then again during the reign
of the Commune. Therefore M. Senes-
chal asked, —
6


6
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
"Is it a serious fire?"
"Serious!" exclaimed the peasant.
"How could it be otherwise with such a
wind as this, — a wind that would blow
off the horns of our oxen."
"Hm!" uttered the mayor again.
"Hm, hm!"
It was not exactly the first time, since
he was mayor of Sauveterre, that he was
thus roused by a peasant, who came and
cried under his window, "Help I Fire,
fire!"
At first, filled with compassion, he had
hastily'called out the firemen, put him-
self at their head, and hurried to the
fire.
And when they reached it, out of
breath, and perspiring, after having made
two or three miles at double-quick, they
found what? A wretched heap of straw,
worth about ten dollars, and almost, con-
sumed by the fire. They had had their
trouble for nothing.
The peasants in the neighborhood had
cried "Wolf!" so often, when there was
no reason for it, that, even when the wolf
really was there, the townspeople were
slow in believing it.
"Let us see," said M. Seneschal:
"what is burning?"
The peasant seemed to be furious at
all these delays, and bit his long whip.
"Must I tell you again and again," he
said, " that every thing is on fire, — barns,
outhouses, haystacks, the houses, the old
castle, and every thing? If you wait
much longer, you won't find one stone
upon another in Valpinson."
The effect produced by this name was
prodigious.
"What?" asked the mayor in a half-
stifled voice, "Valpinson is on fire?"
"Yes."
"At Count Claudieuse's?"
"Of course."
"Fool! why did you not say so at
once?" exclaimed the mayor.
He hesitated no longer.
"Quick!" he said to his servant, "go
and get me my clothes. Wait, no I my
wife can help me. There is no time to be
lost. You run to Bolton, the drummer,
you know, and tell him from me to beat
the alarm instantly all over town. Then
you run to Capt. Parenteau's, and ex-
plain to him what you have heard. Ask
him to get the keys of the engine-house.
— Wait! — when you have done that,
come back and put the horse in. —
Fire at Valpinson! I shall go with the
engine. Go, run, knock at every door,
cry, 'Fire! Fire!' Tell everybody to
come to the New-Market Square."
When the servant had run off as fast
as he could, the mayor turned to the
peasant, and said, —
"And you, my good man, you get on
your horse, and re-assure the count. Tell
them all to take courage, not to give up;
we are coming to help them."
But the peasant did not move.
"Before going back to Valpinson," he
said, "I have another commission to at-
tend to in town."
"Why? What is it?"
"I am to get the doctor to go back
with me."
"The doctor! Why? Has anybody
been hurt?"
"Yes, master, Count Claudieuse."
"How imprudent! I suppose he rushed
into danger as usually."
"Oh, no! He has been shot twice!"
The mayor of Sauveterre nearly
dropped his candlestick.
"Shot? Twice !" he said. "Where?
when? by whom?"
"Ah! I don't know."
"But" —
"All I can tell you is this. They have
carried him into a little barn that was
not on fire yet. There I saw him my-
self lying on the straw, pale like a linen
sheet, his eyes closed, and bloody all
over."
"Great God! They have not killed
him?"
"He was not dead when I left."
"And the countess?"
"Our lady," replied the peasant with
an accent of profound veneration, "was
in the barn on her knees by the count's
side, washing his wounds with fresh
water. The two little ladies were there
too."
M. Seneschal trembled with excite-
ment.
"It is a crime that has been commit-
ted, I suppose."
"Why, of course!"
"But who did it? What was the
motive?"
"Ah I that is the question."
"The count is very passionate, to be
sure, quite violent, in fact; but still he is
the best and fairest of men, everybody
knows that."
"Everybody knows it."
"He never did any harm to anybody."
"That is what all say."
"As for the countess "—
"Oh !" said the peasant eagerly, "she
is the saint of saints."
The mayor tried to come to some, con-
clusion.
"The criminal, therefore, must be a
stranger. We are overrun with vaga-
bonds and beggars on the tramp. There


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
i
is not a day on which a lot of ill-looking
fellows do not appear at my office, asking
for help to get away."
The peasant nodded his head, and
said,—
"That is what I think. And the
proof of it is, that, as I came along, I
made up my mind J would first get the
doctor, and then report the crime at the
police-office."
"Never mind," said the mayor. "I
will do that myself. In ten minutes I
shall see the attorney of the Common-
wealth. Now go. Don't spare your horse,
and tell your mistress that we are all
coming after you."
In his whole official career M. Senes-
chal had never been so terribly shocked.
He lost his head, just as he did on that
unlucky day, when, all of a sudden, nine
hundred militia-men fell upon him, and
asked to be fed and lodged. Without
his wife's help he would never have been
able to dress himself. Still he was ready
when his servant returned.
The good fellow had done all he had
been told to do, and at that moment the
beat of the drum was heard in the upper
part of the town.
"Now, put the horse in," said M. Sen-
eschal: "let me find the carriage at the
door when I come back."
In the streets he found all in an uproar.
At every window a head popped out, full
of curiosity or terror; on all sides house-
doors were opened, and promptly closed
again.
"Great God!" he thought, "I hope I
shall find Daubigeon at home I" M. l)au-
bigeon, who had been first in the service
of the empire, and then in the service of
the republic, was one of M. Seneschal's
best friends. He was a man of about
forty years, with a cunning look in his
eye, a permanent smile on his face, and
a confirmed bachelor, with no small pride
in his consistency. The good people of
Sauvetei-re thought he did not look stern
and solemn enough for his profession.
To be sure, he was very highly esteemed;
but his optimism was not popular: they
reproached him for being too kind-
hearted, too reluctant to press criminals
whom he had to prosecute, and thus
prone to encourage evil-doers.
He accused himself of not being in-
spired with the "holy fire," and, as he
expressed it in his own way, "'of robbing
Themis of all the time he could, to de-
vote it to the friendly Muses." He was
a passionate lover of fine books, rare
editions, costly bindings, and fine illus-
trations; and much the larger part of his
annual income of about ten thousand
francs went to buying books. A scholar
of the old-fashioned type, he professed
boundless admiration for Virgil and Ju-
venal, but, above all, for Horace, and
proved his devotion by constant quota-
tions.
Roused, like everybody else in the
midst of his slumbers, this excellent man
hastened to put on his clothes, when his
old housekeeper came in, quite excited,
and told him that M. Seneschal was
there, and wanted to see him.
"Show him in I" he said, "show him
in!"
And, as soon as the mayor entered, he
continued: —
"For you will be able to tell me the
meaning of all this noise, this beating of
drums, —
'Clamorque, virum, clangorque tubarum.'"
"A terrible misfortune has happened,"
answered the mayor. From the tone of
his voice one might have imagined it
was he himself who had been afflicted;
and the lawyer was so strongly impressed
in this way, that he said,—
"My dear friend, what is the matter?
Quid 1 Courage, my friend, keep cool I
Remember that the poet advises us, in
misfortune never to lose our balance of
mind: —
'iEquam, memento, rebus in arduis,
Servare menteui.'
"Incendiaries have set Valpinson on
fire I" broke in the mayor.
"You do not say so? Great God!
'Jupiter,
Quod verbum audio.'"
"More than that. Count Claudieuse
has been shot, and by this time he is
probably dead."
"Oh!"
"You hear the drummer is beating the
alarm. I am going to the fire; and I
have only come here to report the matter
officially to you, and to ask you to see to
it that justice be done promptly and
energetically."
There was no need of such a serious
appeal to stop at once all the lawyer's
quotations.
"Enough!" he said eagerly. "Come,
let us take measures to catch the
wretches."
When they reached National Street,
it was as full as at mid-day; for Sauve-
terre is one of those provincial towns
in which an excitement is too rare a


8
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
treat to be neglected. The sad event
had by this time become fully known
everywhere. At first the news had been
doubted; but when the doctor's cab had
passed £he crowd at full speed, escorted
by a peasant on horseback, the reports
were believed. Nor had the firemen lost
time. As soon as the mayor and M.
Daubigeon appeared on New-Market
Square, Capt. Parenteau rushed up to
them, and, touching his helmet with a
military salute, said, —
"My men are ready."
"All?"
"There are hardly ten absentees.
When they heard that Count and Count-
ess Claudieuse were in need — great
heavens I — you know, they all were
ready in a moment."
"Well, then, start and make haste,"
commanded M. Seneschal. "We shall
overtake you on the way: M. Daubigeon
and I are going to pick up M. Galpin,
the magistrate."
They had not far to go.
The magistrate had already been look-
ing for them all over town: he was just
appearing on the Square, and saw them
at once.
In striking contrast with the common-
wealth attorney, M. Galpin was a pro-
fessional man in the full sense of the
word, and perhaps a little more. He
was the magistrate all over, from head to
foot, and from the gaiters on his ankles
to the light blonde whiskers on his face.
Although he was quite young, yet no one
had ever seen him smile, or heard him
make a joke. He was so very stiff, that
M. Daubigeon suggested he had been
impaled alive on the sword of justice.
At Sauveterre M. Galpin was looked
upon as a superior man. He certainly
believed it himself: hence he was very
impatient at being confined to so narrow
a sphere of action, and thought his bril-
liant ability wasted upon the prosecution
of a chicken-thief or a poacher. But his
almost desperate efforts to secure a better
office had always been unsuccessful. In
vain he had enlisted a host of friends in
his behalf. In vain he had thrown him-
self into politics, ready to serve any party
that would serve him.
But M. Galpin's ambition was not
easily discouraged; and lately, after a
journey to Paris, he had thrown out hints
at a great match, which would shortly
procure him that influence in high places
which so far he had been unable to ob-
tain. When he joined M. Daubigeon
and the mayor, he said, —
"Well, this is a horrible affair! It
will make a tremendous noise." The
mayor began to give him the details, but
he said,—
"Don't trouble yourself. I know all
you know. I met the peasant who had
been sent in, and I have examined him."
Then, turning to the commonwealth
attorney, he added,—
"I think we ought to proceed at once
to the place where the crime has been
committed."
"I was going to suggest it to you," re-
plied M. Daubigeon.
"The gendarmes ought to be notified."
"M. Seneschal has just sent them
word."
The magistrate was so much excited,
that his cold impassiveness actually
threatened to give way for once.
"There has been an attempt at mur-
der."
"Evidently."
"Then we can act in concert, and side
by side, each one in his own line of duty,
you examining, and I preparing for the
trial."
An ironical smile passed over the lips
of the commonwealth attorney.
"You ought to know me well enough,"
he said, "to be sure that I have never in-
terfered with your duties and privileges.
I am nothing but a good old fellow, a
friend of peace and of studies.
'Sum piger et senior, Pieridumqnecomes.'"
"Then, exclaimed M. Seneschal, no-
thing keeps us here any longer. I am
impatient to be off; my carriage is ready;
let us go I"
n.
In a straight line it is only a mile
from Sauveterre to Valpinson; but that
mile is as long as two elsewhere. M.
Seneschal, however, had a good horse,
"the best perhaps in the county," he
said, as he got into his carriage. In ten
minutes they had overtaken the firemen,
who had left some time before them.
And yet these good people, all of them
master workmen of Sauveterre, masons,
carpenters, and tilers, hurried along as
fast as they could. They had half a
dozen smoking torches with them to
light them on the way: they walked,
puffing and groaning, on the bad road,
and pulling the two engines, together
with the heavy cart on which they had
piled up their ladders and other tools.
"Keep up, my friends!" said the mayor
as he passed them, — " keep up!" Three
minutes farther on, a peasant on horse-
back appeared in the dark, riding along


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
9
like a forlorn knight in a romance. M.
Daubigeon ordered him to halt. He
stopped.
"You come from Valpinson?" asked
M. Seneschal.
"Yes," replied the peasant.
"How is the count?"
"He has come to at last."
"What does the doctor say?"
"He says he will live. I am going to
the druggist to get some medicines." M.
Galpin, to hear better, was leaning out
of the carriage. He asked, —
"Do they accuse any one?"
"No."
"And the fire?"
"They have water enough," replied the
peasant, "but no engines: so what can
they do? And the wind is rising again I
Oh, what a misfortune!"
He rode off as fast as he could, while
M. Seneschal was whipping his poor
horse, which, unaccustomed as it was to
such treatment, instead of going any
faster, only reared, and jumped from side
to side. The excellent man was in de-
spair. He looked upon this crime as if it
had been committed on purpose to dis-
grace him, and to do the greatest possible
inj ury to his administration.
"For after all," he said, for the tenth
time to his companions, "is it natural, I
ask you, is it sensible, that a man should
think of attacking the Count and the
Countess Claudieuse, the most distin-
guished and the most esteemed people in
the whole county, and especially a lady
whose name is synonymous with virtue
and charity?"
And, without minding the ruts and
the stones in the road, M. Seneschal
went on repeating all he knew about the
owners of Valpinson.
Count Trivulce Claudieuse was the
last scion of one of the oldest families of
the country. At sixteen, about 1829, he
had entered the navy as ensign, and for
many years he had appeared at Sauve-
terre only rarely, and at long intervals.
In 1859 he had become a captain, and
was on the point of being made admiral,
when he had all of a sudden sent in his
resignation, and taken up his residence
at the Castle of Valpinson, although the
house had nothing to show of its former
splendor but two towers falling to pieces,
and an immense mass of ruin and rub-
bish. For two years he had lived here
alone, busy with building up the old
house as well as it could be done, and by
great energy and incessant labor restor-
ing it to some of its former splendor. It
was thought he would finish his days in
this way, when one day the report arose
that he was going to be married. The
report, for once, proved true.
One fine day Count Claudieuse had
left for Paris ; and, a few days later, his
friends had been informed by letter that
he had married the daughter of one of
his former colleagues, Miss Genevieve de
Tassar. The amazement had been uni-
versal. The count looked like a gentle-
man, and was very well preserved; but he
was at least forty-seven years old, and
Miss Genevieve was hardly twenty. Now,
if the bride had been poor, they would
have understood the match, and approved
it: it is but natural that a poor girl
should sacrifice her heart to her daily
bread. But here it was not so. The Mar-
quis de Tassar was considered wealthy;
and report said that his daughter had
brought her husband fifty thousand dol-
lars.
Next they had it that the bride was
fearfully ugly, infirm, or at least hunch-
back, perhaps idiotic, or, at all events, of
frightful temper.
By no means. She had come down;
and everybody was amazed at her noble,
quiet beauty. She had conversed with
them, and charmed everybody.
Was it really a love-match, as people
called it at Sauveterre? Perhaps so.
Nevertheless there was no lack of old
ladies who shook their heads, and said
twenty-seven years difference between
husband and wife was too much, and
such a match could not turn out
well.
All these dark forebodings came to
nought. The fact was, that, for miles
and miles around, there was not a hap-
pier couple to be found than the Count
and the Countess Claudieuse; and two
children, girls, who had appeared at an
interval of four years, seemed to <kave
secured the happmess of the house for-
ever.
It is true the count had retained some-
what of the haughty manners, the re-
serve, and the imperious tone, which he
had acquired during the time that he
controlled the destinies of certain impor-
tant colonies. He was, moreover, natu-
rally so passionate, that the slightest
excitement made him turn purple in his
face. But the countess was as gentle
and as sweet as he was violent; and as
she never failed to step in between her
husband and the object of his wrath, as
both he and she were naturally just, kind
to excess, and generous to all, they were
beloved by everybody. There was only
one point on which the count was rather
unmanageable, and that was the game
laws. He was passionately fond of hunt-


10
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
ing, and watched all the year round with
almost painful restlessness over his pre-
serves, employing a number of keepers,
and prosecuting poachers with such
energy, that people said he would rather
miss a' hundred napoleons than a single
bird.
The count and the countess lived quite
retired, and gave their whole time, he to
agricultural pursuits, and she to the edu-
cation of her children. They enter-
tained but little, and did not come to
Sauveterre more than four times a year,
to visit the Misses Lavarande, or the old
Baron de Chandore. Every summer,
towards the end of July, they went to
Koyan, where they had a cottage. When
the season opened, and the count went
hunting, the countess paid a visit to her
relatives in Paris, with whom she usually
staid a few weeks.
It required a storm like that of 1870
to overthrow so peaceful an existence.
When the old captain heard that the
Prussians were on French soil, he felt all
the in; tincts of the soldier and the
Frenchman awake in his heart. He
could not be kept at home, and went to
headquarters. Although a royalist at
heart, he did not hesitate a moment to
offer his sword to Gambetta, whom he de-
tested. They made him colonel of a regi-
ment; and he fought like a lion, from the
first day to the last, when he was thrown
down and trod under foot in one of those
fearful routs in which a part of Chanzy's
army was utterly destroyed. When the
armistice was signed, he returned to Val-
pinson; but no one except his wife ever
succeeded in making him say a word
about his campaign. He was asked to
become a candidate for the assembly, and
would have certainly been elected; but
he refused, saying that he knew how to
fight, but not how to talk.
The commonwealth attorney and the
magistrate listened but very carelessly
to these details, with which they were
perfectly familiar. Suddenly M. Galpin
asked, —- (
"Are we not getting near? I look and
look; but I see no trace of a fire."
"We are in a deep valley," replied the
mayor. "But we are quite near now, and,
at the top of that hill before us, you will
see enough."
This hill is well known in the whole
province, and is frequently called the
Sauveterre Mountain. It is so steep, and
consists of such hard granite, that the
engineers who laid out the great turn-
pike turned miles out of their way to
avoid it. It overlooks the whole country;
and, when M. Seneschal and his compan-
ions had reached the top, they could not
control their excitement.
"Horresco I" murmured the attor-
ney.
The burning house itself was hid bv
high trees; but columns of fire rose higli
above the tops, and illumined the whole
region with their sombre light. The
whole country was in a state of excite-
ment. The short, square tower of
Brechy sent the alarm from its big bell;
and in the deep shade on all sides was
heard the strange sound of the huge
shells which the people here use for sig-
nals, and for the summoning of laborers
at meal-times. Hurried steps were heard
on all the high roads and by-roads; and
peasants were continuously rushing by,
with a bucket in each hand.
"It is too late for help," said M.
Galpin.
"Such a fine property!" said the mayor,
"and so well managed!" And, regardless
of danger, he dashed forward, down the
hill; for Valpinson lies in a deep valley,
half a mile from the river. Here all
was terror, disorder, and confusion; and
yet there was no lack of hands or of
good-will. At the first alarm, all the
people of the neighborhood had hurried
up, and there'were more coming every
moment; but there was no one there to
assume the command. They were
mainly engaged in saving the furniture.
The boldest tried to get into the rooms,
and, in a kind of rage, threw every thing
they could lay hold on out of the win-
dow. Thus the courtyard was already
half full of beds and mattresses, chairs
and tables, books, linen, and clothes.
An immense clamor greeted the mayor
and his companions.
"Here comes the mayor!" cried the
peasants, encouraged by his presence, and
all ready to obey him.
M. Seneschal took in the whole situa-
tion at a glance.
"Yes, here I am, my friends," he said,
"and I thank you for your zeal. Now
we must try not to waste our efforts.
The farm-buildings and the work-shops
are lost: we must give them up. Let us
try to save the dwelling-house. The river
is not far. We must form a chain. Every-
body in line, — men and women I And
now for water, water! Here come the
engines!"
They really came thundering up : the
firemen appeared on the scene. Capt.
Parenteau took the command. At last
the mayor was at leisure to inquire after
Count Claudieuse.
"Master is down there," replied an
old woman, pointing at a little cottage


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
11
with a thatched roof. "The doctor has
had him carried there."
"Let us go and see how he is," said
the mayor to his two companions. They
stopped at the door of the only room of
the cottage. It was a large room with a
floor of beaten clay; while overhead the
blackened beams were full of working
tools and parcels of seeds. Two beds
with twisted columns and yellow cur-
tains filled one side: on that on the left
hand lay a little girl, four years old, fast
asleep, and rolled up in a blanket,
watched over by her sister, who was two
or three years older. On the other bed,
Count Claudieuse was lying, or rather
sitting; for they had supported his back
by all the pillows that had been saved
from the fire. His chest was bare, and
covered with blood; and a man, Dr. Seign-
ebos, with his coat off, and his sleeves
rolled up above the elbows, was bending
over him, and, holding a sponge in one
hand and a probe in the other, seemed to
be engaged in a delicate and dangerous
operation.
The countess, in a light muslin dress,
was standing at the foot of her husband's
bed, pale but admirably composed and
resigned. She was holding a lamp, and
moved it to and fro as the doctor di-
rected. In a corner two servant-women
were sitting on a box, and crying, their
aprons turned over their heads.
At last the mayor of Sauveterre over-
came his painful impressions, and entered
the room. Count Claudieuse was the
first to perceive him, and said, —
"Ah, here is our good M. Seneschal.
Come nearer, my friend; come nearer.
You see the year 1871 is a fatal year. It
will soon leave me nothing but a few
handfuls of ashes of all I possessed."
"It is a great misfortune," replied the
excellent mayor; "but, after all, it is less
,. than we apprehended. God be thanked,
you are safe I"
"Who knows? I am suffering terri-
bly."
The countess trembled.
"Trivulce I" she whispered in a tone
of entreaty. "Trivulce I"
Never did lover glance at his beloved
with more tenderness than Count Clau-
dieuse did at his wife.
"Pardon me, my dear Genevieve, par-
don me, if I show any want of courage."
. A sudden nervous spasm seized him;
and then he exclaimed in a loud voice,
which sounded like a trumpet, —
"Sir! But sir! Thunder and light-
ning! You kill me!"
"I have some chloroform here," re-
plied the physician coldly.
"I do not want any."
"Then you must make up your mind
to suffer, and keep quiet now; for every
motion adds to your pain."
Then sponging a jet of blood which
spurted out from under his knife, he
added, —
"However, you shall have a few min-
utes' rest now. My eyes and my hand
are exhausted. I see I am no longer
young."
Dr. Seignebos was sixty years old.
He was a small, thin man, with a bald
head and a bilious complexion, carelessly
dressed, and spending his life in taking
off, wiping, and putting back again, his
large gold spectacles. His reputation
was widespread; and they told of won-
derful cures which he had accomplished.
Still he had not many friends. The
common people disliked his bitterness;
the peasants, his strictness in demanding
his fees; and the townspeople, his politi-
cal views.
There was a story that one evening, at
a public dinner, he had gotten up and
said, "I drink to the memory of the
only physician of whose pure and chaste
renown I am envious, — the memory
of my countryman, Dr. Guillotin of
Saintes!"
Had he really offered such a toast?
The fact is, he pretended to be a fierce
radical, and was certainly the soul and the
oracle of the small socialistic clubs in
the neighborhood. People looked aghast
when he began to talk of the reforms
which he thought necessary; and they
trembled when he proclaimed his con-
victions, that "the sword and the torch
ought to search the rotten foundations of
society."
These 'opinions, certain utilitarian
views of like eccentricity, and still stran-
ger experiments which he openly carried
on before the whole world, had led peo-
ple more than once to doubt the sound-
ness of his mind. The most charitable
said, "He is an oddity." This eccentric
man had naturally no great fondness for
M. Seneschal, the mayor, a former law-
yer, and a legitimist. He did not think
much of the commonwealth attorney, a
useless book-worm. But he detested M.
Galpin. Still he bowed to the three men;
and, without minding his patient, he said
to them, —
"You see, gentlemen, Count Claudieuse
is in a bad plight. He has been fired at
with a gun loaded with small-shot; and
wounds made in that way are very puz-
zling. I trust no vital part has been in-
jured; but I cannot answer for any thing.
I have often in my practice seen very


12
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
small injuries, wounds caused by a small-
sized shot, which, nevertheless, proved
fatal, and showed their true character
only twelve or fifteen hours after the acci-
dent had happened."
He would have gone on in this way, if
the magistrate had not suddenly inter-
rupted him, saying, —
"Doctor, you know I am here because
a crime has been committed. The crimi-
nal has to be found out, and to be pun-
ished: hence I request your assistance,
from this moment, in the name of the
Law."
m.
By this single phrase M. Galpin made
himself master of the situation, and re-
duced the doctor to an inferior position, in
which, it is true, he had the mayor and
the commonwealth attorney to bear him
company. There was nothing now to be
thought of, but the crime that had been
committed, and the judge who was to
punish the author. But he tried in vain
to assume all the rigidity of his official
air and that contempt for human feelings
which has made justice so hateful to
thousands. His whole being was im-
pregnated with intense satisfaction, up
to his beard, cut and trimmed like the
box-hedges of an old-fashioned garden.
"Well, doctor," he asked, "first of all,
have you any objection to my question-
ing your patient?"
"It would certainly be better for him
to be left alone," growled Dr. Seignebos.
"I have made him suffer enough this last
hour; and I shall directly begin again
cutting out the small pieces of lead
which have honey-combed his flesh.
But if it must be "—
"It must be."
"Well, then, make haste; for the fever
will set in presently."
M. Daubigeon could not conceal his an-
noyance. He called out, —
"Galpin, Galpin!"
The other man paid no attention.
Having taken a note-book and a pencil
from his pocket, he drew up close to the
sick man's bed, and asked him in an
undertone, —
"Are you strong enough, count, to
answer my questions?"
"Oh, perfectly!"
"Then, pray tell me all you know of
the sad events of to-night?"
With the aid of his wife and Dr.
Seignebos, the count raised himself on
his pillows, and began thus, —
"Unfortunately, the little I know will
be of no use in aiding justice to discover
the guilty man. It may have been eleven
o'clock, for I am not even quite sure of
the hour, when I had gone to bed, and
just blown out my candle: suddenly a
bright light fell upon the window. I was
amazed, and utterly confused; for I was
in that state of sleepiness which is not
yet sleep, but very much like it. I said
to myself, 'What can this be?' but I did
not get up: I only was roused by a great
noise, like the crash of a falling wall;
and then I jumped out of bed, and said
to myself, ' The house is on fire!' What
increased my anxiety was the fact, which I
at once recollected, that there were in the
courtyard, and all around the house, some
sixteen thousand bundles of dry wood,
which had been cut last year. Half
dressed, I rushed down stairs. I was
very much bewildered, I confess, and could
hardly succeed in opening the outer door:
still I did open it at last. But I had barely
put my foot on the threshold, when I felt
in my right side, a little above the hip, a
fierce pain, and heard at the same time,
quite close to me, a shot."
The magistrate interrupted him by a
gesture.
"Your statement, count, is certainly
remarkably clear. But there is one point
we must try to establish. Were you
really fired at the moment you showed
yourself at the door?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then the murderer must have been
quite near on the watch. He must have
known that the fire would bring you out;
and he was lying in wait for you."
"That was and still is my impression,"
declared the count.
M. Galpin turned to M. Daubigeon.
"Then," he said to him, "the murder is
the principal fact with which we have to
do; and the fire is only an aggravating
circumstance, — the means which the
criminal employed in order to succeed
the better in perpetrating his crime."
Then, returning to the count, he said, —-
"Pray go on."
"When I felt I was wounded," con-
tinued Count Claudieuse, "my first im-
pulse was instinctively to rush forward
to the place from which the gun seemed
to have been fired at me. I had not
proceeded three yards, when I felt the
same pain once more in the shoulder and
in the neck. This second wound was
more serious than the first; for I lost my
consciousness, my head began to swim
and I fell."
"You had not seen the murderer?"
"I beg your pardon. At the moment
when I fell, I thought I saw a man rush
forth from behind a pile of fagots, cross


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
13
the courtyard, and disappear in the
fields."
"Would you recognize him?"
"No."
"But you saw how he was dressed:
you can give me a description ?" i
"No, I cannot. I felt as if there was
a veil before my eyes; and he passed me
like a shadow."
The magistrate could hardly conceal
his disappointment.
"Never mind," he said, "we'll find
him out. But go on, sir?"
The count shook his head.
"I have nothing more to say," he re-
plied. "I had fainted; and when I recov-
ered my consciousness, some hours later, I
found myself here lying on this bed."
M. Galpin noted down the count's an-
swers with scrupulous exactness: when
he had done, he asked again, —
"We must return to the details of the
attack, and examine them minutely.
Now, however, it is important to know
what happened after you fell. Who
could tell us that?"
"My wife, sir."
"I thought so. The countess, no doubt,
got up when you rose."
"My wife had not gone to bed."
The magistrate turned suddenly to the
countess; and at a glance he perceived
that her costume was not that of a lady
who had been suddenly roused from
slumber by the burning of her house."
"I see," he said to himself.
"Bertha," the count went on to state,
"our youngest daughter, who is lying
there on that bed, under the blanket, has
the measles, and is suffering terribly. My
wife was sitting up with her. Unfortu-
nately the windows of her room look upon
the garden, on the side opposite to that
where the fire broke out."
"How, then, did the countess become
aware of the accident?" asked the
magistrate.
Without waiting for a more direct ques-
tion, the countess came forward andsaid,—
"As my husband has just told you, I
was sitting up with my little Bertha. I
was rather tired; for I had sat up the
night before also, and I had begun to
nod, when a sudden noise aroused me. I
was not quite sure whether I had really
heard such a noise; but just then a
second shot was heard. I left the room
more astonished than frightened. Ah,
sir I the fire had already made such head-
way, that the staircase was as light as
in broad day. I went down in great
haste. The outer door was open. I went
out; and there, some five or six yards
from me, I saw, by the light of the flames,
the body of my husband lying on the
ground. I threw myself upon him; but
he did not even hear me: his heart had
ceased to beat. I thought he was dead; I
called for help; I was in despair."
M. Seneschal and M. Daubigeon trem-
bled with excitement.
"Well, very well!" said M. Galpin,
with an air of satisfaction, — " very well
done I"
"You know," continued the countess,
"how hard it is to rouse country-people.
It seems to me I remained ever so long
alone there, kneeling by the side of my
husband. At last the brightness of the
fire awakened some of the farm-hands,
the workmen, and our servants. They,
rushed out, crying, 'Fire!' When they
saw me, they ran up and helped me
carry my husband to a place of safety;
for the danger was increasing every
minute. The fire -was spreading with
terrific violence, thanks to a furious
wind. The barns were one vast mass of
fire; the outbuildings were burning; the
distillery was in a blaze; and the roof
of the dwelling-house was flaming up in
various places. And there was not one
cool head among them all. I was so
utterly bewildered, that I forgot all about
my children; and their room was already
in flames, when a brave, bold fellow
rushed in, and snatched them from the
very jaws of death. I did not come to
myself till Dr. Seignebos arrived, and
spoke to me words of hope. This fire
will probably ruin us; but what mat-
ters that, so long as my husband and my
children are safe?"
Dr. Seignebos had more than once given
utterance to his contemptuous impatience:
he did not appreciate these preliminary
steps. The others, however, the mayor,
the attorney, and even the servants, had
hardly been able to suppress their excite-
ment. He shrugged his shoulders, and
growled between his teeth, —
"Mere formalities! How petty! How
childish I"
After having taken off his spectacles,
wiped them and replaced them twenty
times, he had sat down at the rickety
table in the corner of the room, and
amused himself with arranging the fif-
teen or twenty shot he had extracted from
the count's wounds, in long lines or small
circles. But, when the countess uttered
her last words, he rose, and, turning to M.
Galpin, said in a curt tone, —
"Now, sir, I hope you will let me have
my patient again."
The magistrate was not a little in-
censed: there was reason enough, surely;
and, frowning fiercely, he said, —


14
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
"I appreciate, sir, the importance of
your duties; but mine are, I think, by no
means less solemn nor less urgent."
"Oh!"
"Consequently you will be pleased, sir,
to grant me five minutes more."
"Ten, if it must be, sir. Only I warn
you that every minute henceforth may
endanger the life of my patient."
They had drawn near to ea<;h other,
and were measuring each other with
defiant looks, which betrayed the bitter-
est animosity. They would surely not
quarrel at the bedside of a dying man?
The countess seemed to fear such a thing;
for she said reproachfully, —
"Gentlemen, I pray, gentlemen " —
Perhaps her intervention would have
been of no avail, if M. Seneschal and M.
Daubigeon had not stepped in, each ad-
dressing one of the two adversaries. M.
Gal pin was apparently the most obstinate
of the two; for, in spite of all, he began
once more to question the count, and
said,—
"I havs only one more question to ask
you, sir: Where and how were you
standing, where and how do you think
the murderer was standing, at the mo-
ment when the crime was committed?"
"Sir," replied the count, evidently with
a great effort, "I was standing, as I told
you, on the threshold of my door, facing
the courtyard. The murderer must have
been standing some twenty yards off, on
my right, behind a pile of wood."
When he had written down the answer
of the wounded man, the magistrate
turned once more to the physician, and
said,—
"You heard what was said, sir. It is
for you now to aid justice by telling us
at what distance the murderer must have
been when he fired."
"I don't guess riddles," replied the
physician coarsely.
"Ah, have a care, sir!" said M. Gal-
pin. "Justice, whom I here represent,
has the right and the means to enforce
respect. You are a physician, sir; and
your science is able to answer my ques-
tion with , almost mathematical accu-
racy."
The physician laughed, and said, —
"Ah, indeed! Science has reached
that point, has it? Which science?
Medical jurisprudence, no doubt,— that
part of our profession which is at the
service of the courts, and obeys the
judges' behests."
"Sir!"
But the doctor was not the man to al-
low himself to be defeated a second time,
lie went on coolly, —
"I know what you are going to say:
there is no handbook of medical juris-
prudence which does not peremptorily
settle the question you ask me. I have
studied these handbooks, these formida-
ble weapons which you gentlemen of the
bar know so well how to handle. I
know the opinions of a Devergie and an
Orfila, I know even what Casper and
Tardieu, and a host of others, teach on
that subject. I am fully aware that
these gentlemen claim to be able to tell
you by the inch at what distance a shot
has been fired. But I am not so skilful.
I am only a poor country-practitioner, a
simple healer of diseases. And before I
give an opinion which may cost a poor
devil his life, innocent though he be, I
must have time to reflect, to consult data,
and to compare other cases in my prac-
tice."
He was so evidently right in reality,
if not in form, that even M. Galpin gave
way.
"It is merely as a matter of infor-
mation that I request your opinion, sir,"
he replied. "Your real and carefully-
considered professional opinion will, of
course, be given in a special statement."
"Ah, if that is the case I"
"Pray, inform me, then, unofficially,
what you think of the nature of the
wpunds of Count Claudieuse."
Dr. Seignebos settled his spectacles
ceremoniously on his nose, and then re-
plied, —
"My impression, so far as I am now
able to judge, is that the count has stated
the facts precisely as they were. I am
quite ready to believe that the murderer
was lying in ambush behind one of the
piles of wood, and at the distance which
he has mentioned. I am also able to af-
firm that the two shots were fired at dif-
ferent distances, — one much nearer than
the other. The proof of it lies in the na-
ture of the wounds, one of which, near
the hip, may be scientifically called " —
"But we know at what distance a ball
is spent," broke in M. Seneschal, whom
the doctor's dogmatic tone began to an-
noy.
"Ah, do we know that, indeed? You
know it, M. Seneschal? Well, I declare
I do not know it. To be sure, I bear in
mind, what you seem to forget, that we
have no longer, as in former days, only
three or four kinds of guns. Did you
think of the immense variety of fire-
arms, French and English, American and
German, which are nowadays found in
everybody's hands? Do you not see, you
who have been a lawyer and a magis-
trate, that the whole legal question will


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
15
be based upon this grave and all-impor-
tant point?"
Thereupon the physician resumed his
instruments, resolved to give no other an-
swer, and was about to go to work once
more, when fearful cries were- heard
without; and the lawyers, the mayor, and
the countess herself, rushed at once to
the door.
These cries were, unfortunately, not
uttered without cause. The roof of the
main building had just fallen in, burying
under its ruins the poor drummer who
bad a few hours ago beaten the alarm,
and one of the firemen, the' most re-
spected carpenter in Sauveterre, and a
father of five children.
Capt. Parenteau seemed to be mad-
dened by this disaster; and all vied with
each other in efforts to rescue the poor
fellows, who were uttering shrieks of hor-
ror that rose high above the crash of fall-
ing timbers. But all their endeavors
were unavailing. One of the gen-
darmes and a farmer, who had nearly
succeeded in reaching the sufferers, bare-
ly escaped being burnt themselves, and
were only rescued after having been dan-
gerously injured. Then only it seemed
as if all became fully aware of the abom-
inable crime committed by the incendi-
ary. Then only the clouds of smoke and
the columns of fire, which rose high into
the air, were accompanied by fierce cries
of vengeance rising heavenwards.
"Death to the incendiary I Death!"
At this moment M. Seneschal felt
himself inspired with a sudden thought.
He knew how cautious peasants are, and
how difficult it is to make them tell what
they know. He climbed, therefore, upon
a heap of fallen beams, and said in a
clear, loud voice, —
"Yes, my friends, you are right: death
to the incendiary! Yes, the unfortunate
victims of the basest of all crimes must
be avenged. We must find out the in-
cendiary; we must I You want it to be
done, don't you? Well, it depends only
on you. There must be some one among
you who knows something about this
matter. Let him come forward and tell
us what he has seen or heard. Re-
member that the smallest trifle may be a
clew to the crime, i You would be as bad
as the incendiary himself, if you con-
cealed him. Just think it over, con-
sider."
Loud voices were heard in the crowd;
then suddenly a voice said, —
"There is one here who can tell."
"Who?"
"Cocoleu. He was there from the be-
ginning. It was he who went and
brought the children of the countess out
of their room. What has become of
him? — Cocoleu, Cocoleu!"
One must have lived in the country,
among these simple-minded peasants, to
understand the excitement and the fury
of all these men and women as they
crowded around the ruins of Valpinson.
People in town do not mind brigands, in
general: they have their gas, their strong
doors, and the police. They are general-
ly little afraid of fire. They have their
fire-alarms; and at the first spark the
neighbor cries, "Pire I" The engines
come racing up; and water comes forth
as if by magic. But it is very different
in the country: here every man is con-
stantly under a sense of his isolation. A
simple latch protects his door; and no
one watches over his safety at night. If
a murderer should attack him, his cries
could bring no help. If fire should break
out, his house would be burnt down be-
fore the neighbors could reach it; and he
is happy who can saw his own life and
that of his family. Hence all these good
people, whom the mayor's words had
deeply excited, were eager to find out the
only man who knew any thing about this
calamity, Cocoleu.
He was well known among them, and
for many years.
There was not one among them who
had not given him a piece of bread, or a
bowl of soup, when he was hungry; not
one of them had ever refused him a
night's rest on the straw in his barn,
when it was raining or freezing, and the
poor fellow wanted a shelter.
For Cocoleu was one of those unfortu-
nate beings who labor under a grievous
physical or moral deformity.
Some twenty years ago, a wealthy
land-owner in Brechy had sent to the
nearest town for half a dozen painters,
whom he kept at his house nearly a whole
summer, painting and decorating his new-
ly-built house. One of these men had
seduced a girl in the neighborhood, whom
he had bewitched by his long white
blouse, his handsome brown mustache,
his good spirits, gay songs, and flattering
speeches. But, when the work was done,
the tempter had flown away with the
others, without thinking any more of the
poor girl than of the last cigar which he
had smoked.
And yet she was expecting a child.
When she could no longer conceal her
condition, she was turned out of the
house in which she had been employed;
and her family, unable to support them-
selves, drove her away without mercy.
Overcome with grief, shame, and re-


16
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
morse, poor Colette wandered from farm
to farm, begging, insulted, laughed at,
beaten even at times. Thus it came
about, that in a dark wood, one dismal
winter evening, she gave life to a male
child. No one ever understood how
mother and child managed to survive.
But both lived; and for many a year
they were seen in and around Sauve-
terre, covered with rags, and living upon
the dear-bought generosity of the peas-
ants.
Then the mother died, utterly forsaken
by human help, as she had lived. They
found her body, one morning, in a ditch
by the wayside.
The child survived alone. He was
then eight years old, quite strong and
tall for his age. A farmer took pity on
him, and took him home. The little
wretch was not fit for any thing: he
could not even keep his master's cows.
During his mother's lifetime, his silence,
his wild looks, and his savage appearance,
had been attributed to his wretched
mode of life. But, when people began to
be interested in him, they found out that
his intellect had never been aroused. He
was an idiot, and, besides, subject to that
terrible nervous affection which at times
shakes the whole body, and disfigures the
face by the violence of uncontrollable
convulsions. He was not a deaf-mute;
but he could only stammer out with in-
tense difficulty a few disjointed syllables.
Sometimes the country-people would say
to him, —
"Tell us your name, and you shall
have a cent."
Then it took him five minutes' hard
work to utter, amid a thousand painful
contortions, the name of his mother.
li Co-co-co-lette."
Hence came his name Cocoleu. It had
been ascertained that he was utterly un-
able to do any thing; and people ceased to
interest themselves in his behalf. The
consequence was, that he became a vaga-
bond as of old.
It was about this time that Dr. Seigne-
bos, on one of his visits, met him one
dav on the public road.
This excellent man had, among other
extraordinary notions, the conviction that
idiocy is nothing more than a defective
state of the brains, which may be reme-
died by the use of certain well-known
substances, such as phosphorus, for in-
stance. He lost no time in seizing upon
this admirable opportunity to test his
theory. Cocoleu was sent for, and in-
stalled in his house. He subjected him
to a treatment which he kept secret; and
only a druggist at Sauveterre, who was
also well known as entertaining very ex-
traordinary notions, knew what had hap-
pened. At the end of eighteen months,
Cocoleu had fallen off terribly : he talked
perhaps, a little more fluently; but his
intelleet had not been perceptibly im-
proved.
Dr. Seignebos was discouraged. He
made up a parcel of things which he had
given to his patient, put it into his hands,
pushed him out of his door, and told him
never to come back again.
The doctor had rendered Cocoleu a sad
service. The poor idiot had lost the habit
of privation: he had forgotten how to go
from door to door, asking for alms; and
he would have perished, if his good for-
tune had not led him to knock at the door
of the house at Valpinson.
Count Claudieuse and his wife were
touched by his wretchedness, and deter-
mined to take charge of him. They gave
him a room and a bed at one of the farm-
houses; but they could never induce him
to stay there. He was by nature a vaga-
bond; and the instinct was too strong for
him. In winter, frost and snow kept him
in for a little while; but, as soon as the
first leaves came out, he went wandering
again through forest and field, remaining
absent often for weeks altogether.
At last, however, something seemed to
have been aroused in him, which looked
like the instinct of a domesticated animal.
His attachment to the countess resem-
bled that of a dog, even in the capers and
cries with which he greeted her w henever
he saw her. Often, w hen she went out, he
accompanied her, running and frolicking
around her just like a dog. He was also
very fond of little girls, and seemed to
resent it when he was kept from them:
for people were afraid his nervous attacks
might affect the children.
With time he had also become capable
of performing some simple service. He
could be intrusted with certain messages:
he could water the flowers, summon a ser-
vant, or even carry a letter to the post-
office at Brechy. His progress in this re-
spect was so marked, that some of the
more cunning peasants began to suspect
that Cocoleu was not so "innocent," after
all, as he looked, and that he was cleverly
playing the fool in order to enjoy life
easily-
"We have him at last," cried several
voices at once. "Here he is; here he
is!"
The crowd made way promptly; and
almost immediately a young man ap-
peared, led and pushed forward by several
persons. Cocoleu's clothes, all in disor-
der, showed clearly that he had offered a


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
17
stout resistance. He was a youth of about
eighteen years, very tall, quite beardless,
excessively thin, and so loosely jointed,
that he looked like a hunchback. A mass
of reddish hair came down his low, re-
treating forehead. His small eyes, his
enormous mouth bristling with sharp
teeth, his broad flat nose, and his im-
mense ears, gave to his face a strange idi-
otic expression, and to his whole appear-
ance a most painful brutish air.
"What must we do with him?" asked
the peasants of the mayor.
"We must take him before the magis-
trate, my friends," replied M. Seneschal,
— " down there in that cottage, where you
have carried the count."
"And we'll make him talk," threatened
his captors. "You hear I Go on, quick I
IV.
M. Galpin and the doctor had both
considered it a point of honor who should
show the most perfect indifference; and
thus they had betrayed by no sign their
curiosity to know what was going on out
doors. Dr. Seignebos was on the point
of resuming the operation; and, as coolly
as if he had been in his own rooms at
home, he was washing the sponge which
he had just used, and wiping his instru-
ments. The magistrate, on the other
hand, was standing in the centre of the
room, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed
upon the infinite, apparently. It may be
he was thinking of his star which had at
last brought him that famous criminal case
for which he had ardently longed many
a year.
Count Claudieuse, however, was very
far from sharing their reserve. He was
tossing about on his bed; and as soon as
the mayor and his friend re-appeared,
looking quite upset, he exclaimed, —
"What does that uproar mean?"
And, when he had heard of the calami-
ty, he added, —
"Great God! And I was complaining
of my losses. Two men killed I That is
a real misfortune. Poor men! to die be-
cause they were so brave, — Bolton hardly
thirty years old; Guillebault, a father
of a family, who leaves five children, and
not a cent!"
The countess, coming in at that mo-
ment, heard his last words.
"As long as we have a mouthful of
bread," she said in a voice full of deep
emotion, "neither Bolton's mother, nor
Guillebault's children, shall ever know
what want is."
She could not say another word; for at
a
that moment the peasants crowded into
the room, pushing the prisoner before
them.
"Where is the magistrate?" they
asked. "Here is a witness!"
"What, Cocoleu!" exclaimed the count.
"Yes, he knows something: he said so
himself. We want him to tell it to the
magistrate. We want the incendiary to
be caught."
Dr. Seignebos had frowned fiercely.
He execrated Cocoleu, whose sight re-
called to him that great failure which
the good people of Sauveterre were not
likely to forget soon.
"You do not really mean to examine
him?" he asked, turning to M. Galpin.
"Why not?" answered the magistrate
dryly.
"Because he is an imbecile, sir, an idiot.
Because he cannot possibly understand
your questions, or the importance of his
answers."
"He may give us a valuable hint,
nevertheless."
"He 1 A man who has no sense?
You don't really think so. The law
cannot attach any importance to the evi-
dence of a fool."
M. Galpin betrayed his impatience by
an increase of stiffness, as he replied, —
"I know my duty, sir."
"And I," replied the physician, — "I
also know what I have to do. You have
summoned me to assist you in this inves-
tigation. I obey; and I declare official-
ly, that the mental condition of this un-
fortunate man makes his evidence utterly
worthless. I appeal to the common-
wealth attorney."
He had hoped for a word of encourage-
ment from M. Daubigeon; but nothing
came. Then he went on, —
"Take care, sir, or you may get your-
self into trouble. What would you do if
this poor fellow should make a formal
charge against any one? Could you at-
tach any weight to his word?"
The peasants were listening with open
mouths. One of them said, —
"Oh! Cocoleu is not so innocent as he
looks."
"He can say very well what he wants
to say, the scamp!" added another.
"At all events, I am indebted to him for
the life of my children," said the count
gently. "He thought of them when I
was unconscious, and when no one else re-
membered them. — Come, Cocoleu, come
nearer, my friend, don't be afraid: there
is no one here to hurt you."
It was very well the count used such
kind words; for Cocoleu was thoroughly
terrified by the brutal treatment he had


18
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
received, and was trembling in all his
limbs.
"I am — not — a — afraid," he stam-
mered out.
"Once more I protest," said the physi-
cian.
He had found out that he stood not
alone in his opinion. Count Claudieuse
came to his assistance, saying, —
"I really think it might be dangerous
to question Cocoleu."
But the magistrate was master of the
situation, and conscious of all the powers
conferred upon him by the laws of France
in such cases.
"I must beg, gentlemen," he said, in a
tone which did not allow of any reply, —
"I must beg to be permitted to act in my
own way.'
And sitting down, he asked Coco-
leu, —
"Come, my boy, listen to me, and try to
understand what I say. Do you know
what has happened at Valpinson?"
"Fire," replied the idiot.
"Yes, my friend, fire, which burns
down the house of your benefactor, —
fire, which has killed two good men.
But that is not all: they have tried to
murder the count. Do you see him there
in his bed, wounded, and covered with
blood? Do you see the countess, how
she suffers?"
Did Coeoleu follow him? His distorted
features betrayed nothing of what might
be going on within him.
"Nonsense!" growled the doctor," what
obstinacy I what folly!"
M. Galpin heard him, and said angri-
]y, —
"Sir, do not force me to remind you
that I have, not far from here, men
whose duty it is to see that my authority
is respected here."
Then, turning again to the poor idiot,
he went on, —
"All these misfortunes are the work of
a vile incendiary. You hate him, don't
you; you detest him, the rascal!"
"Yes," said Cocoleu.
"You want him to be punished, don't
you?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Well, then, you must help me to find
him out, so that the gendarmes may catch
him, and put him in jail. You know
who it is; you have told these people,
and " —
He paused, and after a moment, as
Coeoleu kept silent, he asked, —
"But, now I think of it, whom has this
poor fellow talked to?"
Not one of the peasants could tell.
They inquired; but no answer came.
Perhaps Coeoleu had never said what he
was reported to have said.
"The fact is," said one of the tenants
at Valpinson, "that the poor devil, so to
say, never sleeps, and that he is roaming
about all night around the house and the
farm-buildings."
This was a new light for M. Galpin:
suddenly changing the form of his inter-
rogatory, he asked Cocoleu, —
"Where did you spend the night?"
"In — in — the — court — yard."
"Were you asleep when the fire broke
out?"
"No."
"Did you see it commence?"
"Yes."
"How did it commence?"
The idiot looked fixedly at the Count-
ess Claudieuse with the timid and abject
expression of a dog who tries to read
something in his master's eyes.
"Tell us, my friend," said the Countess
gently, — " tells us."
A flash of intelligence shone in Coco-
leu's eyes.
"They — they set it on fire, "he stam-
mered."
"'On purpose?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"A gentleman."
There was not a person present at this
extraordinary scene who did not anxious-
ly hold his breath as the word was uttered.
The doctor alone kept cool, and ex-
claimed, —
"Such an examination is sheer fol-
ly!"
But the magistrate did not seem to hear
his words; and, turning to Cocoleu, he
asked him, in a deeply-agitated tone of
voice ? —
"Did you see the gentleman?"
"Yes."
"Do you know who he is?"
"Very — very — well."
"What is his name?"
"Oh, yes!"
"What is his name? tell us."
Cocoleu's features betrayed the fearful
anguish of his mind. He hesitated, and
at last .he answered, making a violent
effort, — " Bois — Bois — Boiscoran!"
The name was received with murmurs
of indignation and incredulous laughter.
There was not a shadow of doubt or of
suspicion. The peasants said, —
"M. de Boiscoran an incendiary! Who
does he think will believe that story?"
"It is absurd !" said Count Claudieuse.
"Nonsense!" repeated the mayor and
his friend.
Dr. Seignebos had taken off his specta-


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
19
cles, and was wiping them with an air of
intense satisfaction.
"What did I tell you? " he exclaimed.
"But the gentleman did not condescend to
attach any importance to my sugges-
tions."
The magistrate was by far the most ex-
cited man in the crowd. He had turned
excessively pale, and made, visibly, the
greatest efforts to preserve his equanimi-
ty. The commonwealth attorney leaned
over towards him, and whispered, —
"If I were in your place, I would stop
here, and consider the answer as not
given."
But M. Gal pin was one of those men
who are blinded by self-conceit, and who
would rather be cut to pieces than admit
that they have been mistaken. He an-
swered, —
"I shall go on."
Then turning once more to Cocoleu, in
the midst of so deep a silence that the
buzzing of a fly would have been distinct-
ly heard, he asked, —
"Do you know, my boy, what you say?
Do you know that you are accusing a
man of a horrible crime?"
Whether Cocoleu understood, or not, he
was evidently deeply agitated. Big drops
of perspiration rolled slowly down his
temples; and nervous shocks agitated his
limbs, and convulsed his features.
"I, I — am — telling the — truth!" he
said at last.
"M. de Boiscoran has set Valpinson on
fire?"
"Yes."
"How did he do it?"
Cocoleu's restless eyes wandered inces-
santly from the count, who looked indig-
nant, to the i countess, who seemed to
listen with painful surprise. The magis-
trate repeated,—
"Speak!"
After another moment's hesitation, the
idiot began to explain what he had seen;
and it took him many minutes to state,
amid countless contortions, and painful
efforts to speak, that he had seen M. de
Boiscoran pull out some papers from his
pocket, light them with a match, put
them under a rick of straw near by, and
push the burning mass towards two enor-
mous piles of wood which were in close
contact with a vat full of spirits.
"This is sheer nonsense!" cried the
doctor, thus giving words to what they
all seemed to feel.
But M. Galpin had mastered his ex-
citement. He said solemnly, —
"At the first sign of applause or of dis-
pleasure, I shall send for the gendarmes,
and have the room cleared."
Then, turning once more to Cocoleu, he
said, —
"Since you saw M. de Boiscoran so
distinctly, tell us how he was dressed."
"He had light trousers on," replied the
idiot, stammering still most painfully, " a
dark-brown shooting-jacket, and a big
straw hat. His trousers were stuffed
into his boots."
Two or three peasants looked at each
other, as if they had at last hit upon a
suspicious fact. The costume which
Cocoleu had so accurately described was
well known to them all.
"And when he had kindled the fire,"
said the magistrate again, "what did he
'do next?"
"He hid behind the woodpile."
"And then?"
"He loaded his gun, and, when master
came out, he fired."
Count Claudieuse was so indignant
that he forgot the pain which his wounds
caused him, and raised himself on his bed.
"It is monstrous," he exclaimed, "to
allow an idiot to charge an honorable
man with such a crime!. If he really saw
M. de Boiscoran set the house on fire,
and hide himself in order to murder me,
why did he not come and warn me?"
M. Galpin repeated the question sub- r
missively, to the great amazement of the
mayor and M. Daubigeon.
"Why did you not give warning?" he
asked Cocoleu.
But the efforts which the unfortunate
man had made during the last half-hour
had exhausted his little strength. He
broke out into stupid laughter; and
almost instantly one of his fearful ner-
vous attacks overcame him: he fell down
yelling, and had to be carried away.
The magistrate had risen, pale and
deeply excited, but evidently meditating
on what was to be done next. The com-
monwealth attorney asked him in an un-
dertone what he was going to do; and the
lawyer replied, —
"Prosecute!"
"What?"
"Can I do otherwise in my position?
God is my witness that I tried my best,
by urging this poor idiot, to prove the
absurdity of his accusation. But the
result has disappointed me."
"And now?"
"Now I can no longer hesitate. There
have been ten witnesses present at the
examination. My honor is at stake. I must
establish either the guilt or the innocence
of the man whom Cocoleu accuses." Im-
mediately, walking up to the count's bed,
he asked,—
"Will you have the kindness, Count


20
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
Claudieuse, to tell me what your rela-
tions are to M. de Boiscoran?"
Surprise and indignation caused the
wounded man to blush deeply.
"Can it be possible, sir, that you be-
lieve the words of that idiot?"
"I believe nothing," answered the
magistrate. "My duty is to unravel the
truth; and I mean to do it."
"The doctor has told you what the
state of Cocoleu's mind is?"
"Count, I beg you will answer my
question."
Count Claudieuse looked angry; but
he replied promptly, —
"My relations with M. de Boiscoran
are neither good nor bad. We have'
none."
"It is reported, I have heard it myself,
that you are on bad terms."
"On no terms at all. I never leave
Valpinson, and M. de Boiscoran spends
nine months of the year in Paris. He
has never called at my house, and I have
never been in his."
"You have been overheard speaking
of hitn in unmeasured terms."
"That may be. We are neither of the
same age, nor have we the same tastes or
the same opinions. He is young: I am
old. He likes Paris and the great world:
I am fond of solitude and hunting. I am
a Legitimist: he used to be an Orleanist,
and now he is a Republican. I believe
that the descendant of our old kings
alone can save the country; and he is
convinced that the happiness of France
is possible only under a Republic. But
two men may be enemies, and yet esteem
each other. M. de Boiscoran is an hon-
orable man: he has done his duty bravely
in the war, he has fought well, and has
been wounded."
M. Galpin noted down these answers
with extreme care. When he had done
so, he continued, —-
"The question is not one of political
opinions only. You have had personal
difficulties with M. de Boiscoran."
"Of no importance."
"I beg pardon : you have been at law."
"Our estates adjoin each other. There
is an unlucky brook between us, which is
a source of constant trouble to the neigh-
bors."
M. Galpin shook his head, and added, —
"These are not the only difficulties
you have had with each other. Every-
body in the country knows that you
have had violent altercations."
Count Claudieuse seemed to be in great
distress.
"It is true: we have used hard words.
M. de Boiscoran had two wretched dogs
that were continually escaping from his
kennels, and came hunting in my fields.
You cannot imagine how much game
they destroyed."
"Exactly so. And one day you met M.
de Boiscoran, and you warned him that
you would shoot his dogs."
"I must confess I was furious. But
I was wrong, a thousand times wrong: I
did threaten " —
"That is it. You were both of you
armed. You threatened one another: he
actually aimed at you. Don't deny it.
A number of persons have seen it; and I
know it. He has told me so himself."
V.
There was not a person in the whole
district who did not know of what a fear-
ful disease poor Cocoleu was suffering;
and everybody knew, also, that it was
perfectly useless to try and help him.
The two men who had taken him out
had therefore laid him simply on a pile
of wet straw, and then they had left him
to himself, eager as they were to see and
hear what was going on.
It must be said, in justice to the several
hundred peasants who were crowding'
around the smoking ruins of Valpinson,
that they treated the madman who had
accused M. de Boiscoran of such a crime,
neither with cruel jokes nor with fierce
curses. Unfortunately, first impulses,
which are apt to be good impulses, do
not last long. One of those idle good-
for-nothings, drunkards, envious scamps
who are found in every community, in
the country as well as in the city, cried
out,—
"And why not?"
These few words opened at once a door
to all kinds of bold guesses.
Everybody had heard something
about the quarrel between Count Clau-
dieuse and M. de Boiscoran. It was well
known, moreover, that the provocation
had always come from the count, and
that the latter had invariably given way
in the end. Why, therefore, might not
M. de Boiscoran, impatient at last, have
resorted to such means in order to avenge
himself on a man whom they thought
he must needs hate, and whom he proba-
bly feared at the same time?
"Perhaps he would not do it, because
he is a nobleman, and because he is
rich ?" they added sneeringly.
The next step was, of course, to look
out for circumstances which might sup-
port such a theory; and the opportunity
was not lacking. Groups were formed;


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
21
and soon two men and a woman declared
aloud that they could astonish the world
if they chose to talk. They were urged
to tell what they knew; and, of course,
they refused. But they had said too
much already. Willing or not willing,
they were carried up to the house, where,
at that very moment, M. Galpin was
examining Count Claudieuse. The excit-
ed crowd made such a disturbance, that
M. Seneschal, trembling at the idea
of a new accident, rushed out to the
door.
"What is it now?" he asked.
"More witnesses," replied the peasants.
"Here are some more witnesses."
The mayor turned round, and, after
having exchanged glances with M. Dau-
bigeon, he said to the magistrate, —
"They are bringing you some more
witnesses, sir."
No doubt M. Galpin was little pleased
at the interruption; but he knew the peo-
ple well enough to bear in mind, that,
unless he took them at the moment when
they were willing to talk, he might never
be able to get any thing out of them at
any other time.
"We shall return some other time to
our conversation," he said to Count
Claudieuse.
Then, replying to M. Seneschal, he
said,—
"Let the witnesses come in, but one by
one."
The first who entered was the only son
of a well-to-do farmer in the village of
Brechy, called Ribot. He was a young
fellow of about twenty-five, broadshoul-
dered, with a very small head, a low
brow, and formidable crimson ears. For
twenty miles all around, he was reputed
to be an irresistible beau, — a reputation
of which he was very proud. After having
asked him his name, his first names, and
his age, M. Galpin said,—
"What do you know?" -
The young man straightened himself,
and with a marvellously conceited air,
which set all the peasants a-laughing, he
replied, —
"I was out that night on some little
private business of my own. I was on the
other side of the chateau of Boiscoran.
Somebody was waiting for me, and I
was behind time: so I cut right across
the marsh. I knew the rains of the last
days would have filled all the ditches;
but, when a man is out on such impor-
tant business as mine was, he can always
find his way " —
"Spare us those tedious details," said
the magistrate coldly. The handsome
fellow looked surprised, rather than
offended, by the interruption, and then
went on, —
"As your Honor desires. Well, it was
about eight o'clock, or a little more, and
it was growing dark, when I reached the
Seille swamps. They were overflowing;
and the water was two inches above the
stones of the canal. I asked myself how
I should get across without spoiling my
clothes, when I saw M. de Boiscoran
coming towards me from the other side."
"Are you quite sure it was he?"
"Why, I should think so! I talked
to him. But stop, he was not afraid of
getting wet. Without much ado, he
rolled up his trousers, stuffed them into
the tops of his tall boots, and went right
through. Just then he saw me, and
seemed to be surprised. I was as much
so as he was. 'Why, is it you, sir?' I
said. He replied, 'Yes: I have to see
somebody at Brechy.' That was very
probably so: still I said again, 'But
you have chosen a queer way.' He
laughed. 'I did not know the swamps
were overflowed,' he answered, 'and I
thought I would shoot some snipes.' As
he said this, he showed me his gun. At
that moment I had nothing to say; but
now, when I think it over, it looks queer
to me."
M. Galpin had written down the
statement as fast as it was given. Then
he asked, —
"How was M. de Boiscoran dressed?"
"Stop. He had grayish trousers on, a
shooting-jacket of brown velveteen, and
a broad-brimmed panama hat."
The count and the countess looked
distressed and almost overcome; nor did
the mayor and his friend seem to be less
troubled. One circumstance in Ribot's
evidence seemed to have struck them
with peculiar force, — the fact that he had
seen M. de Boiscoran push his trousers
inside his boots.
"You can go," said M. Galpin to the
young man. "Let another witness come
in."
The next one was an old man of bad
reputation, who lived alone in an old
hut two miles from Valpinson. He was
called Father Gaudry. Unlike young
Ribot, who had shown great assurance,
the old'man looked humble and cringing
in his dirty, ill-smelling rags. After
having given his name, he said, —
"It might have been eleven o'clock at
night, and I was going through the
forest of Rochepommier, along one of the
little by-paths " —
"You were stealing wood!" said the'
magistrate sternly.
"Great God, what an idea!" cried the


22
'WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
old man, raising his hands to heaven.
"How can you say such a thing! I steal
wood! No, my dear sir, I was very
quietly going to sleep in the forest, so as
to be up with daylight, and gather cham-
pignons and other mushrooms to sell at
Sauveterre. Well, I was trotting along,
when, all of a sudden, I hear footsteps
behind me. Naturally, I was fright-
ened."
"Because you were stealing!"
"Oh, no! my dear sir; only, at night,
you understand. Well, I hid behind a
tree; and almost at the same moment I
saw M. de Boiscoran pass by. I recog-
nized him perfectly in spite of the dark;
for he seemed to be in a great rage,
talked loud to himself, swore, gesticulat-
ed, and tore handfuls of leaves from
the branches."
"Did he have a gun?"
"Yes. my dear sir; for that was the
very thing that frightened me so. I
thought he was a keeper."
The third and last witness was a
good old woman, Mrs. Courtois, whose
little farm lay on the other side of the
forest of Rochepommier. When she was
asked, she hesitated a moment, and then
she said, —
"I do not know much; but I will tell
you all I do know. As we expected to
have a house full of workmen a few
days hence, and as I was going to bake
bread to-morrow, I was going with my
ass to the mill on Sauveterre Mountain
to fetch flour. The miller had not any
ready; but he told me, if I could wait, he
would let me have some: and so I staid
to supper. About ten o'clock, they gave
me a bag full of flour. The boys put it
on my ass, and I went home. I was about
half-way, and it was, perhapSj eleven
o'clock, when, just at the edge of the
forest of Rochepommier, my ass stumbled,
and the bag fell off. I had a great deal of
trouble, for I was not strong enough to
lift it alone; and just then a man came
out of the woods, quite near me. I called
to him, and he came. It was M. de
Boiscoran, I asked him to help me; and
at once, without losing a moment, he puts
his gun down, lifts the bag from the
ground, and puts it on my ass. I thank
him. He says, ' Welcome,' and —that is
all."
The mayor had been all this time
standing in the door of the chamber, per-
forming the humble duty of a doorkeep-
er, and barring the entrance to the eager
and curious crowd outside. When Mrs.
Courtois retired, quite bewildered by her
own words, and regretting what she had
said, he called out, —
"Is there any one else who knows any
thing?"
As nobody appeared, he closed the
door, and said curtly, —
"Well, then, you can go home now, my
friends. Let the law have free course."
The law, represented by the magis-
trate, was a prej* at that moment to the
most cruel perplexity. M. Galpin was
utterly overcome by consternation. He
sat at the little table, on which he had
been writing, his head resting on his
hands, thinking, apparently, how he could
find a way out of this labyrinth.
All of a sudden he rose, and forgetting,
for a moment, his customary rigidity, he
let his mask of icy impassiveness drop
off his face, and said, —
"Well?" as if, in his despair, he had
hoped for some help or advice in his
troubles, — " well?"
No answer came.
All the others were as much troubled
as he was. They all tried to shake off
the overwhelming impression made by
this accumulation of evidence; but in
vain. At last, after a moment's silence,
the magistrate said with strange bitter-
ness,—
"You see, gentlemen, I was right in
examining Cocoleu. Oh! don't attempt
to deny it: you share my doubts and my
suspicions, I see it. Is there one among
you who would dare assert that the
terrible excitement of this poor man has
not restored to him for a time the use of
his reason? When he told you that he
had witnessed the crime, and when he
gave the name of the crimiual, you
looked incredulous. But then other
witnesses came; and their united evi-
dence, corresponding without a missing
link, constitutes a terrible presumption."
He became animated again. Profes-
sional habits, stronger than every thing
else, obtained once more the mastery.
"M. de Boiscoran was at Valpinson
to-night: that is clearly established.
Well, how did he get here? By con-
cealing himself. Between his own house
and Valpinson there are two public
roads, — one by Brechy, and another
around the swamps. Does M. de Bois-
coran take either of the two? No. He
cuts straight across the marshes, at the
risk of sinking in, or of getting wet from
head to foot. On his return he chooses,
in spite of the darkness, the forest of
Rochepommier, unmindful of the danger
he runs to lose his way, and to wander
about in it till daybreak. What was he
doing this for? Evidently, in order not
to be seen. And, in fact, whom does he
meet ? — a loose fellow, Ribot, who is


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
23
himself in hiding on account of some love-
intrigue; a wood-stealer, Gaudry, whose
only anxiety is to avoid the gendarmes;
an old woman, finally, Mrs. Courtois,
who has been belated by an accident.
All his precautions were well chosen;
but Providence was watching."
"O Providence!" growled Dr. Seigne-
bos, — " Providence!"
But M. Galpin did not even hear the
interruption. Speaking faster and faster,
he went on, — .''
"Would it at least be possible to plead
in behalf of M. de Boiscoran a difference
in time? No. At what time was he
seen to come to this place? At night-
fall. 'It was half-past eight,' says Ribot,
'when M. de Boiscoran crossed the canal
at the Seille swamps.' He might, there-
fore, have easily reached Valpinson at
half-past nine. At that hour the crime
had not yet been committed. When was
he seen returning home? Gaudry and
the woman Courtois have told you the
hour, — after eleven o'clock. At that
time Count Claudieuse had been shot,
and Valpinson was on fire. Do we
know any thing of M. de Boiscoran's
temper at that time? Yes, - we do.
AVhen he came this way he was quite
cool. He is very much surprised at
meeting Ribot; but he explains to him
very fully how he happens to be at that
place, and also why he has a gun.
"He says he is on his way to meet
somebody at Brechy, and he thought he
would shoot some birds. Is that admis-
sible? Is it even likely? However, let
us look at him on his way back. Gaudry
says he was walking very fast: he
seemed to be furious, and was pulling
handfuls of leaves from the branches.
What does Mrs. Courtois say? Nothing.
When she calls him, he does not venture
to run; that would have been a confes-
sion, but he is in a great hurry to help
her. And then? His way for a quarter
of an hour is the same as the woman's:
does he keep her company? No. He
leaves her hastily. He goes ahead, and
hurries home; for he thinks Count
Claudieuse is dead; he knows Valpin-
son is in flames; and he fears he will
hear the bells ring, and see the fire
raging."
It is not often that magistrates allow
themselves such familiarity; for judges,
and even lawyers, generally fancy they
are too high above common mortals, on
such occasions, to explain their views, to
state their impressions, and to ask, as it
were, for advice. Still, when the inquiry
is only begun, there are, properly speak-
ing, no fixed rules prescribed. As soon
as a crime has been reported to a French
magistrate, he is at liberty to do any
thing he chooses in order to discover the
guilty one. Absolutely master of the
case, responsible only to his conscience,
and endowed with extraordinary powers,
he proceeds as he thinks best. But, in
this affair at Valpinson, M. Galpin had
been carried away by the rapidity of the
events themselves. Since the first ques-
tion addressed to Cocoleu, up to the pres-
ent moment, he had not had time to
consider. And his proceedings had been
public; thus he felt naturally tempted to
explain them. N
"And you call this a legal inquiry?"
asked Dr. Seignebos.
He had taken off his spectacles, and
was wiping them furiously.
"An inquiry founded upon what ?" he
went on with such vehemence that no one
dared interrupt him, — " founded upon
the evidence of an unfortunate creature,
whom I, a physician, testify to be not re-
sponsible for what he says. Reason does
not go out and become lighted again, like
the gas in a street-lamp. A man is an
idiot, or he is not an idiot. He has always
been one; and he always will be one.
But you say, the other statements are
conclusive. Say, rather, that you think
they are. Why? Because you are pre-
judiced by Cocoleu's accusation. But
for it, you would never have troubled
yourselves about what M. de Boiscoran
did, or did not. He walked about the
whole evening. He has a right to do so.
He crossed the marsh. What hindered
him? He went through the woods.
Why should he not? He is met with by
people. Is not that quite natural? But
no: an idiot accuses him, and forthwith
all he does looks suspicious. He talks.
It is the insolence of a hardened criminal.
He is silent. It is the remorse of a guilty
man trembling with fear. Instead of
naming M. de Boiscoran, Cocoleu might
just as well have named me, Dr. Seigne-
bos. At once, all my doings would have
appeared suspicious; and I am quite sure
a thousand evidences of my guilt would
have been discovered. It would have
been an easy matter. Are not my opin-
ions more radical even than those of
M. de Boiscoran? For there is the key
to the whole matter. M. de Boiscoran
is a Republican; M. de Boiscoran ac-
knowledges no sovereignty but that of
the people " —
"Doctor," broke in the commonwealth
attorney, — " doctor, you are not thinking
of what you say."
"I do think of it, I assure you "—
But he was once more interrupted, .and


24
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
this time by Count Claudieuse, who
said, —
"For my part, I admit all the argu-
ments brought up by the magistrate.
But, above all probabilities, I put a fact,
— the character of the accused. M. de
Boiscoran is a man of honor and an ex-
cellent man. He is incapable of com-
mitting a mean and odious crime."
The others assented. M. Seneschal
added, —
"And I, I will tell you another thing.
What would have been the purpose in
such a crime? Ah I if M. de Boiscoran
had nothing to lose I But do you know
among all your friends a happier man
than he is ? — young, handsome, in excel-
lent health, immensely wealthy, esteemed
and popular with everybody. Finally,
there is another fact, which is still a
family secret, but which I may tell you,
and which will remove at once all suspi-
cions, — M. de Boiscoran is desperately in
love with Miss Dionysia de Chandore.
She returns his love; and day before yes-
terday the wedding-day was fixed on the
20th of next month."
In the mean time the hours had sped
on. It was half-past three by the clock
of the church in Brechy. Day was
breaking; and the light of the lamps was
turning pale. The morning mists began
to disappear; and the sunlight fell upon
the window-panes. But no one noticed
this: all these men gathered around the
bed of the wounded man were too deeply
excited. M. Galpin had listened to the
objections made by the others, without a
word or a gesture. He had so far re-
covered his self-control, that it would
have been difficult to see what impres-
sions they made upon his mind. At last,
shaking his head gravely, he said, —
"More than you, gentlemen, I feel a
desire to believe M. de Boiscoran inno-
cent. M. Daubigeon, who knows what I
mean, will tell you so. In my heart I
pleaded his cause long before you. But
I am the representative of the law; and
my duty is above my affections. Does it
depend on me to set aside Cocoleu's accu-
sation, however stupid, however absurd, it
may be? Can I undo the three state-
ments made by the witnesses, and con-
firming so strongly the suspicions aroused
by the first charge?"
Count Claudieuse was distressed be-
yond expression. At last he said, —
"The worst thing about it is, that M.
de Boiscoran thinks I am his enemy. I
should not wonder if he went and im-
agined that these charges and vile sus-
picions have been suggested by my wife
or by myself. If I could only get up!
At least, let M. de Boiscoran know dis-
tinctly that I am ready to answer for
him, as I would answer for myself. Co-
coleu, the wretched idiot! Ah, Gene-
vieve, my darling wife! why did you
induce him to talk? If you had not
insisted, he would have kept silent for-
ever." *
The countess succumbed at last to the
anxieties of this terrible night. At first
she had been supported by that exalta-
tion which is apt to accompany a great
crisis; but latterly she had felt exhaust-
ed. She had sunk upon a stool, near the
bed on which her two daughters were
lying; and, her head hid in the pillow,
she seemed to sleep. But she was not
asleep. When her husband reproached
her thus, she rose, pale, with swollen
eyes and distorted features, and said in
a piercing voice, —
"What? They have tried to kill my
Trivulce; our children have been near
unto death in the flames; and I should
have allowed any means to be unused by
which the guilty one may be found out?
No! I have only done what it was my
duty to do. Whatever may come of it,
I regret nothing."
"But, Genevieve, M. de Boiscoran is not
guilty: he cannot possibly be guilty.
How could a man who has the happiness
of being loved by Dionysia de Chandore,
and who counts the days to his wedding,
— how could he devise such a hideous
crime?"
"Let him prove his innocence," re-
plied the countess mercilessly.
The doctor smacked his lips in the
most impertinent manner.
"There is a woman's logic for you,"
he murmured.
"Certainly," saidM. Seneschal, "M. de
Boiscoran's innocence will be promptly
established. Nevertheless, the suspicion
will remain. And our people are so con-
stituted, that this suspicion will over-
shadow his whole life. Twenty years
hence, they will meet him, and they will
say, 'Oh, yes! the man who set Valpin-
son on fire !'"
It was not M. Galpin this time who
replied, but the commonwealth attorney.
He said sadly, —
"I cannot share your views; but that
does not matter. After what has passed,
our friend M. Galpin cannot retrace his
steps: his duty makes that impossible,
and, even more so, what is due to the
accused. What would all these people
say, who have heard Cocoleu's deposition,
and the evidence given by the witnesses,
if the inquiry were stopped? They
would certainly say M. de Boiscoran was


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
25
guilty, but that he was' not held re-
sponsible because he was rich and noble.
Upon my honor I believe him to be
innocent. But precisely because this is
my conviction, I maintain that his inno-
cence must be clearly established. No
doubt he has the means of doing so.
When he met Ribot, he told him he was
on his way to see somebody at Brechy."
"But suppose he never went there?"
objected M. Seneschal. "Suppose he did
not see anybody there? Suppose it was
only a pretext to satisfy Ribot's imperti-
nent curiosity?"
"Well, then, he would only have to
tell the truth in court. And look ! .here's
an important proof which almost by itself
relieves M. de Boiscoran. Would he not
have loaded his gun with a ball, if he
should ever have really thought of mur-
dering the count? But it was loaded
with nothing but small-shot."
"And he would never have missed me
at ten yards' distance," said the count.
Suddenly somebody was heard knock-
ing furiously at the door.
"Come in I " cried M. Seneschal.
The door opened, and three peasants
appeared, looking bewildered, but evi-
dently well pleased.
"We have just," said one of them,
"found something curious."
"What? " asked M. Galpin.
"It looks very much like a case; but
Pitard says it is the paper of a car-
tridge."
Count Claudieuse raised himself on
his pillows, and said eagerly, —
"Let me see! I have during these last
days fired several times quite near to the
house to frighten the birds away that eat
my fruit. I want to see if the paper is
mine."
The peasant gave it to him.
It was a very thin lead form, such as
contain the cartridges used in American
breech-loading guns. What was singu-
lar was that it was blackened by burnt
powder; but it had not been torn, nor had
it blazed up in the discharge. It was so
perfectly uninjured, that one could read
the embossed letters of the name of the
manufacturer, Clebb.
"That cartridge never belonged to me,"
said the count.
But as he uttered these words he turned
deadly pale, so pale, that his wife came
close to him, and looked at him with a
glance full of terrible anguish.
"Well?"
He made no reply.
But at that moment such silence was
so eloquent, that the countess felt sick-
ened, and whispered to him, —
"Then Cocoleu was right, after all I"
Not one feature of this dramatic scene
had escaped M. Galpin's eye. He had
seen on every face signs of a kind of ter-
ror; still he made no remark. He took
the metal case from the count's hands,
knowing that it might become an impor-
tant piece of evidence; and for nearly a
minute he turned it round and round,
looking at it from all sides, and examining
it in the light with the utmost attention.
Then turning to the peasants, who were
standing respectfully and uncovered close
by the door, he asked them, —
"Where did you find this cartridge, my
friends?"
"Close by the old tower, where they
keep the tools, and where the ivy is grow-
ing all over the old castle."
M. Seneschal had in the mean time suc-
ceeded in recovering his self-control, and
said now, —
"Surely the murderer cannot have
fired from there. You cannot even see the
door of the house from the old tower."
"That may be," replied the magistrate;
"but the cartridge-case does not necessa-
rily fall to the ground at the place where
the gun is discharged. It falls as soon as
the gun is cocked to reload."
This was so true, that even Dr. Seigne-
bos had nothing to say.
"Now, my friends," said M. Galpin,
"which of you has found this cartridge-
case?"
"We were all together when we saw it,
and picked it up."
"Well, then, all three of you must give
me your names and your domicile, so that
I can send for you when you are wanted."
This was done; and, when all formali-
ties were attended to, they went off with
numberless bows and doffings of hats.
Just at that moment the furious gallop of
a horse was heard approaching the house;
the next moment the man who had been
sent to Sauveterre for medicines, came in.
He was furious.
"That rascal of a druggist!" he said.
"I thought he would never open his
shop!"
Dr. Seignebos had eagerly seized the
things that were sent him, then, bowing
with mock respect to the magistrate, he
said,—
"I know very well, sir, how pressing
the necessity is to have the head of the
culprit cut off; but I think it is almost as
pressing to save the life of the murdered
man. I have probably delayed the bind-
ing-up of the count's wounds longer than I
ought to have done; and I beg you will
now leave me alone, so as to enable me to
do my duty to him."


2C
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
VI
There was nothing more to be done
for the magistrate, the commonwealth at-
torney, or the mayor. The doctor might
assuredly have used more polite lan-
guage; but people were accustomed to his
brutal ways; for it is surprising with
what- readiness men are tolerated in
France, under the pretext that they are
as they are, and that they must be taken
as they are. The three gentlemen, there-
fore, left the room, after having bid fare-
well to the countess, and after having
promised to send the count news of all
that might be discovered.
The fire was going out for want of
fuel. A few hours had sufficed to destroy
all that the hard work and incessant cares
of many years had accomplished. This
charming and much envied estate pre-
sented now nothing but a few half cal-
cined walls, heaps of black and gray
ashes, and still glowing timbers, from
which columns of smoke were slowly
rising upward. Thanks to Capt. Paren-
teau, all that they had been able to save
had been carried to a distance, and safely
stored away under the shelter of the
ruins of the old castle. There, furniture
and other articles were piled up pell-
mell. There, carts and agricultural ma-
chines were standing about, empty casks,
and sacks of oats and rye. There, also,
the cattle were gathered, that had been
drawn from their stalls with infinite
labor, and at great risk of life, — horses,
oxen, some sheep, and a dozen cows, who
lowed piteously. Few of the people had
left as yet. With greater zeal than ever
the firemen, aided by the peasants, del-
uged the remains of the dwelling-house
with water. They had nothing to fear
from the fire; but they desired to keep
the bodies of their unfortunate compan-
ions from being entirely consumed.
"What a terrible scourge fire is !" said
M. Seneschal.
Neither M. Galpin nor the mayor
made any answer. They also felt their
hearts oppressed by the sad sight before
them, in spite of all the intense excite-
ment before; for a fire is nothing as
long as the feverish excitement, and the
hope of saving something, continue to
keep us up, and as long as the red flames
illumine the horizon; but the next day,
when all is over, then we realize the ex-
tent of the misfortune.
The firemen recognized the mayor,
and greeted him with cheers. He went
rapidly towards them; and, for the first
time since the alarm had been raised, the
magistrate and the attorney were alone.
They were standing close by each other,
and for a moment kept silent, while each
one tried to read in the other's eyes the
secret of his thoughts. At last M. Dau-
bigeon asked,—
"Well?"
M. Galpin trembled.
"This is a fearful calamity," he said.
"What is your opinion?"
"Ah! do I know it myself? I have lost
my head: the whole thing looks to me
like a nightmare."
"You cannot really believe that M.
de Boiscoran is guilty?"
"I believe nothing. My reason tells
me he is innocent. I feel he must be in-
nocent; and yet I see terrible evidence
rising against him."
The attorney was overwhelmed.
"Alas!" he said, "why did you,
contrary to everybody's opinion, insist
upon examining Cocoleu, a poor idiotic
wretch?"
But the magistrate remonstrated, —
"You do not mean to reproach me, sir,
for having followed the impulses of my
conscience?"
"I reproach you with nothing."
"A horrible crime has been committed;
and my duty compelled me to do all that
lies in the power of man to discover the
culprit."
"Yes; and the man who is accused of
the crime is your friend, and only yester-
day you spoke of his friendship as your
best chance of success in life."
"Sir?"
"Are you surprised to find me so well
informed? Ah, you do not know that
nothing escapes the idle curiosity of a
village. I know that your dearest hope
was to become a member of M. de Bois-
coran's family, and that you counted,
upon him to back you in your efforts to
obtain the hand of one of his cousins."
"I do not deny that."
"Unfortunately, you have been tempt-
ed by the prestige you might gain in a
great and famous trial. You have laid
aside all prudence; and your projects are
forgotten. Whether M. de Boiscoran is
innocent or guilty, his family will never
forgive you your interference. If he is
guilty, they will blame you for having
handed him over to justice: if he is inno-
cent, they will blame you even more for
having suspected him."
M. Galpin hung his head as if to con-
ceal his trouble. Then he asked, —
"And what would you do in my
place?"
"I would withdraw from the case, al-
though it is rather late."


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
27
"If I did so, I should risk my caTeer."
"Even that would be better for you
than to engage in an affair in which you
cannot feel the calmness nor the impar-
tiality which are the first and indispens-
able virtues of an upright magistrate."
The latter was becoming impatient,
lie exclaimed, —
"Sir, do you think I am a man to be
turned aside from my duty by considera-
tions of friendship or personal interest?"
"I said nothing of the kind."
"Did you not see just now how I
carried on the inquiry? Did you see
me start when Cocoleu first mentioned
M. de Boiscoran's name? If he had de-
nounced any one else, I should probably
have let the matter rest there. But pre-
cisely because M. de Boiscoran is a friend
of mine, and because I have great expec-
tations from him, I have insisted and
persisted, and I do so still."
The commonwealth attorney shrugged
his shoulders.
"That is it exactly," he said. "Be-
cause M. de Boiscoran is a friend of
yours, you are afraid of being accused of
weakness; and you are going to be hard,
pitiless, unjust even, against him. Be-
cause you had great expectations from
him, you will insist upon finding him
guilty. And you call yourself impar-
tial?"
H. Galpin assumed all his usual rigi-
dity, and said solemnly, —
"I am sure of myself!"
"Have a care I"
"My mind is made up, sir."
It was time for M. Seneschal to join
them again: he returned, accompanied
by Capt. Parenteau.
"Well, gentlemen," he asked, "what
have you resolved?"
"We are going to Boiscoran," replied
the magistrate.
"What! Immediately?"
"Yes: I wish to find M. de Boiscoran
in bed. I am so anxious about it, that I
shall do without my clerk."
Capt. Parenteau bowed, and said, —
"Your clerk is here, sir: he was but
just inquiring for you." Thereupon he
called out as loud as he could, —
"Mechinet, Mechinet!"
A small, grayheaded man, jovial and
cheerful, came running up, and at once
proceeded to tell at full length how a
neighbor had told him what had hap-
pened, and how the magistrate had left
town, whereupon he, also, had started on
foot, and come after him as fast as he
could.
"Now will you go to Boiscoran?"
asked the mayor.
"I do not know yet. Mechinet will
have to look for some conveyance."
Quick like lightning, the clerk was
starting off, when M. Seneschal held him
back, saying,—
"Don't go. I place my horse and my
carriage at your disposal. Any one of
these peasants can drive you. Capt.
Parenteau and I will get into some farm-
er's wagon, and thus get back to Sauve-
terre; for we ought to be back as soon as
possible. I have just heard alarming
news. There may be some disorder.
The peasant-women who attend the mar-
ket have brought in most exciting reports,
and exaggerated the calamities of last
night. They have started reports that
ten or twelve men have been killed, and
that the incendiary, M. de Boiscoran,
has been arrested. The crowd has gone
to poor Guillebault's widow; and there
have been demonstrations before the
houses of several of the principal inhabit-
ants of Sauveterre."
In ordinary times, M. Seneschal would
not have intrusted his famous horse,
Caraby, for any thing in the world, to the
hands of a stranger. He considered it
the best horse in the province. But he
was evidently terribly upset, and be-
trayed it in his manner, and by the very
efforts he made to regain his official dig-
nity and self-possession.
He made a sign, and his carriage was
brought up, all ready. But, when he
asked for somebody to drive, no one
came forward. All these good people
who had spent the night abroad were in
great haste to return home, where their cat-
tle required their presence. When young
Ribot saw the others hesitate, he said, —
"Well, I'll drive the justice."
And, taking hold of the whip and the
reins, he took his seat on the front-bench,
while the magistrate, the commonwealth
attorney, and the clerk filled the vehicle.
"Above all, take care of Caraby,"
begged M. Seneschal, who at the last mo-
ment felt almost overcome with anxiety
for his favorite.
"Don't be afraid, sir," replied the
young man, as he started the horse. "If I
strike too hard, M. Mechinet will stop me."
This Mechinet, the magistrate's clerk,
was almost a power in Sauveterre; and
the greatest personages there paid their
court to him. His official duties were of
very humble nature, and ill paid; but he
knew how to eke out his income by other
occupations, of which the court took no
notice; and these added largely both to
his importance in the community and to
his modest income.
As he was a skilful lithographer, he


28.
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
printed all the visiting-cards which the
people of Sauveterre ordered at the prin-
cipal printing-office of Sauveterre, where
"The Independent " was published. An
able accountant, he kept books, and
made up the amounts for some of the prin-
cipal merchants in town. Some of the
country people who were fond of litiga-
tion came to him for legal advice ; and he
drew up all kinds of law-papers. For
many years now, he had been director of
the firemen's band, and manager of the
Orpheon. He was a correspondent of
certain Paris societies, and thus obtained
free admission to the theatre not only,
but also to the sacred precincts behind the
scenes. Finally he was always ready to
give writing-lessons, French lessons to
little girls, or music-lessons, on the flute
and the horn, to amateurs.
These varied talents had drawn upon
him the hostility of all the other teachers
and public servants of the community,
especially that of the mayor's clerk, and
the clerks of the bank and great institu-
tions of Sauveterre. But all these enemies
he had gradually conquered by the unmis-
takable superiority of his ability; so that
they fell in with the universal habit, and,
when any thing special happened, said to
each other, -—-
"Let us go and consult Mechinet."
He himself concealed, under an appear-
ance of imperturbable good nature, the
ambition by which he was devoured: he
wanted to become rich, and to rise in the
world. In fact, Mechinet was a diplomat,
working in secret, but as cunning as Tal-
leyrand. He had succeeded already in
making himself the one great personage
of Sauveterre. The town was full of him;
nothing was done without him; and yet
he had not an enemy in the place.
The fact is, people were afraid of him,
and dreaded his terrible tongue. Not
that he had ever injured anybody, he was
too wise for that; but they knew the
harm he might do, if he chose, as he was
master of every important secret in Sauve-
terre, and the best informed man in
town as regarded all their little intrigues,
their private foibles, and their dark ante-
cedents.
This gave him quite an exceptional
position. As he was unmarried, he lived
with his sisters, the Misses Me'chinet, who
were the best dressmakers in town, and,
moreover, devout members of all kinds
of religious societies. Through them he
heard all that was going on in society, and
was able to compare the current gossip
with what he heard in court, or at the
newspaper office. Thus he could say pleas-
antly, —
"How could any thing escape me, when
I have the church and the press, the
court and the theatre, to keep me in-
formed?"
Such a man would have considered
himself disgraced if he had not known
every detail of M. de Boiscoran's private
affairs. He did not hesitate, therefore,
while the carriage was rolling along on
an excellent road, in the fresh spring
morning, to explain to his companions the
"case," as he called it, of the accused no-
bleman.
M. de Boiscoran, called Jacques by his
friends, was rarely on his estate, and then
only staid a month or so there. He was
living in Paris, where his family owned
a comfortable house in University Street.
His parents were still alive.
His father, the Marquis de Boiscoran,
the owner of a large landed estate, a deputy
under Louis Philippe, a representative in
1848, had withdrawn from public life
when the Second Empire was established,
and spent, since that time, all his money,
and all his energies, in collecting rare old
books, and especially costly porcelain, on
which he had written a monograph.
His mother, a Chalusse by birth, had
enjoyed the reputation of being one of
the most beautiful and most gifted ladies
at the court of the Citizen King. At a
certain period in her life, unfortunately,
slander had attacked her; and about 1845
or 1846, it was reported that she had had
a remarkable affair with a young lawyer
of distinction, who had since become one
of the austerest and most renowned
judges. As she grew old, the marchioness
devoted herself more and more to politics,
as other women become pious. While her
husband boasted that he had not read a
newspaper for ten years, she had made
her salon a kind of parliamentary centre,
which had its influence on political affairs.
Although Jacques de Boiscoran's par-
ents were still alive, he possessed a consid-
erable fortune of his own, — five or six
thousand dollars a year. This fortune,
which consisted of the Chateau of Boisco-
ran, the farms, meadows, and forests be-
longing to it, had been left to him by one of
his uncles, the oldest brother of his father,
who had died a widower, and childless, in
1808. M. de Boiscoran was at this moment
about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old,
dark complexion, tall, strong, well made,
not exactly a handsome man, but having,
what was worth more, one of those frank,
intelligent faces which prepossess one at
first sight.
His character was less well known at
Sauveterre than his person. Those who
had had any business with him described


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
29
him as an honorable, upright man: his
companions spoke of him as cheerful and
gay, fond of pleasure, and always in good
humor. At the time of the Prussian inva-
sion, he had been made a captain of one
of the volunteer companies of the district.
He had led his men bravely under fire,
and conducted himself so well on the
battlefield, that Gen. Chanzy had reward-
ed him, when wounded, with the cross
of the legion of honor.
"And such a man should have commit-
ted such a crime at Valpinson," said M.
Daubigeon to the magistrate. "No, it is
impossible! and no doubt he will very
easily scatter all our doubts to the four
winds."
"And that will be done at once," said
young Ribot; "for here we are."
In many of the provinces of France the
name of chdteau is given almost to any
little country-house with a weathercock on
its pointed roof. But Boiscoran was a real
chateau. It had been built towards the end
of the seventeenth century, in wretched
taste, but massively, like a fortress. Its
position is superb. It is surrounded on
all sides by woods and forests; and at the
foot of the sloping garden flows a little
river, merrily splashing over its pebbly
bed, and called the Magpie on account of
its perpetual babbling.
vn.
It was seven o'clock when the carriage
containing the justice drove into the
courtyard at Boiscoran, — a vast court,
planted with lime-trees, and surrounded
by farm-buildings. The chateau was wide
awake. Before her house-door, the farm-
er's wife was cleaning the huge caldron
in which she had prepared the morning
soup ; the maids were going and coming;
and at the stable a groom was rubbing
down with great energy a thorough-bred
horse.
On the front-steps stood Master Antho-
ny, M. de Boiscoran's own man, smoking
his cigar in the bright sunlight, and over-
looking the farm-operations. He was a
man of nearly fifty, still very active, who
had been bequeathed to his new master
by his uncle, together with his posses-
sions. He was a widower now; and his
daughter was in the marchioness' ser-
vice.
As he had been born in the family, and
never left it afterwards, he looked upon
himself as one of them, and saw no differ-
ence between his own interests and those
of his master. In fact, he was treated less
like a servant than like a friend; and he
fancied he knew every thing about M. de
Boiscoran's affairs.
When he saw,the magistrate and the
commonwealth attorney come up to the
door, he threw away his cigar, came down
quickly, and, bowing deeply, said to
them with his most engaging smile, —
"Ah, gentlemen! what a pleasant sur-
prise! My master will be delighted."
With strangers, Anthony would not have
allowed himself such familiarity, for he
was very formal; but he had seen M.
Daubigeon more than once at the chateau;
and he knew the plans that had been dis-
cussed between M. Galpin and his master.
Hence he was not a little amazed at the
embarrassed stiffness of the two gentle-
men, and at the tone of voice in which
the magistrate asked him, —
"Has M. de Boiscoran gotten up yet?"
"Not yet," he replied; "and I have
orders not to wake him. He came home
late last night, and wanted to make up
this morning."
Instinctively the magistrate and the
attorney looked away, each fearing to
meet the other's eyes.
"Ah! M. de Boiscoran came home
late last night?" repeated M. Galpin.
"Towards midnight, rather after mid-
night than before."
"And when had he gone out?"
"He left here about eight."
"How was he dressed?"
"As usually. He had light gray trou-
sers, a shooting-jacket of brown velveteen,
and a large straw hat."
"Did he take his gun?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you know where he went?"
But for the respect which he felt for
his master's friends, Anthony would not
have answered these questions, which he
thought were extremely impertinent.
But this last question seemed to him to
go beyond all fair limits. He replied,
therefore, in a tone of injured self-re-
spect, —
"I am not in the habit of asking my
master where he goes when he leaves the
house, nor where he has been when he
comes back."
M. Daubigeon understood perfectly
well the honorable feelings which actuat-
ed the faithful servant. He said to him
with an air of unmistakable kindness, —
"Do not imagine, my friend, that I ask
you these questions from mere idle curi-
osity. Tell me what you know; for your
frankness may be more useful to your
master than you imagine."
Anthony looked with an air of perfect
stupefaction, by turns at the magistrate
and the commonwealth attorney, at M6-


30
'WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
chinet, and finally at Ribot. who had
taken the lines, and tied Caraby to a tree.
'- I assure you, gentlemen, I do not
know where M. de Boiscoran has spent the
evening."
"You have no suspicion?"
"No."
"Perhaps he went to Brechy to see a
friend?"
"I do not know that he has any friends
in Brechy."
"What did he do after he came
home?"
The old servant showed evident signs
of embarrassment.
"Let me think," he said. "My master
went up to his bed-room, and remained
there four or five minutes. Then he came
down, ate a piece of a pie, and drank a
glass of wine. Then he lit a cigar, and
told me to goto bed, adding that he would
take a little walk, and undress without
my help."
"And then you went to bed?"
"Of course."
"So that you do not know what your
master may have done?"
"I beg your pardon. I heard him open
the garden door."
"He did not appear to you different
from usual?"
"No: he was as he always is, — quite
cheerful: he was singing."
"Can you show me the gun he took
with him?"
"No. My master probably took it to
his room."
M. Daubigeon was about to make a
remark, when the magistrate stopped
him by a gesture, and eagerly asked,—
"How long is it since your master and
Count Claudieuse have ceased seeing
each other?"
Anthony trembled, as if a dark pre-
sentiment had entered his mind. He
replied, —-
"A long time: at least I think so."
"You are aware that they are on bad
terms?"
"Oh!"
"They have had great difficulties be-
tween them?"
"Something unpleasant has happened,
I know; but it was not much. As they
do not visit each other, they cannot well
hate each other. Besides, I have heard
master say a hundred times, that he
looked upon Count Claudieuse as one of
the best and most honorable men; that
he respected him highly, and " —-
For a minute or so M. Galpin kept
silent, thinking whether he had forgot-
ten any thing. Then he asked sudden-
"How far is it from here to Valpin-
son?"
"Three miles, sir, replied Anthony."
"If you were going there, what road
would you take?"
"The high road which passes Brechy."
"You would not go across the marsh?"
"Certainly not."
"Why not?"
"Because the Seille is out of its banks,
and the ditches are full of water."
"Is not the way much shorter through
the forest?"
"Yes, the way is shorter; but it would
take more time. The paths are very
indistinct, and overgrown with briers."
The commonwealth attorney could
hardly conceal his disappointment. An-
thony's answers seemed to become worse
and worse.
"Now," said the magistrate again, "if
fire should break out at Valpinson, would
you see it from here?"
"I think not, sir. There are hills and
tall woods between."
"Can you hear the Brechy bells from
here?"
"When the winds is north, yes, sir."
"And last night, how was it?"
"The wind was from the west, as it
always is when we have a storm."
"So that you have heard nothing?
You do not know what a terrible calam-
ity "-
"A calamity? I do not understand
you, sir."
This conversation had taken place in
the court-yard; and at this moment there
appeared two gendarmes on horseback,
whom M. Galpin had sent for just before
he left Valpinsou.
When old Anthony saw them, he
exclaimed, —
"Great God! what is the meaning of
this? I must wake master."
The magistrate stopped him, saying
harshly,—
"Not a step! Don't say a word!"
And, pointing out Kibot to the gen-
darmes, he said, —
"Keep that lad under your eyes, and
let him have no communication with any-
body."
Then, turning again to Anthony, he
said, —
"Now show us to M. de Boiscoran's
bedroom."
VIII.
Ix spite of its grand feudal air, the
chateau at Boiscoran was, after all, little
more than a bachelor's modest home, and
in a very bad state of preservation. Of


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
31
the eighty or a hundred rooms which it
contained, hardly more than eight or ten
were furnished, and this only in the
simplest possible manner, — a sitting-
room, a dining-room, a few guest-cham-
bers: this was all M. de Boiscoran
required during his rare visits to the
place. He himself used in the second
story a small room, the door of which
opened upon the great staircase.
When they reached this door, guided
by old Anthony, the magistrate said to
the servant, —
"Knock!"
The man obeyed: and immediately a
youthful, hearty voice replied from
within, —
"Who is there?"
"It is I," said the faithful servant. "I
should like "—
"Go to the devil I " broke in the voice.
"But, sir" —
"Let me sleep, rascal. I have not
been able to close an eye till now." The
magistrate, becoming impatient, pushed
the servant aside, and, seizing the door-
knob tried to open it: it was locked in-
side. But he lost no time in saying, —
"It is I, M. de Boiscoran: open, if you
please!"
"Ah, dear M. Galpin I" replied the
voice cheerfully.
"I must speak to you."
"And I am at your service, illustrious
jurist. Just give me time to veil my
Apollonian form in a pair of trousers,
and I appear."
Almost immediately, the door opened;
and M. de Boiscoran presented himself,
his hair dishevelled, his eyes heavy with
sleep, but looking bright in his youth
and full health, with smiling lips and
open hands.
"Upon my word!" he said. "That
was a happy inspiration you had, my
dear Galpin. You come to join me at
breakfast?"
And, bowing to M. Daubigeon, he
added, —
"Not to say how much I thank you
for bringing our excellent common-
wealth attorney with you. This is a
veritable judicial visit " —
But he paused, chilled as he was by M.
Daubigeon's icy face, and amazed at M.
Galpin's refusal to take his proffered
hand.
"Why," he said, "what is the matter,
my dear friend?"
The magistrate had never been stiffer
in his life, when he replied, —
"We shall have to forget our relations,
sir. It is not as a friend I come to-day,
but as a magistrate."
M. de Boiscoran looked confounded;
but not a shadow of trouble appeared on
his frank and open face.
"I'll be hanged," he said, "if I under-
stand " —
"Let us go in," said M. Galpin.
They went in; and, as they passed the
door, Mechinet whispered into the attor-
ney's ear, —
"Sir, that man is certainly innocent.
A guilty man would never have received
us thus."'
"Silence, sir!" said the commonwealth
attorney, however much he was probably
of his clerk's opinion. "Silence!"
And grave and sad he went and stood
in one of the window embrasures. M.
Galpin remained standing in the centre
of the room, trying to see every thing
in it, and to fix it in his memory, down
to the smallest details. The prevailing
disorder showed clearly how hastily M. de
Boiscoran had gone to bed the night be-
fore. His clothes, his boots, his shirt, his
waistcoat, and his straw hat lay scattered
about on the chairs and on the floor.
He wore those light gray trousers, which
had been successively seen and recog-
nized by Coeoleu, by Ribot, by Gaudry,
and by Mrs. Courtois.
"Now, sir," began M. de Boiscoran,
with that slightly angry tone of voice
which shows that a man thinks a joke
has been carried far enough, "will you
please tell me what procures for me the
honor of this early visit?"
Not a muscle in M. Galpin's face was
moving. As if the question had been
addressed to some one else, he said cold-
iy,-
"Will you please show us your hands,
sir?"
M. de Boiscoran's cheeks turned crim-
son; and his eyes assumed an expression
of strange perplexity.
"If this is a joke," he said, " it has per-
haps lasted long enough."
He was evidently getting angry. M.
Daubigeon thought it better to interfere,
and thus he said, —
"Unfortunately, sir, the question is a
most serious one. Do what the magis-
trate desires." .
More and more amazed, M. de Boisco-
ran looked rapidly around him. In the
door stood Anthony, his faithful old ser-
vant, with anguish on his face. Near
the fireplace, the clerk had improvised a
table, and put his paper, his pens, and his
horn inkstand in readiness. Then with
a shrug of his shoulders, which showed
that he failed to understand, M. de Bois-
coran showed his hands.
They were perfectly clean and white:


32
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
the long nails were carefully cleaned
also.
"When did you last wash your
hands?" asked M. Galpin, after having
examined them minutely.
At this question, M. de Boiscoran's face
brightened up; and, breaking out into a
hearty laugh, he said, —
"Upon my word! I confess you nearly
caught me. I was on the point of get-
ting angry. I almost feared " —
"And there was good reason for fear,"
said M. Galpin; "for a terrible charge
has been brought against you. And it
may be, that on your answer to my ques-
tion, ridiculous as it seems to you, your
honor may depend, and perhaps your lib-
erty."
This time there was no mistake possi-
ble. M. de Boiscoran felt that kind of
terror which the law inspires even in the
best of men, when they find themselves
suddenly accused of a crime. He turned
pale, and then he said in a troubled
voice. —-
"What! A charge has been brought
against me, and you, M. Galpin, come to
my house to examine me?"
"I am a magistrate, sir."
''But you were also my friend. If any
one should have dared in my presence to
accuse you of a crime, of a mean act, of
something infamous, I should have
defended you, sir, with all my energy,
without hesitation, and without a doubt.
I should have defended you till absolute,
undeniable evidence should have been
brought forward of your culpability;
and even then I should have pitied you,
remembering that I had esteemed you so
highly as to favor your alliance with my
family. But you —- I am accused, I do
not know of what, falsely, wrongly; and
at once you hasten hither, you believe the
charge, and consent to become my judge.
Well, let it be so! I washed my hands
last night after coming home."
. M. Galpin had not boasted too much
in praising his self-possession and his
perfect control over himself. He did
not move when the terrible words fell
upon his ear; and he asked again in the
same calm tone, —
"What has become of the water you
used for that purpose?"
"It is probably still there, in my dress-
ing-room."
The magistrate at once went in. On
the marble table stood a basin full of
water. That water was black and dirty.
At the bottom lay particles of charcoal.
On the top, mixed with the soapsuds,
were swimming some extremely slight
but unmistakable fragments of charred
paper. With infinite care the magis-
trate carried the basin to the table at
which Mechinet had taken a seat; and,
pointing at it, he asked M. de Boiscoran,—
"Is that the water in which you
washed your hands last night after com-
ing home?"
"Yes," replied the other with an air of
careless indifference."
"You had been handling charcoal, or
some inflammable material.
"Don't you see?"
Standing face to face, the common-
wealth attorney and clerk exchanged
rapid glances. They had had the same
feeling at that moment. If M. de Boisco-
ran was innocent, he was certainly a mar-
vellously cool and energetic man, or he
was carrying out a long-premeditated
plan of action; for every one of his
answers seemed to tighten the net in
which he was taken. The magistrate
himself seemed to be struck by this; but
it was only for a moment, and then, turn-
ing to the clerk, he said,—
"Write that down!"
He dictated to him the whole evidence,
most minutely and accurately, correcting
himself every now and then to substitute
a better word, or to improve his style.
When he had read it over he said, —
"Let us go on, sir. You were out last
night?"
"Yes, sir."
"Having left the house at eight, you
returned only about midnight."
"After midnight."
"You took your gun?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where is it?"
With an air of indifference, M. de Bois-
coran pointed at it in the corner of the
fireplace, and said,—
"There it is!"
M. Galpin took it up quickly. It was
a superb weapon, double barrelled, of
unusually fine make, and very elegant.
On the beautifully carved woodwork the
manufacturer's name, Clebb, was en-
graven.
"When did you last fire this gun?"
asked the magistrate.
"Some four or five days ago."
"What for?"
"To shoot some rabbits who infested
my woods."
M. Galpin raised and lowered the cock
with all possible care: he noticed that it
was the Remington patent. Then he
opened the chamber, and found that the
gun was loaded. Each barrel had a car-
tridge in it. Then he put the gun back in
its place, and, pulling from his pocket the
leaden cartridge-case which Pitard had


'WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
33
found, he showed it to M. de Boiscoran,
and asked him, —
"Do you recognize this?"
"Perfectly!" replied the other. "It is
a case of one of the cartridges which I
have probably thrown away as useless."
"Do you think you are the only one
in this country who has a gun by this
maker?"
"I do not think it: I am quite sure of
it."
"So that you must, as a matter of course,
have been at a spot where such a car-
tridge-case as this has been found?"
"Not necessarily. I have often seen
children pick up these things, and play
with them."
The clerk, while he made his pen fly
across his paper, could not resist the temp-
tation of making all kinds of faces. He
was too well acquainted with lawyers'
tactics not to understand M. Galpin's policy
perfectly well, and to see how cunningly
it was devised to make every fact
strengthen the suspicion against M. de
Boiscoran.
"It is a close game," he said to himself.
The magistrate had taken a seat.
"If that is so," he began again, "I beg
you will give me an account of how you
spent the evening after eight o'clock: do
not hurry, consider, take your time;
for your answers are of the utmost impor-
tance."
M. de Boiscoran had so far remained
quite cool; but his calmness betrayed
one of those terrible storms within,
which may break forth, no one knows
when. This warning, and, even more so,
the tone in which it was given, revolted
him as a most hideous hypocrisy. And,
breaking out all of a sudden, he cried, —
"Af tor' all, sir, what do you want of me?
What am I accused of?"
M. Galpin did not stir. He replied, —
"You will hear it at the proper time.
First answer my question, and believe
me in your own interest. Answer frankly,
What did you do last night?"
"How do I know? I walked about."
"That is no answer."
"Still it is so. I went out with no spe-
cific purpose: I walked at haphazard."
"Your gun on your shoulder 'I"
"I always take my gun: my servant can
tell vou so."
"Did you cross the Seille marshes?"
"No."
The magistrate shook his head gravely.
He said, —
"You are not telling the truth."
"Sir!"
"Your boots there at the foot of the
bed speak against you. Where does the
mud come from with which they are cov-
ered?"
"The meadows around Boiscoran are
very wet."
"Do not attempt to deny it. You have
been seen there."
"But" —
"Young Ribot met you at the moment
when you were crossing the canal."
M. de Boiscoran made no reply.
"Where were you going?" asked the
magistrate.
For the first time a real embarrassment
appeared in the features of the accused, —
the embarrassment of a man who sudden-
ly sees an abyss opening before him. He
hesitated; and, seeing that it was useless
to deny, he said, —
. " I was going to Brechy."
"To whom?"
"To my wood-merchant, who has
bought all this year's wood. I did not
find him at home, and came back on the
high road."
M. Galpin stopped him by a gesture.
"That is not so," he said severely.
"Oh I"
"You never went to Brechy."
"I beg your pardon."
"And the proof is, that, about eleven
o'clock, you were hurriedly crossing the
forest of Rochepommier."
"I?"
"Yes, youl And do not say No; for
there are your trousers torn to pieces by
the thorns and briers through which you
must have made your way."
"There are briers elsewhere as well
as in the forest."
"To be sure; but you were seen
there."
"By whom?"
"By Gaudry the poacher. And he saw
so much of you, that he could tell us in
what a bad humor you were. You were
very angry. You were talking aloud, and
pulling the leaves from the trees."
As he said so, the magistrate got up .
and took the shooting-jacket, which was
lying on a chair not far from him. He
searched the pockets, and pulled out of
one a handful of leaves.
"Look here I you see, Gaudry has told
the truth."
"There are leaves everywhere," said
M. de Boiscoran half loud.
"Yes; but a woman, Mrs. Courtois,
saw you come out of the forest of Roche-
pommier. You helped her to put a sack
of flour on her ass, which she could not
lift alone. Do you deny it? No, you are
right; for, look here! on the sleeve of
your coat I see something white, which,
no doubt, is flour from her bag."
3


84
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
M. de Boiscoran hung his head. The
magistrate went on, —
"You confess, then, that last night,
between ten and eleven, you were at Val-
pinson?"
"No, sir, I do not."
"But this cartridge-case which I have
just shown you was picked up at Valpin-
son, close by the ruins of the old castle."
"Well, sir, have I not told you before
that I have seen a hundred times children
pick up these cases to play with? Besides,
if I had really been at Valpinson, why
should I deny it?"
M. Galpin rose to his full height, and
said in the most solemn manner, —
"I am going to tell you why! Last
night, between ten and eleven, Valpin-
son was set on fire; and it has been
burnt to the ground."
"Oh!"
"Last night Count Claudieuse was
beftw fired at twice."
"Great God!"
"And it is thought, in fact there are
strong reasons to think, that you, Jacques
de Boiscoran, are the incendiary and the
assassin."
IX.
M. de Boiscoran looked around him
like a man who has suddenly been seized
with vertigo, pale, as if all his blood had
rushed to his heart.
He saw nothing but mournful, dis-
mayed faces.
Anthony, his old trusted servant, was
leaning against the doorpost, as if he
feared to fall. The clerk was mending
his pen in the air, overcome with amaze-
ment. M. Daubigeon hung his head.
"This is horrible!" he murmured: "this
is horrible I"
He fell heavily into a chair, pressing
his hands on his heart, as if to keep down
the sobs that threatened to rise. M. Gal-
- * pin alone seemed to remain perfectly
cool. The law, which he imagined he
was representing in all its dignity, knows
nothing of emotions. His thin lips even
trembled a little, as if a slight smile
was about to burst forth: it was the cold
smile of the ambitious man, who thinks
he has played his little part well.
Did not every thing tend to prove that
Jacques de Boiscoran was the guilty man,
and that, in the alternative between a
friend, and an opportunity of gaining high
distinction, he had chosen well? After
the silence of a minute, which seemed
to be a century, he went and stood, with
arms crossed on his chest, before the
accused, and asked him, —
"Do you confess?"
M. de Boiscoran sprang up as if moved
by a spring, and said, —
"What? What do you want me to
confess?"
"That you have committed the crime
at Valpinson."
The young man pressed his hands con-
vulsively on his brow, and cried out, —
"But I am mad! I should have com-
mitted such a fearful, cowardly crime?
Is that possible? Is that likely? I might
confess, and you would not believe me.
No I I am sure you would not believe my
own words."
He would have moved the marble on
his mantlepiece sooner than M. Galpin.
The latter replied in icy tones, —-
"I am not part of the question here.
Why will you refer to relations which
must be forgotten? It is no longer the
friend who speaks to you, not even the
man, but simply the magistrate. You
were seen " —
"Who is the wretch?"
"Cocoleu!"
M. de Boiscoran seemed to be over-
whelmed. He stammered, —
"Cocoleu? That poor epileptic idiot
whom the Countess Claudieuse has picked
up?"
"The same." -
"And upon the strength of the senseless
words of a poor imbecile I am charged
with incendiarism, with murder?"
- Never had the magistrate made such
efforts to assume an air of impassive dig-
nity and icy solemnity, as when he re-
plied, —
"For an hour, at least, poor Cocoleu has
been in the full enjoyment of his facul-
ties. The ways of Providence are inscru-
table."
"But sir" —
"And what does Cocoleu depose?
He says he saw you kindle the fire with
your own hands, then conceal yourself
behind a pile of wood, and fire twice at
Count Claudieuse."
"And all that appears quite natural to
you?"
"No! At first it shocked me, as it
shocked everybody. You seem to be so
far above all suspicion. But a moment
afterwards they pick up the cartridge-
case, which can only have belonged to you.
Then, upon my arrival here, I surprise
you in bed, and find the water in which
you have washed your hands black with
coal, and little pieces of charred paper
swimming on top of it."
"Yes," said M. de Boiscoran in an un-
dertone: "it is fate."
"And that is not all," continued the ma-


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
35
gistrate, raising his voice, " I examine you,
and you admit having been out from
eight o'clock till after midnight. I ask
what you have been doing, and you refuse
to tell me. I insist, and you tell a false-
hood. In order to overwhelm you, I am
forced to quote the evidence of young
Ribot, of Gaudry, and Mrs. Courtois, who
have seen you at the very places where
you deny having been. That circum-
stance alone condemns you. Why
should you not be willing to tell me what
you have been doing during those four
hours? You claim to be innocent. Help
me, then, to establish your innocence.
Speak, tell me what you were doing be-
tween eight and midnight."
M. de Boiscoran had no time to answer.
For some time already, half-suppressed
cries, and the sound of a large crowd, had
come up from the court-yard. A gen-
darme came in quite excited; and, turning
to the magistrate and the commonwealth
attorney, he said, —
"Gentlemen, there are several hundred
peasants, men and women, in the yard,
who clamor for M. de Boiscoran. They
threaten to drag him down to the river.
Some of the men are armed with pitch-
forks; but the women are the maddest.
My comrade and I have done our best to
keep them quiet."
And j ust then, as if to confirm what he
said, the cries came nearer, growing loud-
er and louder; and one could distinctly
hear, —
"Drown Boiscoran I Let us drown
the incendiary!"
The attorney rose, and told the gen-
darme, —
"Go down and tell these people that
the authorities are this moment examin-
ing the accused; that they interrupt us;
and that, if they keep on, they will have
to do with me."
The gendarme obeyed his orders. M.
de Boiscoran had turned deadly pale. He
said to himself, —
"These unfortunate people believe my
guilt!"
"Yes," said M. Galpin, who had over-
heard the words ; " and you would compre-
hend their rage, for which there is good
reason, if you knew all that has happened."
"What else 'I"
"Two Sauveterre firemen, one the father
of five children, have perished in the
flames. Two other men, a farmer from
Brechy, and a gendarme who tried to
rescue them, have been so seriously
burned that their lives are in danger."
M. de Boiscoran said nothing.
"And it is you," continued the magis-
trate, "who is charged with all these
calamities. 'You see how important it is
for you to exculpate yourself."
"Ah! how can II"
"If you are innocent, nothing is easier.
Tell us how you employed yourself last
night."
"I have told you all I can say."
The magistrate seemed to reflect for a
full minute; then he said, —
"Take care, M. de Boiscoran: I shall
have to have you arrested."
"Do so."
"I shall be obliged to order your arrest
at once, and to send you to jail in Sauve-
terre."
"Very well."
"Then you confess?"
"I confess that I am the victim of an
unheard-of combination of circumstances;
I confess that you are right, and that
certain fatalities can only be explained
by the belief in Providence: but I
swear by all that is holy in the world, I
am innocent."
"Prove it."
"Ah! would I not do it if I could?"
"Be good enough, then, to dress, sir,
and to follow the gendarmes."
, Without a word, M. de Boiscoran went
into his dressing-room, followed by his ser-
vant, who carried him his clothes. M. Gal-
pin was so busy dictating to the clerk the
latter part of the examination, that he
seemed to forget his prisoner. Old An-
thony availed himself of this opportunity.
"Sir," he whispered into his master's
ear while helping him to put on his
clothes.
"What?"
"Hush! Don't speak so loud! The
other window is open. It is only about
twenty feet to the ground: the ground is
soft. Close by is one of the cellar open-
ings; and in there, you know, there is the
old hiding-place. It is only five miles to
the coast, and I will have a good horse
ready for you to-night, at the park-gate."
A bitter smile rose on M. de Boiscoran's
lips, as he said, —
"And you too, my old friend: you think
I am guilty?"
"I conjure you," said Anthony, "I an-
swer for any thing. It is barely twenty
feet. In your mother's name '' —
But, instead of answering him, M. de
Boiscoran turned round, and called M.
Galpin. When he had come in, he said
to him, "Look at that window, sir! I have
money, fast horses; and the sea is only
five miles off. A guilty man would have
escaped. I stay here ; for I am innocent."
In one point, at least, M. de Boiscoran
had been right. Nothing wo uld have been
easier for him than to escape, to get into


36 WITHIN AN INC
H OF HIS LIFE.
the garden, and to reach the hiding-place
which his servant had suggested to him.
But after that? He had. to be sure, with
old Anthony's assistance, some chance of
escaping altogether. But, after all, he
might have been found out in his hiding-
place, or he might have been overtaken
in his ride to the coast. Even if he had
succeeded, what would have become of
him? His flight would necessarily have
been looked upon as a confession of his
guilt.
Under such circumstances, to resist the
temptation to escape, and to make this
resistance well known, was in fact not so
much an evidence of innocence as a proof
of great cleverness. M. Galpin, at all
events, looked upon it in that light; for
he judged others by himself. Carefully
and cunningly calculating every step he
took in life, he did not believe in sudden
inspirations. He said, therefore, with an
ironical smile, which was to show that
he was not so easily taken in, —
"Very well, sir. This circumstance
shall be mentioned, as well as the others,
at the trial."
Very differently thought the common-
wealth attorney and the clerk. If the
magistrate had been too much engaged
in his dictation to notice any thing, they
had been perfectly able to notice the
great excitement under which the accused
had naturally labored. Perfectly amazed
at first, and thinking, for a moment, that
the whole was a joke, he had next be-
come furiously angry ; then fear and utter
dejection had followed one another. But
in precise proportion as the charges had
accumulated, and the evidence had be-
come overwhelming, he had, so far from
becoming demoralized, seemed to recover
his assurance.
"There is something curious about it,"
growled Mechinet. M. Daubigeon, on the
other hand, said nothing; but when M.
de Boiscoran came out of his dressing-
room, fully dressed and ready, he
said,—
"One more question, sir."
The poor man bowed. He was pale,
but calm and self-possessed.
"I am ready to reply," he said.
"I'll be brief. You seemed to be sur-
prised and indignant at any one's daring
to accus-e you. That was weakness.
Justice is but the work of man, and must
needs judge by appearances. If you re-
flect, you will see that the appearances
are all against you."
"I see it but too clearly."
"If you were on a jury, you would not
hesitate to pronounce a man guilty upon
such evidence."
"No, sir, no!"
The commonwealth attorney bounded
from his chair. He said, —
"You are not sincere!"
M. de Boiscoran sadly shook his head,
and replied,—
"I speak to you without the slightest
hope of convincing you, but in all sincer-
ity. No, I should not condemn a man, as
you say, if he asserted his innocence, and
if I did not see any reason for his crime.'
For, after all, unless a man is mad, he
does not commit a crime for nothing.
Now I ask you, how could I, upon whom
fortune has always smiled; I who am on
the eve of marrying one whom I love
passionately, — how could I have set Val-
pinson on fire, and tried to murder Count
Claudieuse?"
M. Galpin had scarcely been able to
disguise his impatience, when he saw the
attorney take part in the affair. Seizing,
therefore, the opportunity to interfere, he
said, —
"Your reason, sir, was hatred. You
hated the count and the countess mor-
tally. Do not protest: it is of no use.
Everybody knows it; and you yourself
have told me so."
M. de Boiscoran looked as if he were
growing still more pale, and then replied
in a tone of crushing disdain, —
"Even if that were so, I do not see
what right you have to abuse the confi-
dence of a friend, after having declared
upon your arrival here, that all friend-
ship between us had ceased. But that is
not so. I never told you any such
thing. As my feelings have never
changed, I can repeat literally what I
have said. I have told you that the
count was a troublesome neighbor, a
stickler for his rights, and almost ab-
surdly attached to his preserves. 1 have
also told you, that, if he declared my
public opinions to be abominable, I
looked upon his as ridiculous and dan-1
gerous. As for the countess, 1 have sim-
ply said, half in jest, that so perfect a
person was not to my taste; and that I
should be very unhappy if my wife were
a Madonna, who hardly ever deigned to
put her foot upon the ground."
"And that was the only reason why
you once pointed your gun at Count
Claudieuse 'I A little more blood rush-
ing to your head would have made you a
murderer on that day."
A terrible spasm betrayed M. de Bois-
coran's fury; but he checked himself,
and said, —
"My passion was less fiery than it may
have looked. I have the most profound
respect for the count's character. It is an


WITHIN AS INCH OF HIS LIFE.
37
additional grief to me that he should
have accused me."
"But he has not accused you !" broke
in M. Daubigeon. "On the contrary, he
was the first and the most eager to de-
fend you."
And, in spite of the signs which M.
Galpin made, he continued, —
"Unfortunately that has nothing to do
with the force of the evidence against
you. If you persist in keeping silence,
you must look for a criminal trial for the
galleys. If you are innocent, why not
explain the matter? What do you wait
for? What do you hope 1"
"Nothing."
Mechinet had, in the mean time, com-
pleted the official report.
"We must go," said M. Galpin.
"Am I at liberty," asked M. de Bois-
coran, "to write a few lines to my father
and my mother? They are old: such
an event may kill them."
"Impossible!" said the magistrate.
Then, turning to Anthony, he said, —
"I am going to put the seals on this
room, and I shall leave it in the mean
while in your keeping. You know your
duty, and the penalties to which you
would be subject, if, at the proper time,
every thing is not found in the same con-
dition in which it is left now. Now, how
shall we get back to Sauveterre 1"
After mature deliberation it was de-
cided that M. de Boiscoran should go in
one of his own carriages, accompanied
by one of the gendarmes. M. Daubi-
geon, the magistrate, and the clerk would
return in the mayor's carriage, driven by
Ribot, who was furious at being kept
under surveillance.
"Let us be off," said the magistrate,
when the last formalities had been ful-
filled.
M. de Boiscoran came down slowly.
He knew the court was full of furious
peasants; and he expected to be received
with hootings. It was not so. The
gendarme whom the attorney had sent
down had done his duty so well, that not
a cry was heard. But when he had
taken his seat in the carriage, and the
horse went off at a trot, fierce curses
arose, and a shower of stones fell, one of
which wounded a gendarme.
"Upon my word, you bring ill luck,
prisoner," said the man, a friend of the
other gendarme who had been so much
injured at the fire.
M. de Boiscoran made no reply. He
sank back into the corner, and seemed to
fall into a kind of stupor, from which he
did not rouse himself till the carriage
drove into the yard of the prison at Sauve-
terre. On the threshold stood Master
Blangin, the jailer, smiling with delight
at the idea of receiving so distinguished
a prisoner.
"I am going to give you my best
room," he said; "but first I have to give
a receipt to the gendarme, and to enter
you in my book." Thereupon he took
down his huge greasy register, and wrote
the name of Jacques de Boiscoran beneath
that of Trumence Cheminot, a vagaboud
who had just been arrested for having
broken into a garden.
It was all over. Jacques de Boiscoran
was a prisoner, to be kept in close confine-
ment.


SECOND PART.
THE BOISCORAX TRIAL.
L
The Paris house of the Boiscoran
family, No. 21G University Street, is a
house of modest appearance. The yard
in front is small; and the few square
yards of damp soil in the rear hardly
deserve the name of a garden. But
appearances are deceptive. The inside
is marvellously comfortable; careful and
painstaking hands have made every pro-
vision for ease; and the rooms display
that solid splendor for which our age
has lost the taste. The vestibule con-
tains a superb mosaic, brought home
from Venice, in 1798, by one of the Bois-
corans, who had degenerated, and fol-
lowed the fortunes of Napoleon. The
balusters of the great staircase are a
masterpiece of iron work; and the wains-
coting in the dining-room has no rival in
Paris.
The room in which the marchioness
receives her political guests is fully equal
to these splendors. Xot a piece of furni-
ture but has its history. The carvings
on the mantlepiece, if sold at auction,
would bring their weight in gold. The
chandelier is a marvel; and each one of
the eight paintings which adorn the
walls is a masterpiece by some great
artist.
All this, however, is a mere nothing in
comparison with the marquis's cabinet of
curiosities. It fills the whole depth, and
half the width, of the upper story; is
lighted from above like a huge atelier;
and would fill the heart of an artist with
delight. Immense glass cases, which stand
all around against the walls, hold the
treasures of the marquis, — priceless col-
lections of enamels, ivories, bronzes,
unique manuscripts, matchless porcelains,
and, above all, his faiences, his dear
faiences, the pride and the torment of his
old age.
The owner was well worthy of such a
setting.
Though sixty-one years old at that
time, the marquis was as straight as
38
ever, and most aristocratically lean.
He had a perfectly magnificent nose,
which absorbed immense quantities of
snuff; his mouth was large, but well fur-
nished; and his brilliant eyes shone with
that restless cunning which betrayed the
amateur, who has continually to deal with
sharp and eager dealers in curiosities
and second-hand articles of vertu.
In the year 1815 he had reached the
summit of his renown by a great speech
on the question of public meetings;
but at that hour his watch seemed to have
stopped. All his ideas were those of an
Orleanist. His appearance, his costume,
his high cravat, his whiskers, and the
way he brushed his hair, all betrayed the
admirer and friend of the citizen king.
But for all that, he did not trouble him-
self about politics; in fact, he troubled
himself about nothing at all. With the
only condition that his inoffensive pas-
sion should be respected, the marchioness
was allowed to rule supreme in the
house, administering her large fortune,
ruling her only son, and deciding all ques-
tions without the right of appeal. It
was perfectly useless to ask the marquis
any thing: his answer was invariably, —
"Ask my wife."
The good man had, the evening before,
purchased, a little at haphazard, a large
lot of faiences, representing scenes of the
Revolution; and at about three o'clock,
he was busy, magnifying-glass in hand,
examining his dishes and plates, when the
door was suddenly opened.
The marchioness came in, holding a
blue paper in her hand. Six or eight
years younger than her husband, she was
the very companion for such an idle, in-
dolent man. In herwalk, in her manner,
and in her voice, she showed at once the
woman who stands at the wheel, and
means to be obeyed. Her once cele-
brated beauty had left remarkable traces
enough to justify her pretensions. She
denied having any claims to being con-
sidered handsome, since it was impossi-
ble to deny or conceal the ravages of time,


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
39
and hence by far her best policy to accept
old age with good grace. Still, if the
marchioness did not grow younger, she
pretended to be older than she really was.
She had her gray hair puffed out with
considerable affectation, so as to contrast
all the more forcibly with her ruddy,
blooming cheeks, which a girl might
have envied; and she often thought of
powdering her hair.
She was so painfully excited, and almost
undone, when she came into her husband's
cabinet, that even he, who for many a year
had made it a rule of his life to, show no
emotion, was seriously trSubled. Laying
aside the dish which he was examining,
he said with an anxious voice, —
"What is the matter? What has hap-
pened?"
"A terrible misfortune."
"Is Jacques dead? " cried the old col-
lector.
The marchioness shook her head.
"No! It is something worse, per-
haps " —
The old man, who had risen at the
sight of his wife, sank slowly back into
his chair.
"Tell me," he stammered out, — "tell
me. I have courage."
She handed him the blue paper which
she had brought in, and said slowly, —
"Here. A telegram which I have just
received from old Anthony, our son's
valet."
With trembling hands the old marquis
unfolded the paper, and read, —
"Terrible misfortune I Master Jacques
accused of having set the chateau at Val-
pinson on fire, and murdered Count Clau-
dieuse. Terrible evidence against him.
When examined, hardly any defence.
Just arrested and carried to jail. In
despair. What must I do?"
The marchioness had feared lest the
marquis should have been crushed by this
despatch, which in its laconic terms be-
trayed Anthony's abject terror. But it
was not so. He put it back on the table
in the calmest manner, and said, shrug-
ging his shoulders, —
"It is absurd!"
His wife did not understand it. She
began again, —-
"You have not read it carefully, my
friend" —
"I understand," he broke in, "that
our son is accused of a crime which he
has not and can not have committed.
You surely do not doubt his innocence?
What a mother you would be I On my
part, I assure you I am perfectly tranquil.
Jacques an incendiary! Jacques a mur-
derer! That is nonsense!"
"Ah! you did not read the telegram,"
exclaimed the marchioness.
"I beg your pardon."
"You did not see that there was evi-
dence against him."
"Ji there had been none, he could not
have been arrested. Of course, the thing
is disagreeable: it is painful."
"But he did not defend himself."
"Upon my word! Do you think that
if to-morrow somebody accused me of
having robbed the till of some shopkeep-
er, I would take the trouble to defend
myself?"
"But do you not see that Anthony
evidently thinks our son is guilty?"
"Anthony is an old fool!" declared the
marquis.
Then pulling out his snuffbox, and
stuffing his nose full of snuff, he said, —-
"Besides, let us consider. Did you
not tell me tllat Jacques is in love with
that little Dionysia Chandore?"
"Desperately. Like a real child."
"And she?" ,
"She adores Jacques."
"Well. And did you not also tell me
that the wedding-day was fixed?"
"Yes, three days ago."
"Has Jacques written to you about the
matter?"
"An excellent letter."
"In which he tells you he is coming
up?"
"Yes: he wanted to purchase his wed-
ding-presents himself." With a gesture
of magnificent indifference the marquis
tapped the top of his snuffbox, and said, —
"And you think a boy like our
Jacques, a Boiscoran, in love, and be-
loved, who is about to be married, and
has his head full of wedding-presents,
could have committed such a horrible
crime? Such things are not worth dis-
cussing, and, with your leave, I shall
return to my occupation."
If doubt is contagious, confidence is
still more so. Gradually the marchioness
felt re-assured by the perfect assurance
of her husband. The blood came back
to her cheeks; and smiles re-appeared on
pale lips. She said in a stronger voice, —
"In fact, I may have been too easily
frightened."
The marquis assented by a gesture.
"Yes, much too easily, my dear. And,
between us, I would not say much about
it. How could the officers help accusing
our Jacques if his own mother suspects
him?"
The marchioness had taken up the tel-
egram, and was reading it over once
more.
"And yet," she said, answering her


WITHI3ST AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
41
"Great God! And yet you know very
well that I was only a little indiscreet."
"No more!" said the marquis harshly.
Then, recovering his self-control by a
powerful effort, he went on, —
"Before we attempt any thing, we must
know how the matter stands. You will
leave for Sauveterre this evening."
"Alone?"
"No. I will find some able lawyer, — a
reliable jurist, who is not a politician,—
if such a one can be found nowadays.
He will tell you what to do, and will write
to me, so that I can do here whatever
may be best. Dionysia is right. Jacques
must be the victim of some abominable
intrigue. Nevertheless, we shall save
him; but we must keep cool, perfectly
cool."
And as he said this he rang the bell so
violently, that a number of servants came
rushing in at once.
," Quick," he said; "send for my law-
yer, M. Chapelain. Take a carriage."
The servant who took the order was so
expeditious, that, in less than twenty min-
utes, M. Chapelain arrived.
"Ah! we want all your experience, my
friend," said the marquis to him. "Look
here. Read these telegrams."
Fortunately, the lawyer had such con-
trol over himself, that he did not betray
what he felt; for he believed Jacques
guilty, knowing as he did how reluctant
courts generally are to order the arrest of
a suspected person.
"I know the man for the marchioness,"
he said at last.
"Ah!"
"A young man whose modesty alone
has kept him from distinguishing him-
self so far, although I know he is one of
the best jurists at the bar, and an admira-
ble speaker."
"What is his name?"
"Manuel Folgat. I shall send him to
you at once."
Two hours later, M. Chapelain's pro-
tege appeared at the house of the Boisco-
rans. He was a man of thirty-one <or
thirty-two, with large, wide-open eyes,
whose whole appearance was breathing
intelligence and energy.
The marquis was pleased with him,
and, after having told him all he knew
about Jacques's position, endeavored to
inform him as to the people down at
Sauveterre, —- who would be likely to be
friends, and who enemies, recommending
to him, above all, to trust M. Seneschal,
an old friend of the family, and a most
influential man in that community.
"Whatever is humanly possible shall
be done, sir," said the lawyer.
That same evening, at fifteen minutes
past eight, the Marchioness of Boiscoran
and Manuel Folgat took their seats in the
train for Orleans.
n.
The railway which connects Sauveterre
with the Orleans line enjoys a certain
celebrity on account of a series of utterly
useless curves, which defy all common
sense, and which would undoubtedly be
the source of countless accidents, if the
trains were not prohibited from going
faster than eight or ten miles an hour. -
The depot has been built—no doubt for
the greater convenience of travellers — at
a distance of two miles from town, on a
place where formerly the first banker of
Sauveterre had his beautiful gardens.
The pretty road which leads to it is lined
on both sides with inns and taverns, on
market-days full of peasants, who try to
rob each other, glass in hand, and lips
overflowing with protestations of honesty.
On ordinary days even, the road is quite
lively; for the walk to the railway has
become a favorite promenade. People go
out to see the trains start or come in, to
examine the new arrivals, or to exchange
confidences as to the reasons why Mr. or
Mrs. So-and-so have made up their mind
to travel.
It was nine o'clock in the morning when
the train which brought the marchioness
and Manuel Folgat at last reached Sauve-
terre. The former was overcome by fa-
tigue and anxiety, having spent the
whole night in discussing the chances for
her son's safety, and was all the more
exhausted as the lawyer had taken care
not to encourage her hopes.
For he also shared, in secret at least,
M. Chapelain's doubts. He, also, had
said to himself, that a man like M. de
Boiscoran is not apt to be arrested, unless
there are strong reasons, and almost over-
whelming proofs of his guilt in the hands
of the authorities.
The train was slackening speed.
"If only Dionysia and her father,"
sighed the marchioness, "have thought
of sending a carriage to meet as."
"Why so ?" asked Manuel Folgat.
"Because I do not want all the world
to see my grief and my tears."
The young lawyer shook his head, and
said,—
"You will certainly not do that,
madam, if you are disposed to follow my
advice." »
She looked at him quite amazed; bul
he insisted.
"I mean, you must not look as if you


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
43
"These gentlemen of the court," he
said in measured tones, "will perhaps be
sorry for what they have done."
Fortunately a young man, whose whole
livery consisted in a gold-laced cap, came
up to them at this moment.
"M. de Chandore's carriage is here,"
he said.
"Very well," replied the marchioness.
And bowing to the good people of
Sauveterre, who were quite dumfounded
by her assurance, she said, —
'-Pardon me if I leave you so soon ; but
M. de Chandore expects us. I shall,
however, be happy to call upon you soon,
on my son's arm.
The house of the Chandote family
stands on the other side of the New-
Market Place, at the very top of the
street, which is hardly more than a line
of steps, which the mayor persistently
calls upon the municipal council to
grade, and which the latter as persistent-
ly refuse to improve. The building is
quite new, massive but ugly, and has at
the side a pretentious little tower with a
peaked roof, which Dr. Seignebos calls a
perpetual menace of the feudal system.
It is true the Chandore's once upon a
time were great feudal lords, and for a
long time exhibited a profound contempt
for all who could not boast of noble
ancestors and a deep hatred of revolu-
tionary ideas. But, if they had ever been
formidable, they had long since ceased to
be so. Of the whole great family, — one
of the most numerous and most powerful
of the province, — only one member sur-
vived, the Baron de Chandore, and a
girl, his grand-daughter, betrothed to
Jacques de Boiscoran. Dionysia was an
orphan. She was barely three years old,
when, within five months, she lost her
father, who fell in a duel, and her
mother, who had not the strength to sur-
vive the man whom she had loved. This
was certainly for the child a terrible
misfortune; but she was not left uncared
for nor unloved. Her grandfather be-
stowed all his affections upon her; and
the two sisters of her mother, the Misses
Lavarande, then already no longer young,
determined never to marry, so as to
devote themselves exclusively to their
niece. From that day the two good
ladies had wished to live in the baron's
house; but from the beginning he had
utterly refused to listen to their proposi-
tions, asserting that he was perfectly able
himself to watch over the child, and
wanted to have her all to himself. All
he would grant was, that the ladies might
spend the day with Dionysia whenever
they chose.
Hence arose a certain rivalry between
the aunts and the grandfather, which led
both parties to most amazing exaggera-
tions. Each one did what could be done
to engage the affections of the little girl:
each one was willing to pay any price for
the most trifling caress. At five years
Dionysia had every toy that had ever
been invented. At ten she was dressed
like the first lady of the land, and had
jewelry in abundance.
The grandfather, in the mean time, had
been metamorphosed from head to foot.
Rough, rigid, and severe, he had sudden-
ly become a "love of a father." The
fierce look had vanished from his eyes,
the scorn from his lips; and both had
given way to soft glances and smooth
words. He was seen daily trotting
through the streets, and going from shop
to shop on errands for his grandchild.
He invited her little friends, arranged
picnics for her, helped her drive her
hoops, and if needs be, led in a cotillon.
If Dionysia looked displeased, he
trembled. If she coughed, he turned
pale. Once she was sick: she had the
measles. He staid up for twelve nights
in succession, and sent to Paris for doc-
tors, who laughed in his face.
And yet the two old ladies found
means to exceed his folly.
If Dionysia learned anything at all, it
was only because she herself insisted
upon it: otherwise the writing-master
and the music-master would have been
sent away at the slightest sign of weari-
ness.
Sauveterre saw it, and shrugged its
shoulders.
"What a wretched education!" the
ladies said. "Such weakness is abso-
lutely unheard of. They render the
child a sorry service."
There was no doubt that such almost
incredible spoiling, such blind devotion,
and perpetual worship, came very near
making of Dionysia the most disagreea-
ble little person that ever lived. But
fortunately she had one of those happy
dispositions which cannot be spoiled; and
besides, she was perhaps saved from the
danger by its very excess.. As she grew
older she would say with a laugh, —
"Grandpapa Chandore-, my aunts
Lavarande, and I, we do just what we
choose."
That was only a joke. Never did a
young girl repay such sweet affection
with rarer and nobler qualities.
She was thus leading a happy life, free
from all care, and was just seventeen
years old, when the great event of her
life took place. M. de Chandore one


44
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
morning met Jacques de Boiscoran,
whose uncle had been a friend of his,
and invited him to dinner. Jacques
accepted the invitation, and came. Dio-
nysia saw him, and loved him.
Now, for the first time in her life, she
had a secret unknown to Grandpapa
Chandore and to her aunts; and for two
years the birds and the flowers were the
only confidants of this love of hers, which
grew up in her heart, sweet like a dream,
idealized by absence, and fed by memory.
For Jacques's eyes remained blind for
two years.
But the day on which they were
opened he felt that his fate was sealed.
Nor did he hesitate a moment; and in less
than a month after that, the Marquis de
Boiscoran came down to Sauveterre, and
in all form asked Dionysia's hand for his
son.
Ah! that was a heavy blow for Grand-
papa Chandore.
He had, of course, often thought of
the future marriage of his grandchild;
he had even at times spoken of it, and
told her that he was getting old, and
should feel very much relieved when he
should have found her a good husband.
But he talked of it as a distant thing,
very much as we speak of dying. M. de
Boiscoran brought his true feelings out.
He shuddered at the idea of giving up
Dionysia, of seeing her prefer another
man to himself, and of loving her chil-
dren best of all. He was quite inclined
to throw the ambassador out of the
window.
Still he checked his feelings, and re-
plied that he could give no reply till he
had consulted his grand-daughter.
Poor grandpapa! At the very first
words he uttered, she exclaimed, —
"Oh, I am so happy! But I expected
M. de Chandore bent his head to con-
ceal a tear which burned in his eyes.
Then he said very low, —
"Then the thing is settled."
At once, rather comforted by the joy
that was sparkling in his grandchild's
e3'es, he began reproaching himself for
his selfishness, and for being unhappy,
when his Dionysia seemed to be so happy.
Jacques had, of course, been allowed to
visit the house as a lover; and the very
day before the fire at Valpinson, after
having long and carefully counted the
days absolutely required for all the
purchases of the trousseau, and all the for-
malities of the event, the wedding-day
had been finally fixed.
Thus Dionysia was struck down in the
very height of her happiness, when she
heard, at the same time, of the terrible
charges brought against M. de Boiscoran,
and of his arrest.
At first, thunderstruck, she had lain
nearly ten minutes unconscious in the
arms of her aunts, who, like the grand-
father, were themselves utterly overcome
with terror. But, as soon as she came to,
she exclaimed,—
"Am I mad to give way thus? Is it
not evident that he is innocent?"
Then she had sent her telegram to the
marquis, knowing well, that, before taking
any measures, it was all important to
come to an understanding with Jacques's
family. Then she had begged to be left
alone; and she had spent the night in
counting the minutes that must pass till
the hour came when the train from Paris
would bring her help.
At eight o'clock she had come down to
give orders herself that a carriage should
be sent to the station for the marchioness,
adding that they must drive back as fast
as they could. Then she had gone into
the sitting-room to join her grandfather
and her aunts. They talked to her; but
her thoughts were elsewhere.
At last a carriage was heard coming
up rapidly, and stopping before the
house. She got up, rushed into the hall,
and cried, —
"Here is Jacques's mother I"
in.
We cannot do violence to our natural
feelings without paying for it. The
marchioness had nearly fainted when she
could at last take refuge in the carriage:
she was utterly overcome by the great
effort she had made to present to the
curious people of Sauveterre a smiling
face and calm features.
"What a horrible comedy!" she mur-
mured as she sank back on the cushions.
"Admit, at least, madam," said the
lawyer, "thatit was necessary. You have
won over, perhaps, a hundred persons to
your son's side."
She made no reply. Her tears stifled
her. What would she not have given
for a few moments' solitude, to give way
to all the grief of her heart, to all the
anxiety of a mother I The time till she
reached the house seemed to her an
eternity; and, although the horse was
driven at a furious rate, she felt as if
they were making no progress. At last
the carriage stopped.
The little servant had jumped down,
and opened the door, saying, —
"Here we are."


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
45
The marchioness got out with M.
Folgat's assistance; and her foot was
hardly on the ground, when the house-
door opened, and Dionysia threw herself
into her arms, too deeply moved to speak.
At last she broke forth, —
"Oh, my mother, my mother I what a
terrible misfortune I"
In the passage, M. de Chandore- was
coming forward. He had not been able
to follow his grand-daughter's rapid steps.
"Let us go in," he said to the two
ladies: "don't stand there!"
For at all the windows curious eyes
were peeping through the blinds.
He drew them into the sitting-room.
Poor M. Folgat was sorely embarrassed
what to do with himself. No one seemed
to be aware of his existence. He fol-
lowed them, however. He entered the
room, and standing by the door, sharing
the general excitement, he was watching
by turns Dionysia, M. de Chandore, and
the two spinsters.
Dionysia was then twenty years old.
It could not be said that she was uncom-
monly beautiful; but no one could ever
forget her again who had once seen her.
Small in form, she was grace personified;
and all her movements betrayed a rare
and exquisite perfection. Her black hair
fell in marvellous masses over her head,
and contrasted strangely with her blue
eyes and her fair complexion. Her skin
was of dazzling whiteness. Every thing
in her features spoke of angelic goodness
within, and at the same time of exces-
sive timidity. And yet, from certain
movements of her lips and her eyebrows,
one might have suspected no lack of
energy.
Grandpapa Chandore looked unusually
tall by her side. His massive frame was
imposing. He did not show his seventy-
two years, but was as straight as ever,
and seemed to be able to defy all the
storms of life. What struck strangers
most, perhaps,, was his dark-red com-
plexion, which gave him the appearance
of an Indian chieftain, while his white
beard and hair brought the crimson color
still more prominently out. In spite of
his herculean frame and his strange
complexion, his face bore the expression
of almost childlike goodness. But the
first glance at his eyes proved that the
gentle smile on his lips was not to be
taken alone. There were flashes in his
gray eyes which made people aware that
a man who should dare, for instance, to
offend Dionysia, would have to pay for
it pretty dearly.
As to the two aunts, they were as tall
and thin as a couple of willow-rods, pale,
discreet, ultra-aristocratic in their reserve
and their coldness ; but they bore in their
faces an expression of happy peace and
sentimental tenderness, such as is often
seen in old maids whose temper has not
been soured by celibacy. They dressed
absolutely alike, as they had done now
for forty years, preferring neutral colors
and modest fashions, such as suited their
simple taste.
They were crying bitterly at that mo-
ment; and M. Folgat felt instinctively
that there was no sacrifice of which they
were' not capable for their beloved niece's
sake.
"Poor Dionysia! " they whispered.
The girl heard them, however; and,
drawing herself up, she said, —
"But we are behaving shamefully.
What would Jacques say, if he could see
us from his prison! Why should we be
so sad? Is he not innocent?"
Her eyes shone with unusual brilliancy:
her voice had a ring which moved Man-
uel Folgat deeply.
"I can at least, in justice to myself,"
she went on saying, "assure you that I
have never doubted him for a moment.
And how should I ever have dared to
doubt? The very night on which the
fire broke out, Jacques wrote me a letter
of four pages, which he sent me by one
of his tenants, and which reached me at
nine o'clock. I showed it to grandpapa.
He read it, and then he said I was a thou-
sand times right, because a man who had
been meditating such a crime could
never have written that letter."
"I said so, and I still think so," added
M. de Chandore; "and every sensible
man will think so too; but" —
His grand-daughter did not let him
finish.
"It is evident, therefore, that Jacques
is the victim of an abominable intrigue;
and we must unravel it. We have cried
enough: now let us act!"
Then, turning to the marchioness, she
said, —
"And my dear mother, I sent for you,
because we want you to help us in this
great work."
"And here I am," replied the old lady,
"not less certain of my son's innocence
than you are."
Evidently M. de Chandore had been
hoping for something more; for he inter-
rupted her, asking, —
"And the marquis?"
"My husband remained in Paris."
The old gentleman's face assumed a
curious expression.
"Ah, that is just like him," he said.
1 " Nothing can move him. His only son


46
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
is wickedly accused of a crime, arrested,
thrown into prison. They write to him;
they hope he will come at once. By no
means. Let his son get out of trouble as
he can. He has his faiences to attend
to. Oh, if I had a son!"
"My husband," pleaded the mar-
chioness, " thinks he can be more useful to
Jacques in Paris than here. There will
be much to be done there."
"Have we not the railway?"
"Moreover," she went on, "he in-
trusted me to this gentleman." She
pointed out M. Folgat.
"M. Manuel Folgat, who has promised us
the assistance of his experience, his tal-
ents, and his devotion."
When thus formally introduced, M.
Folgat bowed, and said, —
"I am all hope. But I think with
Miss Chandore, that we must go to work
without losing a second. Before I can
decide, however, upon what is to be done,
1 must know all the facts."
"Unfortunately we know nothing," re-
plied M. de Chandore, — " nothing, except
that Jacques is kept in close confine-
ment."
"Well, then, we must try to find out.
You know, no doubt, all the law officers
of Sauveterre?"
"Very few. I know the common-
wealth attorney."
"And the magistrate before whom the
matter has been brought."
The older of the two Misses Lavarande
rose, and exclaimed,—
"That man, M. Galpin, is a monster of
hypocrisy and ingratitude. He called
himself Jacques's friend; and Jacques
liked him well enough to induce us, my
sister and myself, to give our consent to
a marriage between him and one of
our cousins, a Lavarande. Poor child.
When she learned the sad truthv she
cried, ' Great God I God be blessed that
I escaped the disgrace of becoming the
wife of such a man!'"
"Yes," added the other old lady, "if all
Sauveterre thinks Jacques guilty, let them
also say, 'His own friend has become his
judge.'"
M. Folgat shook his head, and said, —
"I must have more minute informa-
tion. The marquis mentioned to me a
M. Seneschal, mayor of Sauveterre."
M. de Chandore looked at once for his
hat, and said, —
"To be sure! He is a friend of ours;
and, if any one is well informed, he is.
Let us go to him. Come."
M. Seneschal was indeed a friend of
the Chandores, the Lavarandes, and also
of the Boiscorans. Although he was a
lawyer, he had become attached to the
people whose confidential adviser he had
been for more than twenty years. Even
after having retired from business, M.
Seneschal had still retained the full con-
fidence of his former clients. They
never decided on any grave question,
without consulting him first. His suc-
cessor did the business for them; but M.
Seneschal directed what was to be done.
Nor was the assistance all on one side.
The example of great people like M. de
Chandore and Jacques's uncle had brought
many a peasant on business into M.
Seneschal's office; and when he was, at a
later period of his life, attacked by the
fever of political ambition, and offered to
"sacrifice himself for his country" by
becoming mayor of Sauveterre, and a
member of the general council, their
support had been of great service to him.
Hence he was well-nigh overcome
when he returned, on that fatal morning,
to Sauveterre. He looked so pale and
undone, that his wife was seriously trou-
bled.
"Great God, Augustus! What has
happened!" she asked.
"Something terrible has happened,"
he replied in so tragic a manner, that his
wife began to tremble.
To be sure, Mrs. Seneschal trembled
very easily. She was a woman of forty-
five or fifty years, very dark, short, and
fat, trying hard to breathe in the corsets
which were specially made for her by
the Misses Mechinet, the clerk's sisters.
When she was young, she had been
rather pretty: now she still kept the red
cheeks of her younger days, a forest of
jet black hair, and excellent teeth. But
she was not happy. Her life had been
spent in wishing for children, and she
had none. -
She consoled herself, it is true, by con-
stantly referring to all the most delicate
details on the subject, mentioning not to
her intimate friends only, but to any
one who would listen, her constant disap-
pointments, the physicians she had con-
sulted, the pilgrimages she had under-
taken, and the quantities of fish she had
eaten, although she abominated fish. All
had been in vain, and as her hopes fled
with her years, she had become resigned,
and indulged now in a kind of romantic
sentimentality, which she carefully kept
alive by reading novels and poems with-
out end. She had a tear ready for every
unfortunate being, and some words of
comfort for every grief. Her charity
was well known. Never had a poor
woman with children appealed to her in
vain. In spite of all that, she was not


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
47
easily taken in. She managed her house-
held with her hand as well as with her
eye; and no one surpassed her in the ex-
tent of her washings, or the excellence
of her dinners.
She was quite ready, therefore, to sigh
and to sob when her husband told her
what had happened during the night.
When he had ended, she said, —
"That poor Dionysia is capable of
dying of it. In your place, I would go at
once to M. de Chandore, and inform him
in the most cautious manner of what has
happened."
"I shall take good care not to do so,"
replied M. Seneschal; "and I tell you
expressly not to go there yourself."
For he was by no means a philosopher;
and, if he had been his own master, he
would have taken the first train, and gone
off a hundred miles, so as not to see the
grief of the Misses Lavarande and Grand-
papa Chandore. He was exceedingly
fond of Dionysia: he had been hard at
work for years to settle and to add to her
fortune, as if she had been his own
daughter, and now to witness her grief!
he shuddered at the idea. Besides, he
really did not know what to believe, and
influenced by M. Galpin's assurance,
misled by public opinion, he had come to
ask himself if Jacques might not, after
all, have committed the crimes with
which he was charged.
Fortunately his duties were on that
day so numerous and so troublesome, that
he had no time to think. He had to pro-
vide for the recovery and the transporta-
tion of the remains of the two unfortu-
nate victims of the fire; he had to re-
ceive the mother of one, and the widow
and children of the other, and to listen
to their complaints, and try to console
them by promising the former a small
pension, and the latter some help in the
education of their children. Then he
had to give directions to have the
wounded men brought home; and, after
that, he had gone out in search of a house
for Count Claudieuse and his wife, which
had given him much trouble. Finally, a
large part of the afternoon had been
taken up by an angry discussion with Dr.
Seignebos. The doctor, in the name of
outraged society, as he called it, and in
the name of justice and humanity, de-
manded the immediate arrest of Cocoleu,
that wretch whose unconscious statement
formed the basis of the accusation. He
demanded with a furious oath that the epi-
leptic idiot should be sent to the hospital,
and kept there so as to be professionally
examined by experts. The mayor had for
some time refused to grant the request,;
which seemed to him unreasonable; but
the doctor had talked so loud, and insisted
so strongly, that at last he had sent two
gendarmes to Brechy with orders to
bring back Cocoleu.
They had returned several hours later
with empty hands. The idiot had disap-
peared; and no one in the whole district
had been able to give any information as
to his whereabouts.
"And you think that is natural?" ex-
claimed Dr. Seignebos, whose eyes were
glaring at the mayor from under his
spectacles. "To me that looks like an
absolute proof that a plot has been
hatched to ruin M. de Boiscoran."
"But can't you be quiet?" M. Senes-
chal said angrily. "Do you think Cocoleu
is lost? He will turn up again."
The doctor had left him without insist-
ing any longer; but, before going home,
he had dropped in at his club, and there,
in the presence of twenty people, he had
declared that he had positive proof of a
plot formed against M. de Boiscoran,
whom the Monarchists had never forgiven
for having left them ; and that the Jesuits
were certainly mixed up with the busi-
ness.
This interference was more injurious
than useful to Jacques; and the conse-
quences were soon seen. That same
evening, when M. Galpin crossed the
New-Market Place, he was wantonly in-
sulted. Very naturally he went, almost
in a fury, to call upon the mayor, to hold
him responsible for this insult offered to
Justice in his person, and asking for ener-
getic punishment. M. Seneschal pi'om-
ised to take the proper measures, and
went to the commonwealth attorney to
act in concert with him. There he learned
what had happened at Boiscoran, and the
terrible result of the examination.
So he had come home, quite sorrowful,
distressed at Jacques's situation, and very
much disturbed by the political aspect
which the matter was beginning to wear.
He had spent a bad night, and in the
morning had displayed such fearful tem-
per, that his wife had hardly dared to say
a word to him. But even that was not
all. At two o'clock precisely, the funeral
of Bolton and Guillebault was to take
place; and he had promised Capt.
Parenteau that he would be present in
his official costume, and accompanied by
the whole municipal council. He had
already given orders to have his uniform
gotten ready, when the servant announced
visitors, — M. de Chandore and friend.
"That was all that was wanting!" he
exclaimed.
But, thinking it over, he added,—


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
49
"this trouble without betraying his se-
cret."
"If that were so, it would be very
strange."
"Stranger things than that have hap-
pened."
"To allow himself to be accused of in-
cendiarism and murder when he is inno-
cent!"
"To be innocent, and to allow one's self
to be condemned, is still stranger; and
yet there are instances " —
The young lawyer spoke in that short,
imperious tone which is, so to say, the
privilege of his profession, and with such
an accent of assurance, that M. de Chan-
dore felt his hopes revive. M. Seneschal
was sorely troubled.
"And what do you think, sir?" he
asked.
"That M. de Boiscoran must be inno-
cent," replied the young advocate. And,
without leaving time for objections, he
continued, —
"That is the opinion of a man who is
not influenced by any consideration. I
come here without any preconceived
notions. I do not know Count Claudieuse
anj- more than M. de Boiscoran. A crime
has been committed: I am told the cir-
cumstances; and I at once come to the
conclusion that the reasons which led to
the arrest of the accused would lead me
to set him- at liberty."
"Oh.I"
"Let me explain. If M. de Boisco-
ran is guilty, he has shown, in the way
in which he received M. Galpin at his
house, a perfectly unheard-of self-control,
and a matchless genius for comedy.
Therefore, if he is guilty, he is immensely
clever " —
"But."
"Allow me to finish. If he is guilty,
he has in the examination shown a mar-
vellous want of self-control, and, to be
brief, a nameless stupidity: therefore, if
he is guilty, he is immensely stupid " —
"But."
"Allow me to finish. Can one and the
same person be at once so unusually
clever and so unusually stupid? Judge
yourself. But again: if M. de Boiscoran
is guilty, he ought to be sent to the insane
asylum, and not to prison; for any one else
but a madman would have poured out
the dirty water in which he had washed
his blackened hands, and would have
buried anywhere that famous breech-
loader, of which the prosecution makes
such good use."
"Jacques is safe I" exclaimed M. de
Chandore'.
M. Seneschal was notso easily won over.
"That is specious pleading," he said.
"Unfortunately, we want something more
than a logic conclusion to meet a jury
with an abundance of witnesses on the
other side."
"We will find more on our side."
"What do you propose to do?"
"I do not know. I have just told you
my first impression. Now I. must study
the case, and examine the witnesses, be-
ginning with old Anthony."
M. de Chandore had risen. He said,—
"We can reach Boiscoran in an hour.
Shall I send for my carriage?"
"As quickly as possible," replied the
young lawyer.
M. de Chandore's servant was back in
a quarter of an hour, and announced that
the carriage was at the door. M. de
Chandore' and M. Folgat took their seats;
and, whilst they were getting in,» the
mayor warned the young Paris lawyer, —
"Above all, be prudent and circum-
spect. The public mind is already but
too much inflamed. Politics are mixed
up with this case. I am afraid of some
disturbance at the burial of the firemen;
and they bring me word that Dr. Seigne-
bos wants to make a speech at the grave-
yard. Good-by and good luck!"
The driver whipped the horse, and, as
the carriage was going down through the
suburbs, M. de Chandore ' said, —
"I cannot understand why Anthony
did not come to me immediately after his
master had been arrested. What can
have happened to him?"
M. Seneschal's horse was perhaps
one of the very best in the whole prov-
ince; but M. de Chandore''s was still bet-
ter. In less than fifty minutes they had
driven the whole distance to Boiscoran;
and during this time M. de Chandore and
M. Folgat had not exchanged fifty
words.
When they reached Boiscoran, the
courtyard was silent and deserted. Doors
and windows were hermetically closed.
On the steps of the porch sat a stout
young peasant, who, at the sight of the
new-comers, rose, and carried his hand to
his cap.
"Wh ere is Anthony?" asked M. de
Chandore'.
"Up stairs, sir."
The old gentleman tried to open the
door: it resisted.
"0 sir! Anthony has barricaded the
door from the inside."
"A curious idea,'* said M. de Chan-
4


60
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
dore, knocking with the butt-end of his
whip.
He was knocking fiercer and fiercer,
when at last Anthony's voice was heard
from within, —
"Who is there?"
"It is I, Baron Chandore."
The bars were removed instantly, and
the old valet showed himself in the
door. He looked pale and undone. The
disordered condition of his beard, his
hair, and his dress, showed that he had
not been to bed. And this disorder was
full of meaning in a man who ordinarily
prided himself upon appearing always in
the dress of an English gentleman.
M. de Chandore was so struck by this,
that he asked, first of all, —
"What is the matter with you, my
good Anthony?"
IiiStead of replying, Anthony drew the
baron and his companion inside; and,
when he had fastened the door again, he
crossed his arms, and said, —
"The matter is — well, I am afraid."
The old gentleman and the lawyer
looked at each other. They evidently
both thought the poor man had lost his
mind. Anthony saw it, and said quick-
ly. —
"No, I am not mad, although, certainly,
there are things passing here which could
make one doubtful of one's own senses.
If I am afraid, it is for good reasons."
"You do not doubt your master?"
asked M. Folgat.
The servant cast such fierce, threaten-
ing glances at the lawyer, that M. de
Chandore hastened to interfere.
"My dear Anthony," he said, "this
gentleman is a friend of mine, a lawyer,
who has come down from Paris with the
marchioness to defend Jacques. You need
not mistrust him, nay, more than that,
you must tell him all you know, even
if " —
The trusty old servant's face bright-
ened up, and. he exclaimed, —
"Ah! If the gentleman is a lawyer.
Welcome, sir. Now I can say all that
weighs on my heart. No, most assuredly
I do not think Master Jacques guilty. It
is impossible he should be so: it is absurd
to think of it. But what I believe, what
I am sure of, is this, —there is a plot to
charge him with all the horrors of Val-
pinson."
"A plot ?" broke in M. Folgat, "whose?
how? and what for?"
"Ah! that is more than I know. But
I am not mistaken; and you would think
so too, if you had been present at the ex-
amination, as I was. It was fearful, gen-
tlemen, it was unbearable, so that even I
was stupefied for a moment, and thought
my master was guilty, and advised him
to flee. The like has never been heard
of before, I am sure. Every thing went
against him. Every answer he made
sounded like a confession. A crime had
been committed at Valpinson; he had
been seen going there and coming back
by side paths. A fire had been kindled;
his hands bore traces of charcoal. Shots
had been fired; they found one of his
cartridge-cases close to the spot where
Count Claudieuse had been wounded.
There it was I saw the plot. ^ How could
all these circumstances have agreed so
precisely, if they had not been pre-ar-
ranged, and calculated beforehand? Our
poor M. Daubigeon had tears in his eyes;
and even that meddlesome fellow, Me-
chinet, the clerk, was qui to overcome. M.
Galpiu was the only one who looked
pleased; but then he was the magistrate,
and he put the questions. He, my mas-
ter's friend! — a man who was constantly
coming here, who ate our bread, slept in
our beds, and shot our game. Then it
was, 'My dear Jacques,' and 'My dear
Boiscoran ' always, and no end of compli-
ments aiid caresses; so that I often
thought one of these days I should find
him blackening my master's boots. Ah I
he took his revenge yesterday; and you
ought to have seen with what an air he
said to master, ' We are friends no long-
er.' The rascal I No, we are friends no
longer; and, if God was just, you ought to
have all the shot in your body that has
wounded Count Claudieuse."
M. de Chandore was growing more and
more impatient. As soon, therefore, as
Anthony's breath gave out a moment, he
said, —
"Why did you not come and tell me
all that immediately?"
The old servant ventured to shrug his
shoulders slightly, and replied, —
"How could I? When the examina-
tion was over, that man, Galpin, put the
seals everywhere, — strips of linen fas-
tened on with sealing-wax, as they do
with dead people. He put one on every
opening, and on some of them two. He
put three on the outer door. Then he told
me that he appointed me - keeper of the
house, that I would be paid for it, but that
I would be sent to the galleys if any one
touched the seals with the tip of the fin-
ger. When he had handed master over
to the gendarmes, that man, Galpin, went
away, leaving me here alone, dum-
founded, like a man who has been
knocked in the head. Nevertheless, I
should have come to you, sir, but I had an
idea, and that gave me the shivers."


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
51
Grandpapa Chandore stamped his foot,
and said, —
"Come to the point, to the point!"
"It was this: you must know, gentle-
men, that, in the examination, that
breechloading gun played a prominent
part. That man, Galpin, looked at it
carefully, and asked master when he had
last fired it off. Master said, ' About five
days ago. You hear, I say, five days.'
Thereupon, that man, Galpin, puts the
gun down, without looking at the bar-
rels."
"Well? " asked M. Folgat.
"Well, sir, I — Anthony — I had the
evening before — I say the evening be-
fore — cleaned the gun, washed it, and " —
"Upon my word," cried M. de Chan-
dore, "why did you not say so at once?
If the barrels are clean, that is an absolute
proof that Jacques is innocent."
The old servant shook his head, and
said, —
"To be sure, sir. But are they clean?"
"Oh!"
"Master may be mistaken as to the
time when he last fired the gun, and then
the barrels would be soiled; and, instead
of helping him, my evidence might ruin
him definitely. Before I say any thing,
I ought to be sure."
"Yes," said Folgat, approvingly, "and
you have done well to keep silence, my
good man, and I cannot urge you too
earnestly not to say a word of it to any
one. That fact may become a decisive
argument for the defence."
"Oh! I can keep my tongue, sir. Only
you may imagine how impatient it has
made me to see these accursed seals which
prevent me from going to look at the
gun. Oh, if I had dared to break one of
them!"
"Poor fellow!"
"I thought of doing it; but I checked
myself. Then it occurred to me that
other people might think of the same
thing. The rascals who have formed this
abominable plot against Master Jacques
are capable of any thing, don't you think
so? Why might not they come some
night, and break the seals? I put the
steward on guard in the garden, beneath
the windows. -I put his son as a sentinel
into the courtyard; and I have myself
stood watch before the seals with arms in
my hands all the time. Let the rascals
come on: they will find somebody to re-
ceive them."
In spite of all that is said, lawyers are
better than their reputation. Lawyers,
accused of being sceptics above all men,
are, on the contrary, credulous and simple-
minded. Their enthusiasm is sincere;
and, when we think they play a part,
they are in earnest. In the majority of
cases, they fancy their own side the just
one, even though they should be beaten.
Hour by hour, ever since his arrival at
Sauveterre, M. Folgat's faith in Jacques's
innocence had steadily increased. Old
Anthony's tale was not made to shake his
growing conviction. He did not admit
the existence of a plot, however; but he
was not disinclined to believe in the
cunning calculations of some rascal, who,
availing himself of circumstances known
to him alone, tried to let all suspicion
fall upon M. de Boiscoran, instead of
himself,
But there were many more questions to
be asked; and Anthony was in such a
state of feverish excitement, that it was
difficult to induce him to answer. For it
is not so easy to examine a man, however
inclined he may be to answer. It re-
quires no small self-possession, much care,
and an imperturbable method, without
which the most important facts are apt
to be overlooked. M. Folgat began,
therefore, after a moment's pause, once
more, saying, —
"My good Anthony, I cannot praise
your conduct in this matter too highly.
However, we have not done with it yet.
But as I have eaten nothing since I left
Paris last night, and as I hear the bell
strike twelve o'clock "—
M. de Chandore seemed to be heartily
ashamed, and broke in,—
"Ah, forgetful old man that I am!
why did I not think of it? But you will
pardon me, I am sure. I am so com-
pletely upset. Anthony, what can you
let us have?"
"The housekeeper has eggs, potted
fowl, ham" —
"Whatever can be made ready first
will be the best," said thAyounS' lawyer.
"In a quarter of an hour the table
shall be set," replied the servant.
He hurried away, while M. de Chan-
dore invited M. Folgat into the sitting-
room. The poor grandfather summoned
all his energy to keep up appearances.
"This fact about the gun will save
him, won't it? " he asked.
"Perhaps so," replied the famous ad-
vocate.
And they were silent, — the grandfather
thinking of the grief of his grandchild,
and cursing the day on which he had
opened his house to Jacques, and with
him to such heart-rending anguish; the
lawyer arranging in his mind the facts-
he had learned, and preparing the ques-
tions he was going to ask. They were
both so fully absorbed by their thoughts,


52
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
that they started when Anthony re-ap-
peared, and said, —
"Gentlemen, breakfast is ready!"
The table had been set in the dining-
room; and, when the two gentlemen had
taken their seats, old Anthony placed
himself, his napkin over the arm, behind
them; but M. de Chandore called him,
saying, —
"Put another plate, Anthony, and
breakfast with us."
"Oh, sir," protested the old servant,—
sir " —
"Sit down," repeated the baron: "if
you eat after us, you will make us lose
time, and an old servant like you is a
member of the family."
Anthony obeyed, quite overcome, but
blushing with delight at the honor that
was done him; for the Baron de Chan-
dore did not usually distinguish himself
by familiarity. When the ham and eggs
of the housekeeper had been disposed of,
M. Folgat said, —
"Now let us go back to business.
Keep cool, my dear Anthony, and re-
member, that, unless we get the court to
say that there is no case, your answers
may become the basis of our defence.
What were M. de Boiscoran's habits
when he was here?"
"When he was here, sir, he had, so to
say, no habits. We came here very
rarely, and only for a short time."
"Never mind'te what was he doing
here?" *
"He used to rise late; he walked about
a good deal; he sometimes went out
hunting; he sketched; he read, for
master is a great reader, and is as fond
of his books as the marquis, his father,
is of his porcelains."
"Who came here to see him?"
"M. Galpin most frequently, Dr.
Seignebos, the spriest from Brechy, M.
Seneschal, M. Daubigeon."
"How did he spend his evenings?"
"At M. de Chandore's, who can tell
you all about it."
"He had no other relatives in this
country?"
"No."
"You do not know that he had any
lady friend?"
Anthony looked as if he would have
blushed.
"Oh, sir!" he said, "you do not know,
I presume, that master is engaged to
Miss Dionysia?"
The Baron de Chandore was not a
baby, as he liked to call it. Deeply in-
terested as he was, he got up, and said, —
"I want to take a little fresh air."
And he went out, understanding very
well that his being Dionysia's grand-
father might keep Anthony from telling
the truth.
"That is a sensible man," thought M.
Folgat.
Then he added aloud, —
"Now we are alone, my dear Anthony,
you can speak frankly. Did M. de Bois-
coran keep a mistress?"
"No, sir." .
"Did he ever have one?"
"Never. They will tell you, perhaps,
that once upon a time he was rather
pleased with a great, big red-haired
woman, the daughter of a miller in the
neighborhood, and that the gypsy of a
woman came more frequently to the
chateau than was needful, — now on one
pretext, and now on another. But that
was mere childishness. Besides, that
was five years ago, and the woman has
been married these three years to a
basket-maker at Marennes."
"You are quite sure of what you
say?"
"As sure as I am of myself. And
you would be as sure of it yourself, if
you knew the country as I know it, and
the abominable tongues the people have.
There is no concealing any thing from
them. I defy a man to talk three times
to a woman without their finding it out,
and making a story of it. I say nothing
of Paris " —-
M. Folgat listened attentively. He
asked, —
"Ah! was there any thing of the kind
in Paris?"
Anthony hesitated; at last he said, —
"You see, master's secrets are not my
secrets, and, after the oath I have
sworn," —
"It may be, however, that his safety
depends upon your frankness in telling
me all," said the lawyer. "You may be
sure he will not blame you for having
spoken."
For several seconds the old servant
remained undecided; then he said, —
"Master, they say, has had a great
love-affair."
"When?"
"I do not know when. *That was be-
fore I entered his service." All I know
is, that, for the purpose of meeting the
person, master had bought at Passy, at
the end of Vine Street, a beautiful house,
in the centre of a large garden, which he
had furnished magnificently."
"Ah!"
"That is a secret, which, of course,
neither master's father nor his mother
knows to this day; and I only know it,
because one day master fell down the


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
63
steps, and dislocated his foot, so that he
had to send for me to nurse him. He
may have bought the house under his
own name; but he was not known by it
there. He passed for an Englishman,
a Mr. Burnett; and he had an English
maid-servant."
"And the person?"
"Ah, sir! I not only do not know who
she is, but I cannot even guess it, she
took such extraordinary precautions!
Now that I mean to tell you every
thing, I will confess to you that I had
the curiosity to question the English
maid. She told me that she was no
farther than I was; that she knew, to be
sure, a lady was coming there from
time to time ; but that she had never seen
even the end of her nose. Master
always managed it so well, that the girl
was invariably out on some errand or
other when the lady came and when she
went away. While she was in the house,
master waited upon her himself. And
when they wanted to walk in the garden,
they sent the servant away, on some fool's
errand, to Versailles or to Fontainebleau;
and she was mad, I tell you."
M. Folgat began to twist his mus-
tache, as he was in the habit of doing
when he was specially interested. For a
moment, he thought he saw the woman,
— that inevitable woman who is always
at the bottom of every great event in
man's life; and just then she vanished
from his sight; for he tortured his mind
in vain to discover a possible if not prob-
able connection between the mysterious
visitor in Vine Street and the events
that had happened at Valpinson. He
could not see a trace. Rather discour-
aged he, asked once more, —
"After all, my dear Anthony, this great
love-affair of your master's has come to an
end?"
"It seems so, sir, since Master Jacques
was going to marry Miss Dionysia."
That reason was perhaps not quite as
conclusive as the good old servant ima-
gined; but the young advocate made no
remark.
"And when do you think it came to an
end?"
"During the war, master and the lady
must have been parted; for master did
not stay in Paris. He commanded a vol-
unteer company; and he was even
wounded in the head, which procured
him the cross."
"Does he still own the house in Vine
Street?"
"I believe so."
"Why?"
"Because, some time ago, when master
and I went to Paris for a week, he said to
me one day, ' The war and the commune
have cost me dear. My cottage has had
more than twenty shells, and it has been
in turn occupied by Francs-^rgurs, Com-
munists, and Regulars.- The walls are
broken; and there is not a piece of furni-
ture uninjured. My architect tells me,
that, all in all, the repairs will cost me
some ten thousand dollars."
"What? Repairs? Then he thought
of going back there?"
"At that time, sir, master's marriage
had hot been settled. Yet" —
"Still that would go to prove that he
had at that time met the mysterious
lady once more, and that the war had not
broken off their relations."
"That may be."
"And has he never mentioned the lady
again?"
"Never."
At this moment M. de Chandore's
cough was heard in the hall, — that
cough which men affect when they wish
to announce their coming. Immediately
afterwards he re-appeared; and M. Folgat
said to him, to show that his presence
was no longer inconvenient, —
"Upon my word, sir, I was just on the
point of going in search of you, for fear
that you felt really unwell."
"Thank you," replied the old gentle-
man, "the fresh air has done me good."
He sat down; and the young advocate
turned again to Anthony, saying, —-
"Well, let us go on. How was he
the day before the fire?"
"Just as usual."
"What did he do before he went
out?"
"He dined as usual with a good appe-
tite; then he went up stairs, and 're-
mained there for an hour. When he
came down, he had a letter in his hand,
which he gave to Michael, our tenant's
son, and told him to carry it to Sauve-
terre, to Miss Chandore." "-
"Yes. In that letter, M. de Bpiscoran
told Miss Dionysia that he was retained
here by a matter of great importance."
"Ah I"
"Have you any idea what that could
have been?"
"Not at all, sir, I assure you."
"Still let us see. M. de Boiscoran
must have had powerful reasons to de-
prive himself of the pleasure of spend-
ing the evening with Miss Dionysia?"
"Yes, indeed."
"He must also have had his reasons
for taking to the marshes, on his way
out, instead of going by the turnpike,
and for coming back through the woods."


54
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
Old Anthony was literally tearing his
hair, as he exclaimed, —
"Ah, sir! these are the very words M.
Galpin said."
"Unfortunately every man in his
senses will say so."
"I know, sir: I know it hut too well.
And Master Jacques himself knew it so
well that at first he tried to find some pre-
text; but he has never told a falsehood —
Master Jacques: he can't tell a falsehood.
And he who is such a clever man could not
find a pretext that had any sense in it.
He said he had gone to Brechy to see his
wood-merchant"—
"And why should he not?"
Anthony shook his head, and said, —
"Because the wood-merchant at Bre-
chy is a thief, and everybody knows that
master, has kicked him out of the house
some three years ago. We sell all our
wood at Sauveterre."
M. Folgat had taken out a note-book,
and wrote down some of Anthony's state-
ments, preparing thus the outline of his
defence. This being done, he commenced
again, —
"Now we come to Cocoleu."
"Ah the wretch!" cried Anthony.
"You know him?"
"How could I help knowing him,
when I lived all my life here at Boiscoran
in the service of master's uncle?"
"Then what kind of a man is he?"
"An idiot, sir, or, as they here call it.
an innocent, who has Saint Vitus dance
into the bargain, and epilepsy moreover."
"Then it is perfectly notorious that he
is imbecile?"
"Yes, sir, although I have heard peo-
ple insist that he is not quite so stupid as
he looks, and that, as they say here, he
plays tin; ass in order to get his oats " —
"M. de Chandore interrupted him,
and said. —-
"On this subject Dr. Seignebos can
give you all the information you may
want: he kept Cocoleu for nearly two
years at his own house."
'- I mean to see the doctor," replied M.
Folgat. "But first of all we must find
this unfortunate idiot."
"You heard what M. Seneschal said:
he has put the gendarmes on his track."
"Anthony made a face, and said, —
"If the gendarmes should take Coco-
leu, Cocoleu must have given himself up
voluntarily."
"Why so?"
"Because, gentlemen, there is no one
who knows all the by-ways and out-of-
the-way corners of the country so well as
that idiot; for he has been hiding all
his life like a savage in all the holes and
hiding-places that are about here; and, as
he can live perfectly well on roots and
berries, he may stav away three months
without being seen by any one."
"Is it possible '!" exclaimed M. Folgat
angrily.
"I know only one man," continued
Anthony, "who could find out Cocoleu,
and that is our tenant's son Michael, —
the young man you saw down stairs."
"Send for him," said M. de Chandore-.
Michael appeared promptly, and, when
he had heard what he was expected to do,
he replied. —
"The thing can be done, certainly;
but it is not very easy. Cocoleu has not
the sense of a man; but he has all the
instincts of a brute. However, I'll
try."
There was nothing to keep either M.
de Chandore or M. Folgat any longer at
Boiscoran: hence, after having warned
Anthony to watch the seals well, and to
get a glimpse, if possible, of Jacques's
gun, when the officers should come for
the different articles, they left the cha-
teau. It was five o'clock when they
drove into town again. Dionysia was
waiting for them in the sitting-room.
She rose as they entered, looking quite
pale, with dry, brilliant eyes.
"What? You are alone here!" said
M. de Chandore. "Why have they left
you alone?"
"Don't be angry, grandpapa. I have
just prevailed on the marchioness, who
was exhausted with fatigue to lie down
for an hour or so before dinner."
"And your aunts?"
"They have gone out, grandpapa.
They are probably, by this time, at M.
Galpin's."
"M. Folgat started, and said, —
"Oh!"
"But that is foolish in them!" ex-
claimed the old gentleman.
The young girl closed his lips by a
single word. She said, —
"I asked them to go."
V.
Yes, the step taken by the Misses Lav-
arande was foolish. At the point which
things had reached now, their going to
see M. Galpin was perhaps equivalent to
furnishing him the means to crush
Jacques. But whose fault waS it. but M.
de Chandore's and M. Folgat's? Had
they not committed an unpardonable
blunder in leaving Sauveterre without
any other precaution than to send word
through M. Seneschal's sen-ant, that


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
55
they would be back for dinner, and that
they need not be troubled about them?
Not be troubled! and that to the
Marchioness de Boiscoran and Dionysia,
to Jacques's mother and Jacques's be-
trothed!
Certainly, at first, the two wretched
women preserved tbeir self-control in a
manner, trying to set each other an ex-
ample of courage and confidence. But,
as hour after hour passed by, their anxi-
ety became intolerable; and gradually, as
they confided their apprehensions to each
other, their grief broke out openly.
They thought of Jacques being innocent,
and yet treated like one of the worst
criminals, alone in the depth of his
prison, given up to the most horrible in-
spirations of despair. What could have
been his feelings during the twenty-four
hours which had brought him no news
from his friends? Must he not fancy
himself despised and abandoned?
"That is an intolerable thought!" ex-
claimed Dionysia at last. "We must
get to him at any price."
"How?" asked the marchioness.
"I do not know; but there must be
some way. There are things which I
would not have ventured upon as long as
I was alone; but, with you by my side, I
can risk any thing. Let us go to the
prison."
The old lady promptly put a shawl
around her shoulders, and said, —
"I am ready; let us go."
They had both heard repeatedly that
Jacques was kept in " close confinement;"
but neither of them realized fully what
that meant. They had no idea of this
atrocious measure, which is, nevertheless,
rendered necessary by the peculiar forms
of French law-proceedings, — a measure
which, so to say, immures a man alive,
and leaves him in his cell alone with the
crime with which he is charged, and
utterly at the mercy of another man,
whose duty it is to extort the truth from
him. The two ladies only saw the want
of liberty, a cell with its dismal outfit-
tings, the bars at the window, the bolts at
the door, the jailer shaking his bunch
of keys at his belt, and the tramp of the
solitary sentinel in the long passages.
"They cannot refuse me permission,"
said the old lady, "to see my son."
"They cannot," repeated Dionysia.
"And, besides, I know the jailer, Blan-
gin: his wife was formerly in our ser-
vice."
When the young girl, therefore, raised
the heavy knocker at the prison-door, she
was full of cheerful confidence. Blangin
himself came to the door; and, at the
sight of the two poor ladies, his broad
face displayed the utmost astonishment.
"We come to see M. de Boiscoran,"
said Dionysia boldly.
"Have you a permit, ladies?" asked
the keeper.
"From whom?"
"From M. Galpin."
"We have no permit."
"Then I am very sorry to have to tell
you, ladies, that you cannot possibly see
M. de Boiscoran. He is kept in close
confinement, and I have the strictest
orders."
Dionysia looked threatening, and said
sharply, —
"Your orders cannot apply to this
lady, who is the Marchioness de Bois-
coran."
"My orders apply to everybody,
madam."
"You would not, I am sure, keep a
poor, distressed mother from seeing her
son!"
"Ah! but — madam —it does not rest
with me. I? Who am I? Nothing
more than one of the bolts, drawn or
pushed at will."
For the first time, it entered the poor
girl's head that her effort might fail: still
she tried once more, with tears in her
eyes, —
"But I, my dear M. Blangin, think of
me! You would not refuse me? Don't
you know who I am? Have you never
heard your wife speak of me?"
The jailer was certainly touched. He
replied, —
"I know how much my wife and my-
self are indebted to your kindness,
madam. But — I have my orders, and
you surely would not want me to lose my
place, madam."
"If you lose your place, M. Blangin, I,
Dionysia de Chandore, promise you an-
other place twice as good."
"Madam!"
"You do not doubt my word, M. Blan-
gin, do you?"
"God forbid, madam! But it is not my
place only. If I did what you want me
to do, I should be severely punished."
The marchioness judged from the
jailer's tone that Dionysia was not likely
to prevail over him, and so she said,—
"Don't insist, my child. Let us go
back."
"What? Without finding out what is
going on behind these pitiless walls;
without knowing even whether Jacques
is dead or alive?"
There was evidently a great struggle
going on in the jailer's heart. All of a
sudden he cast a rapid glance around,


56
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
and then said, speaking very hurried-
ly.—
"I ought not to tell you — but never
mind—I cannot let you go away without
telling you that M. de Boiscoran is quite
well."
"Ah!"
"Yesterday, when they brought him
here, he was, so to say, overcome. He
threw himself upon his bed, and he re-
mained there without stirring for over
two hours. I think he must have been
crying."
A sob, which Dionysia could not sup-
press, made Blangin start.
"Oh, re-assure yourself, madam!" he
added quickly. "That state of things did
not last long. Soon M. de Boiscoran got
up, and said, 'Why, I am a fool to de-
spair !'"
"Did you hear him say so?" asked
the old lady.
"Not I. It was Trumence who heard
it."
"Trumence?"
"Yes, one of our jail-birds. Oh! he is
only a vagabond, not bad at all; and he
has been ordered to stand guard at the
door of M. de Boiscoran's cell, and not
for a moment to lose sight of it. It was
M. Galpin who had that idea, because the
prisoners sometimes, in their first despair
— a misfortune happens so easily — they
become weary of life — Trumence would
be there to prevent it."
The old lady trembled with horror.
This precautionary measure, more than
any thing else, gave her the full measure
of her son's situation.
"However," M. Blangin went on, "there
is nothing to fear. M. de Boiscoran be-
came quite calm again, and even cheerful,
if I may say so. When he got up this
morning, after having slept all night like
a dormouse, he sent for me, and asked me
for paper, ink, and pen. All the prison-
ers ask for that the second day. I had
orders to let him have it, and so I gave it
to him. When I carried him his break-
fast, he handed me a letter for Miss Chan-
dore."
"What I" cried Dionysia, "you have a
letter for me, and you don't give it to
me?"
"I do not have it now, madam. I had
to hand it, as is my duty, to M. Galpin,
when he came accompanied by his clerk,
Muchinet, to examine M. de Boiscoran."
"And what did he say?"
"He opened the letter, read it, put it
into his pocket, and said, 'Well.'"
Tears of anger this time sprang from
Dionysia's eyes; and she cried, —
"What a shame I This man reads a
'letter written by Jacques to me! That
is infamous!"
And, without thinking of thanking
Blangin, she drew, off the old lady, and
all the way home did not say a word.
"Ah, poor child, you did not succeed,"
exclaimed the two old aunts, when they
saw their niece come back.
But, when they had heard every thing,
they said, —
"Well, we'll go and see him, this
little magistrate, who but the day before
yesterday was paying us abject court to
obtain the hand of our cousin. And
we'll tell him the truth; and, if we can-
not make him give us back Jacques, we
will at least trouble him in his triumph,
and take down his pride."
How could poor Dionysia help adopt-
ing the notions of the old ladies, when
their project offered such immediate sat-
isfaction to her indignation, and at the
same time served her secret hopes?
"Oh, yes! You are right, dear aunts,"
she said. "Quick, don't lose any time;
go at once!"
Unable to resist her entreaties, they
started instantly, without listening to the
timid objections made by the mar-
chioness. But the good ladies were
sadly mistaken as to the state of mind of
M. Galpin. The ex-lover of one of their
cousins was not bedded on roses by any
means. At the beginning of this extraor-
dinary affair he had taken hold of it
with eagerness, looking upon it as an ad-
mirable opportunity, long looked for, and
likely to open wide the doors to his burn-
ing ambition. Then having once begun,
and the investigation being under way,
he had been carried away by the current,
without having time to reflect. He had
even felt a kind of unhealthy satisfaction
at seeing the evidence increasing, until
he felt justified and compelled to order
his former friend to be sent to prison.
At that time he was fairly dazzled by the
most magnificent expectations. This pre-
liminary inquiry, which in a few hours
already had led to the discovery of a cul-
prit the most unlikely of all men in the
province, could not fail to establish his
superior ability and matchless skill.
But, a few hours later, M. Galpin
looked no longer with the same eye upon
these events. Reflection had coine; and
he had begun to doubt his ability, and to
ask himself, if he had not, after all, acted
rashly. If Jacques was guilty, so much
the better. He was sure, in that case,
immediately after the verdict, to obtain
brilliant promotion. Yes, but if Jacques
should be innocent? When that thought
occurred to M. Galpin for the first


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
57
time, it made him shiver to the mar-
row of his bones. Jacques innocent! —
that was his own condemnation, his
career ended, his hopes destroyed, his
prospects ruined forever. Jacques inno-
cent ! — that was certain disgrace. He
would be sent away from Sauveterre,
where he could not remain after such a
scandal. He would be banished to some
out-of-the-way village, and without hope
of promotion.
In vain he tried to reason that he had
only done his duty. People would answer,
if they condescended at all to answer,
that there are flagrant blunders, scandal-
ous mistakes, which a magistrate must
not commit; and that for the honor of
justice, and in the interest of the law, it is
better, under certain circumstances, to let
a guilty man escape, than to punish an
innocent one.
With such anxiety on his mind, the
most cruel that can tear the heart of an
ambitious man, M. Galpin found his
pillow stuffed with thorns. He had been
up since six o'clock. At eleven, he had
sent for his clerk, Mechinet; and they
had gone together to the jail to recom-
mence the examination. It was then
that the jailer had handed him the pris-
oner's letter for Dionysia. It was a short
note, such as a sensible man would write
who knows full well that a prisoner can-
* not count upon the secrecy of his cor-
respondence. It was not even sealed, a
fact which M. Blangin had not noticed.
"Dionysia, my darling," wrote the
prisoner, "the thought of the terrible
grief I cause you is my most cruel, and
almost my only sorrow. Need I stoop to
assure you that I am innocent? I am
sure it is not needed. I am the victim of
a fatal combination of circumstances,
which could not but mislead justice.
But be re-assured, be hopeful. When the
time comes, I shall be able to set matters
right. Jacques."
"Well,"M. Galpin had really said after
reading this letter. Nevertheless it had
stung him to the quick.
"What assurance!" he had said to him-
self.
Still he had regained courage while
ascending the steps of the prison.
Jacques had evidently not thought it likely
that his note would reach its destination
directly,,j»nd hence it might be fairly
presumed that he had written for the
eyes of justice as well as for his lady-
love. The fact that the letter was not
sealed even, gave some weight to this
presumption.
"After all, we shall see," said M. Gal-
pin, while Blangin was unlocking the
door.
But he found Jacques as calm as if he
had been in his chateau at Boiscoran,
haughty and even scornful. It was im-
possible to get any thing out of him.
When he was pressed, he became obsti-
nately silent, or said that he needed time
to consider. The magistrate had re-
turned Jiome more troubled than ever.
The position assumed by Jacques puzzled
him. Ah, if he could have retraced his
steps!
But it was too late. He had burnt his
vessels, and condemned himself to go on
to the end. For his own safety, for his
future life, it was henceforth necessary
that Jacques de Boiscoran should be
found guilty; that he should be tried in
open court, and there be sentenced. It
must be. It was a question of life or
death for him.
He was in this state of mind when the
two Misses Lavarande called at his house,
and asked to see him. He shook him-
self; and in an instant his over-excited
mind presented to him all possible con-
tingencies. What could the two old
ladies want of him?
"Show them in," he said at last.
They came in, and haughtily declined
the chairs that were offered.
"I hardly expected to have the honor
of a visit from you, ladies," he com-
menced.
The older of the two, Miss Adelaide,
cut him short, saying, —
"I suppose not, after what has passed."
And thereupon, speaking with all the
eloquence of a pious woman who is
trying to wither an impious man, she
poured upon him a stream of reproaches
for what she called his infamous treach-
ery. What? How could he appear against
Jacques, who was his friend, and who had
actually aided him in obtaining the
promise of a great match. By that one
hope he had become, so to say, a member
of the family. Did he not know that
among kinsmen it was a sacred duty to
set aside all personal feelings for the
purpose of protecting that sacred patri-
mony called family honor?"
M. Galpin felt like a man upon whom
a handful of stones falls from the fifth
story of a house. Still he preserved his
self-control, and even asked himself
what advantage he might obtain from
this extraordinary scene. Might it open
a door for reconciliation?"
As soon, therefore, as Miss Adelaide
stopped, he began justifying himself,
painting in hypocritical colors the grief


58
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
it had given him, swearing that he
was not able to control the events, and
that Jacques was as dear to him now as
ever.
"If he is so dear to you," broke in
Miss Adelaide, "why don't you set him
free?"
"Ah! how can 11"
"At least give his family and his
friends leave to see him."
"The law will not let me. If he is
innocent, he has only to prove it. If he
is guilty, he must coufess. In the first
case, he will be set free; in the other case,
he can see whom he wishes."
"If he is so dear to you, how could you
dare read the letter he had written to
Dionysia?"
"It is one of the most painful duties
of my profession to do so."
"Ah! And does that profession also
prevent you from giving us that letter
after having read it?"
"Yes. But I may tell you what is in
it."
He took it out of a drawer; and the
younger of the two sisters, Miss Eliza-
beth, copied it in pencil. Then they
withdrew, almost without saying good-
ly-
M. Galpin was furious. He ex-
claimed, —
"Ah, old witches! I see clearly you
do not believe in Jacques's innocence.
Why else should his family be so very
anxious to see him? No doubt they
want to enable him to escape by suicide
the punishment of his crime. But, by
the great God, that shall not be, if I can
help it!"
M. Folgat was, as we have seen, exces-
sively annoyed at this step taken by the
Misses Lavarande; but he did not let it
be seen. It was very necessary that he
at least should retain perfect presence of
mind and calmness in this cruelly-tried
family. M. de Chandore, on the other
hand, could not conceal his dissatisfac-
tion so well; and, ill spite of his defer-
ence to his grandchild's wishes, he
said, — \
"I am sure, my dear child, I don't
wish to blame you. But you know your
aunts, and you know, also, how uncom-
promising they are. They are quite
capable of exasperating M. Galpin."
"What does it matter?" asked the
young giii haughtily. "Circumspection
is all very well for guilty people; but
Jacques is innocent."
"Miss Chandore is right," said M.
Folgat, who seemed to succumb to
Dionysia like the rest of the family.
"Whatever the ladies may have done,
they cannot make matters worse. M.
Galpin will be none the less our bitter
enemy."
Grandpapa Chandore started. He
said,—
"But" —
"Oh! I do not blame him," broke in
the young lawyer; "but I blame the laws
which make him act as he does. How
can a magistrate remain perfectly impar-
tial in certain very important cases, like
this one, when his whole future career
depends upon his success? A man may
be a most upright magistrate, incapable
of unfairness, and conscientious in fulfill-
ing all his duties, and yet he is but a
man. He has his interest at stake. He
does not like the court to find that there
is no case. The great rewards are not
always given to the lawyer who has
taken most pains to find out the truth."
"But M. Galpin was a friend of ours,
sir."
"Yes; and that is what makes me
fear. What will be his fate on the
day when M. Jacques's innocence is
established?"
"Well, at all events, we shall soon
know what the ladies have accom-
plished."
They were just coming home, quite
proud of their achievement, and waving
in triumph the copy of Jacques's letter.
Dionysia seized upon it; and, while she *
read it aside, Miss Adelaide described the
interview, stating how haughty and dis-
dainful she had been, and how humble
and repentant M. Galpin had seemed to
be.
"He was completely undone," said the
two old ladies with one voice: "he was
crushed, annihilated."
"Yes, you have done a nice thing,"
growled the old baron; "and you have
much reason to boast, forsooth."
"My aunts have done well," declared
Dionysia. "Just see what Jacques has
written I It is clear and precise. What
can we fear when he says,' Be re-assured:
when the time comes, 1 shall be able to
set matters right "I"
M. Folgat took the letter, read it, and
shook his head. Then he said, —
"There was no need of this letter to
confirm my opinion. At the bottom of
this affair there is a secret which none
of us have found out yet. But M. de Bois-
coran acts very rashly in playing in this
way with a criminal prosecutien. AYhy
did he not explain at once? ^hat was
easy yesterday may be less easy to-
morrow, and perhaps impossible in a
week."
"Jacques, sir, is a superior man," cried


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
61
"And you were not surprised at the
name he mentioned?"
"You must have seen, sir."
"I saw; and that is exactly why I ask
you. and why I want to know what you
really think of the state of mind of the
poor creature."
"Don't you know that he is idiotic?"
"I know; and that is why I was so sur-
prised to see you insist upon making him
talk. Do you really think, that, in spite
of his habitual imbecility, he may have
glimpses of sense?"
"He had, a few moments before, saved
my children from death."
"That proves his devotion for you."
"He is very much attached to me
indeed, just like a poor animal that I
might have picked up and cared for."
"Perhaps so. And still he showed
more than mere animal instinct."
"That may well be so. I have more
than once noticed flashes of intelligence
in Cocoleu."
The doctor had taken off his specta-
cles, and was wiping them furiously.
"It is a great pity that one of these
flashes of intelligence did not enlighten
him when he saw M. de Boiscoran make
a fire and get ready to murder Count
Claudieuse."
The countess leaned against the door-
posts, as if about to faint.
"But it is exactly to his excitement at
the sight of the flames, and at hearing
the shots fired, that I ascribe Cocoleu's
return to reason."
"May be," said the doctor, "may
be."
Then putting on his spectacles again,
he added, —
"That is a question to be decided by
the professional men who will have to
examine the poor imbecile creature."
"What I Is he going to be exam-
ined?"
"Yes, and very thoroughly, madam, I
tell you. And now I have the honor of
wishing you good-by. However, I shall
come back to-night, unless you should
succeed during the day in finding lodg-
ings in Sauveterre, — an arrangement
which would be very desirable for my-
self, in the first place, and not less so for
your husband and your daughter. They
are not comfortable in this cottage."
Thereupon he lifted his hat, returned
to town, and immediately asked M.
Seneschal in the most imperious manner
to have Cocoleu arrested. Unfortunately
the gendarmes had been unsuccessful;
and Dr. Seignebos, who saw how unfortu-
nate all this was for Jacques, began to
get terribly impatient, when on Satur-
day night, towards ten o'clock, M. Senes-
chal came in, and said, —
"Cocoleu is found."
The doctor jumped up, and in a mo-
ment his hat on his head, and stick in
hand, asked,—
"Where is he?"
"At the hospital. I have seen him
myself put into a separate room."
"I am going there."
"What, at this hour?"
"Am I not one of the hospital physi-
cians ? and is it not open to me by night
and by day?"
"The sisters will be in bed."
The doctor shrugged his shoulders
furiously; then he said, —
"To be sure, it would be sacrilege to
break the slumbers of these good sisters,
these dear sisters, as you say. Ah, my
dear mayor! when shall we have laymen
for our hospitals? and when will you put
good stout nurses in the place of these
holy damsels?"
M. Seneschal had too often discussed
that subject with the doctor, to open it
anew. He kept silent, and that was
wise; for Dr. Seignebos sat down, say-
ing,—
"Well, I must wait till to-morrow."
VI.
"The hospital in Sauveterre," says
the guidebook, "is, in spite of its limited
size, one of the best institutions of the
kind in the department. The chapel
and the new additions were built at the
expense of the Countess de Maupaison,
the widow of one of the ministers of
Louis Philippe."
But what, the guidebook does not say
is, that the hospital was endowed with
three free beds for pregnant women, by
Mrs. Seneschal, nor that the two wings
on both sides of the great entrance-gate
have also been built by her liberality.
One of these wings, the one on the right,
is used by the janitor, a fine looking old
man, who formerly was beadle at the
cathedral, and who loves to think of the
happy days when he added to the splen-
dor of the church by his magnificent
presence, his red uniform, his gold ban-
delaire, his halbert, and his gold-headed
cane.
This janitor was, on Sunday morning,
a little before eight o'clock, smoking his
pipe in the yard, when he saw Dr.
Seignebos coming in. The doctor was
walking faster than usual, his hat over his
face, and his hands thrust deep into
his pockets, evident signs of a storm.


62 . WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
Instead of coming, as he did every day
before making the rounds, into the office
of the sister-druggist, he went straight
np to the room of the lady superior.
There, after the usual salutations, he
said,—
'- They have no doubt brought you, my
sister, last night, a patient, an idiot,
called Cocoleu."
"Yes, doctor."
"Where has he been put?"
"The mayor saw him himself put
into the little room opposite the linen
room."
"And how did he behave?"
"Perfectly well: the sister who kept
the watch did not hear hiin stir."
'-Thauks, my sister! " said Dr. Seigne-
bos.
He was already in the door, when the
lady superior recalled him.
"Are you going up to see the poor
man, doctor?" she asked.
"Yes, my sister: why?"
"Because you cannot see him."
"I cannot?"
"No. The commonwealth attorney
has sent us orders not to let any one,
except the sister who nurses him, come
near Cocoleu,—no one, doctor, not even
the physician, a case of urgency, of
course, excepted."
Dr. Seignebos smiled ironically. Then
he said, laughing scornfully,—
"Ah, these are your orders, are they?
Well, I tell you that I do not mind them
in the least. Who can prevent me from
seeing my patient? Tell me that I Let
the commonwealth attorney give his
orders in his court-house as much as he
chooses: that is all right. But in my
hospital! My sister, I am going to
Cocoleu's room."
"Doctor, you cannot go there. There
is a gendarme at the door."
-' A gendarme?"
"Yes, he came this morning with the
strictest orders."
For a moment the doctor was over-
come. Then he suddenly broke out
with unusual violence, and a voice that
made the windows shake,—
"This is unheard of! This is an
abominable abuse of power! And by
the hundred thousand thunders of heaven,
I'll have my rights, and justice shall be
done me, if I have to go to Thiers I"
Then he rushed out without ceremony,
crossed the yard, and disappeared like an
arrow, in the direction of the court-house.
At that very moment M. Daubigeon was
getting up, feeling badly because he had
had a 'bad, sleepless night, thanks to
this unfortunate affair of M. de Bois-
coran, which troubled him sorely; for
he was almost of M. Galpin's opinion.
In vain he recalled Jacques's noble char-
acter, his well-known uprightness, his
keen sense of honor, the evidence was so
strong, so overwhelming! He wanted to
doubt; but experience told him that a
man's past is no guaranty for his fu-
ture. And besides, like many great
criminal lawyers, he thought, what he
would never have ventured to say openly,
that some great criminals act while they .
are under the influence of a kind of ver-
tigo, and that this explains the stupidity
of certain crimes committed by men of
superior intelligence.
Since his return from Boiscoran, he
had kept close in his house; and he
had just made up his mind not to leave
the house that day, when some one rang
his bell furiously. A moment later Dr.
Seignebos fell into the room like a bomb-
shell.
"I know what brings you, doctor,"
said M. Daubigeon. "You come about
that order I have given concerning Coco-
leu."
"Yes, indeed, sir I That order is an
insult."
"I have been asked to give it as a
matter of necessity, by M. Galpin."
"And why did you not refuse? You
alone are responsible for it in my eyes.
You are commonwealth attorney, conse-
quently, the head of the bar, and superior
to M. Galpin."
M. Daubigeon shook his head, and
said,—
"There you are mistaken, doctor.
The magistrate in such a case is inde-
pendent of myself and of the court. He
is not even bound to obey the attorney-
general, who can make suggestions to
him, but cannot give him orders. M.
Galpin, in his capacity as examining
magistrate,'has his independent jurisdic-
tion, and is armed with almost unlimited
power. No one in the world can say so
well as an examining magistrate what
the poet calls, —
'Such is my will, such are my orders, and
my will is sufficient.'
'Hoc volo, hoc jubeo, sit pro rations
voluntas.'"
For once Dr. Seignebos seemed to be
convinced by M. Daubigeon's words.
He said, —
"Then, M. Galpin has even the right
to deprive a sick man of his physician's
assistance."
"If he assumes the responsibility, yes.
But he does not mean to go so far. He


WITHIN AX INCH OF HIS LIFE.
63
was, on the contrary, about to ask you,
although it is Sunday, to come and be
present at a second examination of Coco-
leu. I am surprised that you have not
received his note, and that you did, not
meet him at the hospital."
"Well, I am going at once."
And he went back hurriedly, and was
glad he had done so; for at the door of
the hospital he came face to face against
M. Galpin, who was just coming in, ac-
companied by his faithful clerk, Mechinet.
"You come just in time, doctor," be-
gan the magistrate, with his usual so-
lemnity.
But, short and rapid as the doctor's
walk had been, it had given him time to
reflect, and to grow cool. Instead of
breaking out into recriminations, he
replied in a tone of mock politeness, —
"Yes, I know. It is that poor devil
to whom you have given a gendarme for
a nurse. Let us go up: I am at your
service."
The room in which Cocoleu had been
put was large, whitewashed, and empty,
except that a bed, a table, and two
chairs, stood about. The bed was no
doubt a good one; but the idiot had
taken off the mattress and the blankets,
and lain down in his clothes on the
straw bed. Thus the magistrate and
the physician found him as they entered.
He rose at their appearance; but, when
he saw the gendarme, he uttered a cry,
and tried to hide under the bed. M.
Galpin ordered the gendarme to pull
him out again. Then he walked up to
him, and said, —
"Don't be afraid, Cocoleu. We want
to do you no harm ; only you must answer
our questions. Do you recollect what
happened the other night at Valpinson?"
Cocoleu laughed, — the laugh of an
idiot, — but he made no reply. And then,
for a whole hour, begging, threatening,
and promising by turns, the magistrate
tried in vain to obtain one word from
him. Not even the name of the Countess
Claudieuse had the slightest effect. At
last, utterly out of patience, he said, —
"Let us go. The wretch is worse than
a brute."
"Was he any better," asked the doc-
tor, "when he denounced M. de Bois-
coran?"
But the magistrate pretended not to
hear; and, when they were about to leave
the room, he said to the doctor, —
"You know that I expect your report,
doctor?"
"In forty-eight hours I shall have the
honor to hand it to you," replied the
latter.
But as he went off, he said half
aloud, —
"And that report is going to give you
some trouble, my good man."
The report was ready then, and his
reason for not giving it in, was that
he thought, the longer he could delay
it, the more chance he would probably
have to defeat the plan of the prosecu-
tion.
"As I mean to keep it two days
longer," he thought on his way home,
"why should I not show it to this Paris
lawyer who has come down with the
marchioness? Nothing can prevent me,
as far as I see, since that poor Galpin,
in his utter confusion, has forgotten to
put me under oath."
But he paused. According to the
laws of medical jurisprudence, had he
the right, or not, to communicate a
paper belonging to the case to the coun-
sel of the accused? This question
troubled him; for, although he boasted
that he did not believe in God, he be-
lieved firmly in professional duty, and
would have allowed himself to be cut to
pieces rather than break its laws.
"But I have clearly the right to do
so," he growled. "I can only be bound
by my oath. The authorities are clear
on that subject. I have in my favor the
decisions of the Court of Appeals of 27
November, and 27 December, 1828 : those
of the 13th June, 1835; of the 3d May,
1844; of the 26th June, 1866."
The result of this meditation was,
that, as soon as he had breakfasted, he
put his report in his pocket, and went by
side-streets to M. de Chandore's house.
The marchioness and the two aunts were
still at church, where they had thought
it best to show themselves; and there
was no one in the sitting-room but
Dionysia, the old baron, and M. Folgat.
The old gentleman was very much sur-
prised to see the doctor. The latter was
his family physician, it is true; but, ex-
cept in cases of sickness, the two never
saw each other, their political opinions
were so very different.
"If you see me here," said the physi-
cian, still in the door, "it is simply
because, upon my honor and my con-
science, I believe M. Boiscoran is inno-
cent."
Dionysia would have liked to embrace
the doctor for these words of his; and
with the greatest eagerness she pushed a
large easy-chair towards him, and said
in her sweetest voice, —
"Pray sit down, my dear doctor."
"Thanks," he answered bruskly. "I
am very much obliged to you." Then


64
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
turning to M. Folgat, he said, according
to his odd notion, —
"I am convinced that M. Boiscoran is
the victim of his republican opinions
which he has so boldly professed; for,
baron, your future son-in-law is a repub-
lican."'
Grandpapa Chandore did not move.
If they had come and told him that
Jacques had been a member of the
Commune, he would not have been any
more moved. Dionysia loved Jacques.
That was enough for him.
"Well," the doctor went on, "I am a
Radical, I, M." —
"Folgat," supplied the young lawyer.
"Yes, M. Folgat, I am a Radical; and it
is my duty to defend a man whose politi-
cal opinions so closely resemble mine.
I come, therefore, to show you my medi-
cal report, if you can make any use of it
in your defence of M. Boiscoran, or sug-
gest to me any ideas."
"Ah!" exclaimed the young man.
"That is a very valuable service."
"But let us understand each other,"
said the physician earnestly. "If I
speak of listening to your suggestions,
I take it for granted that they are based
upon facts. If I had a son, and he was
to die on the scaffold, I would not use the
slightest falsehood to save him."
He had, meanwhile, drawn the report
from a pocket in his long coat, and now
put it on the table with these words, —
"I shall call for it again to-morrow
morning. In the mean time you can
think it over. I should like, however, to
point out to you the main point, the cul-
minating point, if I may say so."
At all events he was "saying so " with
much hesitation, and looking fixedly at
Dionysia, as if to make her understand
that he would like her to leave the room.
Seeing that she did not take the hint, he
added, —
"A medical and legal discussion
would hardly interest the young lady."
"Why, sir, why, should I not be deeply,
passionately, interested in any thing that
regards the man who is to be my hus-
band?"
"Because ladies are generally very
sensational," said the doctor uncivilly,
"very sensitive."
"Don't think so, doctor. For Jacques's
sake, I promise you I will show you quite
masculine energy."
The doctor knew Dionysia well enough
to see that she did not mean to go: so he
growled, —
"As you like it."
Then, turning again to M. Folgat, he
said,—
"You know there were two shots fired
at Coirtit Claudieuse. One, which hit him
in the side, nearly missed him; the other,
which struck his shoulder and his neck,
hit well."
"Tknow," said the advocate.
The difference in the effect shows that
the two shots were fired from different
distances, the second much nearer than
the first."
"I know, I know!"
"Excuse me. If I refer to these
details, it is because they are important.
When I was sent for in the middle of the
night to come and see Count Claudieuse,
I at once set to work extracting the par-
ticles of lead that had lodged in his
flesh. While I was thus busy, M. Galpin
arrived. I expected he would ask me to
show him the shot: but no, he did not
think of it; he was too full of his own
ideas. He thought only of the culprit,
of his culprit. I did not recall to him
the A B C of his profession: that was
none of my business. The physician has
to obey the directions of justice, but not
to anticipate them."
"Well, then?"
"Then M. Galpin went off to Boisco-
ran, and I completed my work. I have
extracted fifty-seven shot from the
count's wound in the side, and a hundred
and nine from the wound on the shoulder
and the neck ; and, when I had done that,
do you know what I found out?"
He paused, waiting to see the effect of
his words; and, when everybody's atten-
tion seemed to him fully roused, he went
on, —
"I found out that the shot in the two
wounds was not alike."
M. de Chandore' and M. Folgat ex-
claimed at one time, —
"Oh!"
"The shot that was first fired," con-
tinued Dr. Seignebos, "and which has
touched the side, is the very smallest-
sized 'dust.' That in the shoulder, on
the other hand, is quite large-sized, such
as I think is used in shooting hares.
However, I have some samples."
And with these words he opened a
piece of white paper, in which were ten
or twelve pieces of lead, stained with
coagulated blood, and showing at once a
considerable difference in size. M. Fol-
gat looked puzzled.
"Could there have been two murder-
ers?" he asked half aloud.
"I rather think," said M. de Chandore,
"that the murderer had, like manj' sports-
men, one barrel ready for birds, and
another for hares or rabbits."
"At all events, this fact puts all pre-


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
65
meditation out of question. A man does
not load his gun with small-shot in order
to commit murder."
Dr. Seignebos thought he had said
enough about it, and was rising to take
leave, when M. de Chandore asked him
how Count Claudieuse was doing.
"He is not doing well," replied the
doctor. "The removal, in spite of all
possible precautions, has worn him out
completelj'; for he is here in Sauveterre
since yesterday, in a house which M.
Seneschal has rented for him provision-
ally. He has been delirious all night
through; and, when I came to see him this
morning, I do not think he knew me."
"And the countess?" asked Dionysia.
"The countess, madam, is quite as sick
as her husband, and, if she had listened to
me, she would have gone to bed too.
But she is a woman of uncommon
energy, who derives from her affection
for her husband an almost incomprehen-
sible power of resistance. As to Coco-
leu," he added, standing already near the
door, "an examination of his mental
condition might produce results which
no one seems to expect now. But we
will talk of that hereafter. And now, I
must bid you all good-by."
"Well?" asked Dionysia and M. de
Chandore, as soon as they had heard the
street-door close behind Dr. Seignebos.
But M. Folgat's enthusiasm had cooled
off very rapidly.
"Before giving an opinion," he said
cautiously, "I must study the report of
this estimable doctor."
Unfortunately, the report contained
nothing that the doctor had not men-
tioned. In vain did the young advocate
try all the afternoon to find something
in it that might be useful for the defence.
There were arguments in it, to be sure,
which might be very valuable when the
trial should come on, but nothing that
could be used to make the prosecution
give up the case.
The whole house was, therefore, cru-
elly disappointed and dejected, when,
about five o'clock, old Anthony came in
from Boiscoran. He looked very sad,
and said, —-
"I haye been relieved of my duties.
At two o'clock, M. Galpin came to take
off the seals. He was accompanied by
his clerk Mdchinet, and brought Master
Jacques with him, who was guarded
by two gendarmes in citizen's clothes.
When the room was opened, that un-
lucky man Galpin asked Master Jacques
if those were the clothes which he
wore the night of the fire, his boots,
his gun, and the water in which he
washed his hands. When he had ac-
knowledged every thing, the water was
carefully poured into a bottle, which
they sealed, and handed to one of the
gendarmes. Then they put master's
clothes in a large trunk, his gun, several
parcels of cartridge, and some other
articles, which the magistrate said were
needed for the trial. That trunk was
sealed like the bottle, and put on the
carriage; then that man Galpin went off,
and told me that I was free."
"And Jacques," Dionysia asked eager-
ly— " how did he look?"
"Master, madam, laughed contemptu-
ously."
"Did you speak to him?" asked M.
Folgat.
"Oh, no, sir! M. Galpin would not
allow me."
"And did you have time to look at
the gun?"
"I could but just glance at the cock."
"And what did you see?"
The brow of the old servant grew still
darker, as he replied sadly, —
"I saw that I had done well to keep
silent. The lock is black. Master must
have used his gun since I cleaned it."
Grandpapa Chandore and M. Folgat
exchanged looks of distress. One more
hope was lost.
"Now," said the young lawyer, "tell
me how M. de Boiscoran usually charged
his gun."
"He used cartridges, sir, of course.
They sent him, I think, two thousand
with the gun, — some for balls, some with
large shot, and others with shot of every
size. At this season, when hunting is
prohibited, master could shoot nothing
but rabbits, or those little birds, you
know, which come to our marshes: so he
always loaded one barrel with tolerably
large shot, and the other with small-
shot."
But he stopped suddenly, shocked at
the impression which his statement
seemed to produce. Dionysia cried, —
"That is terrible I Every thing is
against us!"
M. Folgat did not give her time to say
any more. He asked, —
"My dear Anthony, did M. Galpin
take all of your master's cartridges away
with him?"
"Oh, no I certainly not."
"Well, you must instantly go back to
Boiscoran, and bring me three or four
cartridges of every number of shot."
"All right," said the old man. "I'll
be back in a short time."
He started immediately; and, thanks to
his great promptness, he re-appeared at
6


66
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
seven o'clock, at the moment when the
family got up from dinner, and put a
large package of cartridges on the table.
M. de Chandore and M. Folgat had
quickly opened some of them; and, after
a few failures, they found two numbers
of shot which seemed to correspond ex-
actly to the samples left them by the
doctor.
"There is an incomprehensible fatality
in all this," said the old gentleman in an
undertone.
The young lawyer, also, looked dis-
couraged.
"It is madness," he said, "to try to
establish M. de Boiscoran's innocence
without having first communicated with
him."
"And if you could do so to-morrow?"
asked Dionysia.
"Then, madam, he might give us the
key to this mystery which we are in vain
trying to solve; or, at least, he might tell
us the way to find it all out. But that is
not to be thought of. M. de Boiscoran is
held in close confinement; and you may
rest assured M. Galpin will see to it that
no communication is held with his pris-
oner."
"Who knows?" said the young girl.
And immediately she drew M. de
Chandore aside into one of the little
card-rooms adjoining the parlor, and
asked him, —
"Grandpapa, am I rich?"
Never in her life had she thought of
that, and she was to a certain extent
utterly ignorant of the value of money.
"Yes, you are rich, my child," replied
the old gentleman.
"How much do I have?"
"You have in your own right, as
coming to you from your poor father and
from your mother, twenty-five thousand
francs a year, or a capital of about five
hundred and fifty thousand francs."
"And is that a good deal?"
"It is so much, that you are one of the
richest heiresses of the district; but you
have, besides, considerable expectations."
Dionysia was so pre-occupied, that she
did not even protest. She went on ask-
ing,—
"What do they call here to be well
off?"
"That depends, my child. If you will
tell me " —
She interrupted him, putting down her
foot impatiently, saying, —
"Nothing. Please answer me!"
"Well, in our little town, an income of
eight hundred or a thousand francs makes
anybody very well off."
"Let us say a thousand."
"Well, a thousand would make a man
very comfortable."
"And what capital would produce such
an income."
"At five per cent, it would take twenty
thousand francs."
"That is to say, about the income of a
year."
"Exactly."
"Never mind. I presume that is quite
a large sum, and it would be rather diffi-
cult for you, grandpa, to get it together
by to-morrow morning?" ,
"Not at all. I have that much in rail-
way coupon-bonds; and they are just as
good as current money."
"Ah! Do you mean to say, that, if I
gave anybody twenty thousand francs in
such bonds, it would be just the same to
him as if I gave him twenty thousand
francs in bank-notes?"
"Just so."
Dionysia smiled. She thought she saw
light. Then she went on, —
"If that is so, I must beg you, grand-
pa, to give me twenty thousand francs in
coupon-bonds."
The old gentleman started.
"You are joking," he said. "What do
you want with so much money? You
are surely joking."
"Not at all. I have never in my life
been more serious," replied the young-
girl in a tone of voice which could not be
mistaken. "I beseech you, grandpa, if
you love me, give me these twenty thou-
sand francs this evening, right now.
You hesitate? O God! You may kill me
if j'ou refuse."
No, M. de Chandore was hesitating no
longer.
"Since you will have it so," he said,
"I am going up stairs to get it."
She clapped her hands with joy.
"That's it," she said. "Make haste
and dress; for I have to go out, and you
must go with me."
Then going up to her aunts and the
marchioness, she said to them,—
"I hope you will excuse me, if I leave
you; but I must go out."
"At this hour?" cried Aunt Elizabeth.
"Where are you going?"
"To my dressmakers, the Misses
Mechinet. I want a dress."
"Great God!" cried Aunt Adelaide,
"the child is losing her mind!"
"I assure you I am not, aunt."
"Then let me go with you."
"Thank you, no. I shall go alone;
that is to say, alone with dear grand-
papa."
And as M. de Chandore came back, his
pockets full of bonds, his hat on his


G8
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
well as she could, into her pocket and a
little bag she had in her hand. When
she had done, she said, —
"Well, good-by, grandpa. I won't be
long."
And lightly, like a bird, she crossed
the street, and ran up to her dressmakers.
The old ladies and their brother were
just finishing their supper, which con-
sisted of a small piece of pork and a
light salad, with an abundance of vine-
gar. At the unexpected entrance of Miss
Chandore', they all started up.
"You, miss," cried the elder of the
two, — " you!"
Dionysia understood perfectly well what
that siinple "you" meant. It meant,
with the help of the tone of voice.
"What? your betrothed is charged
with an abominable crime; there is over-
whelming evidence against him; he is
in jail, in close confinement; everybody
knows he will be tried at the assizes, and
he will be condemned — and you are
here?"
But Dionysia kept on smiling, as she
had entered.
"Yes," she replied, "it is I. I must
have two dresses for next week; and I
came to ask you to show me some sam-
ples."
The Misses Mechinet, always acting
upon their brother's advice, had made an
arrangement with a large house in Bor-
deaux, by which they received samples of
all their goods, and were allowed a dis-
count on whatever they sold.
"1 will do so with pleasure," said the
older sister. "Just allow me to light a
lamp. It is almost dark."
While she was wiping the chimney,
and trimming the wick, she asked her
brother, —
"Are you not going to the Orpheon?"
"Not to-night," he replied.
"Are you not expected to be there?"
"No: I sent them word I would not
come. I have to lithograph two plates
for the printer, and some very urgent
copying to do for the court."
While he was thus replying, he had
folded up his napkin, and lighted a can-
dle.
"Good-night!" he said to his sisters.
"I won't see you again to-night," and,
bowing deeply to Miss Chandore, he went
out, his candle in his hand.
"Where is your brother going?" Dio-
nysia asked eagerly.
-' To his room, madam. His room is
just opposite, on the other side of the
staircase."
Dionysia was as red as fire. Was she
thus to let her opportunity slip, — an
opportunity such as she had never dared
hope for? Gathering up all her courage,
she said, —
"But, now I think of it, I want to say
a few words to your brother, my dear
ladies. Wait for me a moment. I shall
be back in a moment." And she rushed
out, leaving the dressmakers, stupefied,
gazing after her with open mouths, and
asking themselves if the great calamity
had bereft the poor lady of reason.
The clerk was still on the landing,
fumbling in his pocket for the key of his
room.
"I want to speak to you instantly,"
said Dionysia.
Mechinet was so utterly amazed, that
he could not utter a word. He made a
movement as if he wanted to go back to
his sisters; but the young girl said, —
"No, in your room. We must not be
overheard. Open sir, please. Open,
somebody might come."
The fact is, he was so completely over-
come, that it took him half a minute to
find the keyhole, and put the key in. At
last, when the door was opened, he moved
aside to let Dionysia pass: but she said,
"No, go in I"
He obeyed. She followed him, and,
as soon as she was in the room, she
shut the door again, pushing even a bolt
which she had noticed. Mechinet the
clerk was famous in Sauvetorre for his
coolness. Dionysia was timidity personi-
fied, and blushed for the smallest trifle,
remaining speechless for some time. At
this moment, however, it was certainly
not the young girl w ho was embarrassed.
"Sit down, M. Mechinet," she said,
"and listen to me."
He put his candlestick on a table, and
sat down.
"You know me, don't you?" asked
Dionysia.
"Certainly I do, madam."
"You have surely heard that I am to
be married to M. de Boiscoran?"
The clerk started up as if he had been
moved by a spring, beat his forehead
furiously with his hand, and said, —
"Ah, what a fool I was I Now I
see."
"Yes, you are right," replied the girl.
"I come to talk to you about M. de Bois-
coran, my betrothed, my husband."
She paused; and for a minute Mechinet
and the young girl remained there face
to face, silent and immovable, looking at
each other, he asking himself what she
could want of him, and she trying to
guess how far she might venture.
"You can no doubt imagine, M. Mechi-
net, what 'I have suffered, since M. de


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
69
Boiscoran has been sent to prison, charged
-with the meanest of all crimes!"
"Oh, surely, I do!" replied Mechinet.
And, carried away by his emotion, he
added, —
"But I can assure you, madam, that I,
'who have been present at all the exami-
nations, and who have no small experi-
ence in criminal matters, — that I believe
M. de Boiscoran innocent. I know M.
Galpin does not think so, nor M. Daubi-
geon, nor any of the gentlemen of the
bar, nor the town; but, nevertheless, that
is my conviction. You see, I was there
when they fell upon M. de Boiscoran,
asleep in his bed. Well, the very tone
of his voice, as he cried out, 'Oh, my
dear Galpin!' told me that man is not
guilty."
"Oh, sir," stammered Dionysia,
"thanks, thanks!"
"There is nothing to thank me for,
madam; for time has only confirmed my
conviction. As if a guilty man ever
bore himself as M. de Boiscoran does!
You ought to have seen him just now,
when we had gone to remove the seals,
calm, dignified, answering coldly all the
questions that were asked. I could not
help telling M. Galpin what I thought,
lie said I was a fool. Well, I maintain,
on the contrary, that he is. Ah! I beg
your pardon, I mean that he is mistaken.
The more I see of M. de Boiscoran, the
more he gives me the impression that he
has only a word to say to clear up the
whole matter."
Dionysia listened to him with such
absorbing interest, that she well-nigh
forgot why she had come.
"Then" she asked, "you think M. de
Boiscoran is not much overcome?"
"I should lie if I said he did not look
sad, madam," was the reply. "But he
is not overcome. After the first aston-
ishment, his presence of mind returned;
and M. Galpin has in vain tried these
three days by all his ingenuity and his
cleverness "—
Here he stopped suddenly, like a
drunken man who recovers his conscious-
ness for a moment, and becomes aware
that he has said too much in his cups.
He exclaimed, —
"Great God! what am I talking
about? For Heaven's sake, madam, do
not let anybody hear what I was led by
my respectful sympathy to tell you just
now."
Dionysia felt that the decisive moment
had come. She said, —
"If you knew me better, sir, you
would know that you can rely upon my
discretion. You need not regret having
given me by your confidence some little
comfort in my great sorrow. You need
not; for "—
Her voice nearly failed her, and it was
only with a great effort she could add, —
"For I come to ask you to do even
more than that for me, oh! yes, much
more."
Mechinet had turned painfully pale.
He broke in vehemently, —
"Not another word, madam: your
hope already is an insult to me. You
ought surely to know that by my pro-
fession, as well as by my oath, I am bound
to be as silent as the very cell in which
the prisoners are kept. If I, the clerk,
were to betray the secret of a criminal
prosecution "—
Dionysia trembled like an aspen-leaf;
but her mind remained clear and de-
cided. She said, —
"You would rather let an innocent
man perish."
"Madam I"
"You would let an innocent man be
condemned, when by a single word you
could remove the mistake of which he is
the victim? You would say to yourself,
'It is unlucky ; but I have sworn not to
speak "? And you would see him with
quiet conscience mount the scaffold?
No, I cannot believe that! No, that can-
not be true I"
"I told you, madam, I believe in M.
de Boiscoran's innocence."
"And you refuse to aid me in estab-
lishing his innocence? O God! what
ideas men form of their duty! How can
I move you? how can I convince you?
Must I remind you of the torture this
man suffers, whom they charge with
being an assassin? Must I tell you what
horrible anguish we suffer, we, his friends,
his relatives ?—how his mother weeps, how
I weep, I, his betrothed! We know he is
innocent; and yet we cannot establish his
innocence for want of a friend who would
aid us, who would pity us!"
In all his life the clerk had not heard
such burning words. He was moved to
the bottom of his heart. At last he asked,
trembling, —
"What do you want me to do, ma-
dam?"
"Oh ! very little, sir, very little, —just
to send M. de Boiscoran ten lines, and to
bring us his reply."
The boldness of the request seemed to
stun the clerk. He said, —
"Never!"
"You will not have pity?"
"I should forfeit my honor."
"And, if you let an innocent one be
condemned, what would that be?"


70
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
Mechinet was evidently suffering an-
guish. Amazed, overcome, he did not
know what to say, what to do. At last
he thought of one reason for refusing,
and stammered out, —
"And if I were found out? I should
lose my place, ruin my sisters, destroy my
career for life."
With trembling hands, Dion\-sia drew
from her pocket the bonds which her
grandfather had given her, and threw them
hi a heap on the table. She began, —
'; There are twenty thousand francs."
The clerk drew back frightened. He
cried. —
"Money! You offer me money!"
"Oh, don't be offended!" began the
young girl again, with a voice that would
have moved a stone. "How could I want
to offend you, when I ask of you more
than my life? There are services which
can never be paid. But, if the enemies of
M. de Boiscoran should find out that you
have aided us, their rage might turn
against you."
Instinctively the clerk unloosened his
cravat. The struggle within him, no
doubt, was terrible. He was stifled.
'- Twenty thousand francs!" he said
in a hoarse voice.
'- Is it not enough ?" asked the young
girl. "Yes, you are right: it is very
little. But I have as much again for you,
twice as much."
AYith haggard eyes, Mcchinet had ap-
proached the table, and was convulsively
handling the pile of papers, whilst he re-
peated, —
"Twenty thousand francs! a thousand
a year!"
'- Xo, double that much, and, moreover,
our gratitude, our devoted friendship, all
the influence of the two families of Bois-
coran and Chandore; in a word, fortune,
position, respect."
But by this time, thanks to a supreme
effort of will, the clerk had recovered his
self-control.
"No more, madam, say no more!"
And with a determined, though still
trembling voice, he went on, —
"Take your money back again, madam.
If I were to do what you want me to do,
if I were to betray my duty for money, I
should be the meanest of men. If, on
the other hand, I am actuated only by a
sincere conviction and an interest in the
truth, I may be looked upon as a fool; but
I shall always be worthy of the esteem of
honorable men. Take back that fortune,
madam, which has made an honest man
waver for a moment in his conscience.
I will do what you ask, but for nothing."
If grandpapa was getting tired of walk-
ing up and down in the Square, the sisters
of Mechiuet found time pass still more
slowly in their workroom. They asked
each other,—-
"AA7hat can Miss Dion3-sia have to say
to brother?"
At the end of ten minutes, their curios-
ity, stimulated by the most absurd sup-
positions, had become such martyrdom to
them, that they made up their minds to
knock at the clerk's door.
"Ah, leave me alone!" he cried out,
angry at being thus interrupted. But
then he considered a moment, opened
hastily, and said quite gently, —
"Go back to your room, my dear sis-
ters, and, if you wish to spare me a very
serious embarrassment, never tell anybody
in this world that Miss Chandore has had
a conversation with me."
Trained to obey, the two sisters went
back, but not so promptly that they should
not have seen the bonds which Dionysia
had thrown upon the table, and which
were quite familiar in their appearance
to them, as they had once owned some of
them themselves. Their burning desire
to know was thus combined with vague
terror; and, when they got back to their
room, the younger asked, —
"Did you see?"
"Yes, those bonds," replied the
other.
"There must have been .five or six
hundred."
"Even more, perhaps."
"That is to say, a very big sum of
money."
"An enormous one."
"AA'hat can that mean, Holy Virgin!
and what have we to expect?"
"And brother asking us to keep his
secret I" *
"He looked as pale as his shirt, and ter-
ribly distressed."
"Miss Dionysia was crying like a Mag-
dalen."
It was so. Dionysfa, as long as she
had been uncertain of the result, had felt
in her heart that Jacques's safety de-
pended on her courage and her presence
of mind. But now, assured of success,
she could no longer control her excite-
ment; and, overcome by the effort, she
had sunk down on a chair, and burst out
into tears.
The clerk shut the door, and looked at
her for some time; then, having overcome
his own emotions, he said to her, —
"Madam,"
But, as she heard his voice, she jumped
up, and, taking his hands into hers, she
broke out, —
"O sir! how can I thanK you! How -


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
71
can I ever make you aware of the depth
of my gratitude!"
"Don't speak of that," he said almost
rudely, trying to conceal his deep feeling.
"I will say nothing more," she replied
very gently; "but I must tell you that
none of us will ever forget the debt of
gratitude which we owe you from this
day. You say the great service which
you are about to render us is not free
from danger. Whatever may happen,
you must remember, that, from this mo-
ment, you have in us devoted friends."
The interruption caused by his sisters
had had the good effect of restoring to
Mechinet a good portion of his habitual
self-possession. He said,—
"I hope no harm will come of it; and
yet I cannot conceal from you, madam,
that the service which I am going to try
to render you presents more difficulties
than I thought."
"Great God !" murmured Dionysia.
"M. Galpin," the clerk went on say-
ing, "is, perhaps, not exactly a superior
man; but he understands his profession:
he is cunning, and exceedingly suspicious.
Only yesterday he told me that he knew
the Boiscoran family would try every thing
in the world to save M. de Boiscoran from
justice. Hence he is all the time on the
watch, and takes all kinds of precautions.
Ji he dared do it, he would have his bed
put across his cell in the prison."
• "That man hates me, M. Mechinet I"
"Oh, no, madam! But he is ambitious:
he thinks his success in his profession de-
pends upon his success in this case; and.
he is afraid the accused might escape, or
be carried off."
Mechinet was evidently in great per-
plexity, and scratched his ear. Then he
added, — .
"How am I to go about to let M. de
Boiscoran have your note? If he knew
beforehand, it would be easy. But he is
unprepared. And then he is just as sus-
picious as M. Galpin. He is always
afraid lest they prepare him a trap; and
he is on the lookout. If I make him a
sign, I fear he will not understand me;
and, if I make him a sign, will not M.
Galpin see it? That man is lynx-eyed."
"Are you never alone with M. de Bois-
coran?"
"Never for an instant, madam. I only
go in with the magistrate, and I come out
with him. You will say, perhaps, that
in leaving, as I am behind, I might drop
the note cleverly. But, when we leave,
the jailer is there, and lie has good eyes.
I should have to dread, besides, M. de
Boiscoran's own suspicions. If he saw a
letter coming to him in that way, from
me, he is quite capable of handing it at
once to M. Galpin."
He paused, and after a moment's medi-
tation he went on, —
"The safest way would probably be to
win the confidence of M. Blangin, the
keeper of the jail, or of some prisoner,
whose duty it is to wait on M. de Bois-
coran, and to watch him."
"Trumence !" exclaimed Dionysia.
The clerk's face expressed the most
startled surprise. He said, —
"What I You know his name?"
"Yes, I do; for Blangin mentioned him
to me; and the name struck me the day
when M. de Boiscoran's mother and I
went to the jail, not knowing what was
meant by 'close confinement.'"
The clerk was disappointed.
"Ah !" he said, "now I understand M.
Galpin's great trouble. He has, no doubt,
heard of your visit, and imagined that
you wanted to rob him of his prisoner."
He murmured some words, which Dio-
nysia could not hear; and then, coming to
some decision, apparently, he said, —
"Well, never mind! I'll see what can
be done. Write your letter, madam:
here are pens and ink."
The young girl made no reply, but sat
down at Meehinet's table; but, at the
moment when she was putting pen to
paper, she asked, —
"Has M. de Boiscoran any books in his
prison?"
"Yes, madam. At his request M. Gal-
pin himself went and selected, in M.
Daubigeon's library, some books of travels
and some of Cooper's novels for him."
Dionysia uttered a cry of delight.
"O Jacques I" she said, "how glad I am
you counted upon me!" and, without no-
ticing how utterly Mechinet seemed to be
surprised, she wrote, —
"We are sure of your innocence, Jacques,
and still we are in despair. Your mother
is here, with a Paris lawyer, a Mr. Fol-
gat, who is devoted to your interests.
What must we do? Give us your in-
structions. You can reply without fear,
as you have our book.
"Dionysia."
"Read this," she said to the clerk, when
she had finished. But he did not avail
himself of the permission. He folded the
paper, and slipped it into an envelope,
which he sealed.
"Oh, you are very kind!" said the young
girl, touched by his delicacy.
"Not at all, madam. I only try to do a,
dishonest thing in the most honest way.


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
73
"All the more reason," said the young
girl, " why we should not add to the dan-
gers which the good man is going to run
for us. I promised him to tell nobody,
and I mean to keep my promise. If you
believe me, dear grandpa, we had better
not speak of it to anybody, not even to my
aunts."
"You might just as well declare at
once, little scamp, that you want to save
Jacques quite alone, without anybody's
help."
"Ah, if I could do that! Unfortunate-
ly, we must take M. Folgat into our
confidence; for we cannot do without his
advice."
Thus it was done. The poor aunts, and
even the marchioness, had to be content
with Dionysia's not very plausible expla-
nation of her visit. And a few hours after-
wards, M. de Chandor<5, the young girl,
and M. Folgat held a council in the bar-
on's study. The young lawyer was even
more surprised by Dionysia's idea, and
her bold proceedings, than her grand-
father: he would never have imagined
that she was capable of such a step, she
looked so timid and innocent, like a
mere child. He was about to compliment
her; but she interrupted him eagerly, say-
ing,—
"There is nothing to boast of. I ran
no risk."
"A very substantial risk, madam, I as-
sure you."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed M. de Chandore.
"To bribe an official," continued M.
Folgat, "is a very grave offence. The
Criminal Code has a certain paragraph,
No. 179, which does not trifle, and punishes
the man who bribes, as well as the man
who is bribed."
"Well, so much the better!" cried
Dionysia. "If poor M. Mechinet has to
go to prison, I'll go with him!"
And, without noticing the dissatisfac-
tion expressed in her grandfather's fea-
tures, she added, turning to M. Folgat, —
"After all, sir, you see that your wishes
have been fulfilled. We shall be able to
communicate with M. de Boiscoran: he
will give us his instructions."
"Perhaps so, madam."
"How? Perhaps? You said your-
self"—
"I told you, madam, it would be use-
less, perhaps even imprudent, to take any
steps before we know the truth. But will
we know it? Do you think that M. de
Boiscoran, who has good reasons for being
suspicious of every thing, will at once tell
us all in a letter which must needs pass
through several hands before it can reach
us?"
"He will tell us all,v sir, without re-
serve, without fear, and without danger."
"Oh !-"
"I have taken my precautions. You
will see."
"Then we have only to wait."
Alas, yes I They had to wait, and that
was what distressed Dionysia. She hardly
slept that night. The next day was one
unbroken torment. At each ringing of
the bell, she trembled, and ran to see.
At last, towards five o'clock, when no-
thing had come, she said, —
"It is not to be to-day, provided, O
God! that poor Mechinet has not been
caught."
And, perhaps in order to escape for a
time the anguish of her fears, she agreed
to accompany Jacques's mother, who'
wanted to pay some visits.
Ah, if she had but known! She had
not left the house ten minutes, when one
of those street-boys, who abound at all
hours of the day on the great Square, ap-
peared, bringing a letter to her address.
They took it to M. de Chandore, who,
wliile waiting for dinner, was walking in
the garden with M. Folgat.
"A letter for Dionysia I" exclaimed
the old gentleman, as soon as the servant
had disappeared. "Here is the answer we
have been waiting for!"
He boldly tore it open. Alas I It was
useless. The note within the envelope
ran thus, —
"31: 9, 17, 19, 23, 25, 28, 32, 101, 102,
129, 137, 504, 515 — 37: 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8,
10, 11, 13, 14, 24, 27, 52, 54, 118,119, 120,
200, 201 — 41: 7, 9, 17, 21, 22, 44, 45,
46" —
And so on, for two pages.
"Look at this, and try to make it out,"
said M. de Chandore, handing the letter
to M. Folgat.
The young man actually tried it; but,
after five minutes' useless efforts, he
said, —
"I understand now why Miss Chandore
promised us that we should know the
truth. M. de Boiscoran and she have
formerly corresponded with each other in
cipher."
Grandpapa Chandor^ raised his hands
to heaven.
"Just think of these little girls! Here
we are utterly helpless without her, as
she alone can translate those hierogly-
phics for you."
If Dionysia had hoped, by accompany-
ing the marchioness on ner visits, to
escape from the sad presentiments that
oppressed her, she was cruelly disap-


74
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
•
pointed. They went to M. Seneschal's
house first; but the mayor's wife was by
no means calculated to give courage to
others in an hour of peril. She could do
nothing but embrace alternately Jacques's
mother and Dionysia, aud, amid a thou-
sand sobs, tell them over and over again,
that she looked upon one as the most
unfortunate of mothers, and upon the
other as the most unfortunate of be-
trothed maidens.
"Does the woman think Jacques is
guilty?" thought Dionysia, and felt
almost angry.
And that was not all. As they re-
turned home, aud passed the house which
had been provisionally taken for Count
Claudieuse and his family, they heard a
-little boy calling out, —
"O mamma, come quick I Here are
the murderer's mother and his sweet-
heart!"
Thus the poor girl came home more
downcast than before. Immediately,
however, her maid, who had evidently
been on the lookout for her return, told
her that her grandfather and the lawyer
from Paris were waiting for her in the
baron's study. She hastened there with-
out stopping to take off her bonnet; and,
as soon as she came in, M. de Chandore
handed her Jacques's letter, saying, —
"Here is your answer."
She could not repress a little cry of
delight, and rapidly touched the letter
with her lips, repeating,—
"Now we are safe, we are safe!"
M. de Chandore smiled at the happi-
ness of his grand-daughter.
"But, Miss Hypocrite," he said, "it
seems you had great secrets to communi-
cate to M. de Boiscoran, since you re-
sorted to cipher, like arch conspirators.
M. Folgat and' I tried to read it; but it
was all Greek to us."
Now only the young lady remem-
bered M. Folgat's presence, and, blushing
deeply, she said, —
"Latterly Jacques and I had been
discussing the various methods to which
people resort who wish to carry on a
secret correspondence: this led him to
teach me one of the ways. Two corre-
spondents choose any book they like, and
each takes a copy of the same edition.
The writer looks in his volume for the
words he wants, and numbers them; his
correspondent finds them by the aid of
these numbers. Thus, in Jacques's let-
ters, the numbers followed by a colon
refer to the page, and the others to the
order in which the words come."
"Ah, ah !" said Grandpapa Chandore,
"I might have looked a long time."
"It is a very simple method," replied
Dionysia, "very well known, and still
quite safe. How could an outsider guess
what book the correspondents have
chosen? Then there are other means
to mislead indiscreet people. It may be
agreed upon, for instance, that the num-
bers shall never have their apparent
value, or that they shall vary according
to the day of the month or the week.
Thus, to-day is Monday, the second day
of the week. Well, I have to deduct one
from each number of a page, and add
one to each number of a word."
"And you will be able to make it all
out?" asked M. de Chandore.
"Certainly, dear grandpa. Ever since
Jacques explained it to me, I have tried
to learn it as a matter of course. We
have chosen a book which I am very
fond of, Cooper's 'Spy;' and we amused
ourselves by writing endless letters. Oh!
it is very amusing, and it takes time,
because one does not always find the
words that are needed, and then they
have to be spelled letter by letter."
"And M. de Boiscoran has a copy of
Cooper's novels in his prison?" asked
M. Folgat.
"Yes, sir. M. Mechinet told me so.
As soon as Jacques found he was to be
kept in close confinement, he asked for
some of Cooper's novels; and M. Galpin,
who is so cunning, so smart, and so sus-
picious, went himself and got them for
him. Jacques was counting upon me."
Then, dear child, go and read your
letter, and solve the riddle," said M. de
Chandore."
When she had left, he said to his
companion, —
"How she loves him! How she loves
this man Jacques! Sir, if any thing
should happen to him, she would die."
M. Folgat made no reply; and nearly
an hour passed, before Dionysia, shut up
in her room, had succeeded in finding all
the words of which Jacques's letter was
composed. But when she had finished,
and came back to her grandfather's
study, her youthful face expressed the
most profound despair.
"This is horrible !" she said.
The same idea crossed, like a sharp
arrow, the minds of M. de Chandore and
M. Folgat. Had Jacques confessed?
"Look, read yourself!" said Dionysia,
handing them the translation.
Jacques wrote, —
"Thanks for your letter, my darling.
A presentiment had warned me, and I
had asked for a copy of Cooper.
"I understand but too well how


76
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
"Why dou't you say at once, my
mother, that Jacques is an incendiary
and an assassin?"
Raising her head with an air of daunt-
less energy, with trembling lips, and fierce
glances full of wrath and disdain, she
added, —
"And do I really remain the only one
to defend him, — him, who, in his days of
prosperity, had so many friends? Well,
so be it!"
Naturally, M. Folgat had been less
deeply moved than either the marchioness
or M. de Chandore; and hence he was also
the first to recover his calmness.
"We shall be two, madam, at all
events," he said; "for I should never
forgive myself, if I allowed myself to be
influenced by that letter. I would be in-
excusable, since I know by experience
what your heart has told you instinctively.
Imprisonment has horrors which affect
the strongest and stoutest of minds. The
days in prison are interminable, and the
nights have nameless terrors. The inno-
cent man in his lonely cell feels as if he
were becoming guilty, as the man of
soundest intellect would begin to doubt
himself in a madhouse " —
Dionysia did not let him conclude.
She cried, —
"That is exactly what I felt, sir; but
I could not express it as clearly as you
do."
Ashamed at their lack of courage, M.
de Chandore and the marchioness made
an effort to recover from the doubts which,
for a moment, had well-nigh overcome
them.
"But what is to be done ?" asked the
old lady.
"Your son tells us, madam, we have
only to wait for the end of the preliminary
examination."
"I beg your pardon," said M. de Chan-
dore, " we have to try to get the case
handed over to another magistrate."
M. Folgat shook his head.
"Unfortunately, that is not to be dreamt
of. A magistrate acting in his official
capacity cannot be rejected like a simple
juryman."
"However " —
"Article 542 of the Criminal Code is
positive on the subject."
"Ah! What does it say?" asked
Dionysia.
"It says, in substance, madam, that a
demand for a change of magistrate, on
the score of well-founded suspicion, can
only be entertained by a court of appeals,
because the magistrate, within his legiti-
mate sphere, is a court in himself. I do
not know if I express myself clearly?"
"Oh, very clearly!" said M. de Chan-
dore. "Only, since Jacques wishes it" —
"To be sure; but M. de Boiscoran does
not know " —
"I beg your pardon. He knows that
the magistrate is his mortal enemy."
"Be it so. But how would that help
us? Do you think that a demand for a
change of venue would prevent M. Gal-
pin from carrying on his proceedings'?
Not at all. He would go on until the de-
cision comes from the Court of Appeals.
He could, it is true, issue no final order;
but that is the very thing M. de Boiscoran
ought to desire, since such an order would
make an end to his close confinement, and
enable him to see an advocate."
"That is atrocious !" murmured M. de
Chandore.
"It is atrocious, indeed; but such are
the laws of France."
In the mean time Dionysia had been
meditating; and now she said to the
young advocate, —
"I have understood you perfectly, and
to-morrow your objections shall be known
to M. de Boiscoran."
"Above all," said the lawyer, " explain
to him clearly that any such steps as he
proposes to take will turn to his disadvan-
tage. M. Galpin is our enemy; but we
can make no specific charge against him.
They would always reply, 'If M. de
Boiscoran is innocent, why does he not
speak?"'
This is what Grandpapa Chandore
would not admit.
"Still," he said, " if we could bring in-
fluential men to help us?"
"Can you?"
"Certainly. Boiscoran has old friends,
who, no doubt, are all-powerful still under
the present government. He was, in for-
mer years, very intimate with M. de Mar-
geril."
Mr. Folgat's expression was very en-
couraging.
"AhI" he said, "if M. de Margeril
could give us a lift! But he is not easily
approached."
"We might send Boiscoran to see him,
at least. Since he remained in Paris for
the purpose of assisting us there, now he
will have an opportunity. I will write to
him to-night."
Since the name of Margeril had been
mentioned, the marchioness had become,
if possible, paler than ever. At the old
gentleman's last words she rose, and said
anxiously, —
"Do not write, sir: it would be useless.
I do not wish it."
Her embarrassment was so evident, that
the others were quite surprised.


78
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
justifies a judge in believing that the
charges are true which the accused does
not refute."
The great calmness of the distin-
guished lawyer of Sauveterre terrified
his listeners more and more, except M.
Folgat. When they heard him use all
those technical terms, they felt chilled
through and through, like the friends of
a wounded man who hear the grating
noise of the surgeon's knife.
"My son's situation appears to you
very serious, sir?" asked the marchion-
ess in a feeble voice.
"I said it was dangerous, madam."
"You think, as M. Folgat does, that
every day adds to the danger to which he
is exposed?"
"I am but too sure of that. And if
M. de Boiscoran is really innocent " —
"Ah, M. Magloire!" broke in Dionysia,
"how can you, who are a friend of
Jacques, say so?"
3VI. Magloire looked at the young girl
with an air of deep and sincere pity, and
then said, —
"It is precisely because I am his friend,
madam, that I am bound to tell you the
truth. Yes, I know and I appreciate all
the noble qualities which distinguish M.
de Boiscoran. I have loved him, and I
love him still. But this is a matter
which we have to look at with the mind,
and not with the heart. Jacques is a
man; and he will be judged by men.
There is clear, public, and absolute evi-
dence of his guilt on hand. What evi-
dence has he to offer of his innocence?
Moral evidence only."
"O God!" murmured Dionysia.
"I think, therefore, with my honorable
brother " —
And M. Magloire bowed to M. Folgat.
"1 think, that, if M. de Boiscoran is
innocent, he has adopted an unfortunate
system. Ah! if luckily there should be
an alibi. He ought to make haste, great
haste, to establish it. He ought not to
allow matters to go on till he is sent up
into court. Once there, an accused is
three-fourths condemned already."
For once it looked as if the crimson in
M. de Chandore's cheeks was growing
pale.
"And yet," he exclaimed, "Jacques
will not change his system: any one who
knows his mulish obstinacy might be
quits sure of that."
"And unfortunately he has made up
his mind," said Dionysia," as M. Magloire,
who knows him so well, will see from
this letter of his."
Until now nothing had been said to
let the Sauveterre lawyer suspect that
communications had been opened with
the prisoner. Now that the letter had
been alluded to, it became necessary to
take him into confidence. At first he was
astonished, then he looked displeased;
and, when he had been told every thing,
he said, —
"This is great imprudence! This is
too daring!"
Then looking at M. Folgat, he
added, —
"Our profession has certain rules
which cannot be broken without causing
trouble. To bribe a clerk, to profit by
his weakness and his sympathy " —
The Paris lawyer had blushed imper-
ceptibly. He said, —
"I should never have advised such
imprudence; but, when it was once com-
mitted, I did not feel bound to insist
upon its being abandoned: and even if
I should be blamed for it, or more, I
mean to profit by it."
M. Magloire did not reply; but, after
having read Jacques's letter, he said, —
"I am at M. de Boiscoran's disposal;
and I shall go to him as soon as he is no
longer in close confinement. I think, as
Miss Dionysia does, that he will insist
upon saying nothing. However, as we
have the means of reaching him by letter,
— well, here I am myself ready to profit
by the imprudence that has been com-
mitted ! — beseech him, in the name of
his own interest, in the name of all that
is dear to him, to speak, to explain, to
prove his innocence."
Thereupon M. Magloire bowed, and
withdrew suddenly, leaving his audience
in consternation, so very evident was it,
that he left so suddenly in order to con-
ceal the painful impression which
Jacques's letter had produced upon him.
"Certainly," said M. de Chandore,
"we will write to him; but we might
just as well whistle. He will wait for
the end of the investigation."
"Who knows?" murmured Dionysia.
And, after a moment's reflection, she
added, —
"We can try, however."
And, without vouchsafing any further
explanation, she left the room, and has-
tened to her chamber to write the follow-
ing letter: —
"I must speak to you. There is a
little gate in our garden which opens
upon Charity Lane. I will wait for you
there. However late it may be when
you get these lines, come I
"Dionysia."
Then having put the note into an


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
79
envelope, she called the old nurse who
had brought her up, and, with all the
recommendations which extreme pru-
dence could suggest, she said to her, —
"You must see to it that M. Mechinet
the clerk gets this note to-night. Go!
make haste I"
IX.
During the last twenty-four hours,
Mechinet had changed so much, that his
sisters recognized him no longer. Imme-
diately after Dionysia's departure, they
had come to him, hoping to hear at last
what was meant by that mysterious in-
terview; but at the first word he had
cried out with a tone of voice which
frightened the sisters to death, —
"That is none of your business! That
is nobody's business!" And he had re-
mained alone, quite overcome by his
adventure, and dreaming of the means to
make good his promise without ruining
himself. That was no easy matter.
When the decisive moment arrived, he
discovered that he would never be able
to get the note into M. de Boiscoran's
hands, without being caught by that
lynx-eyed M. Galpin: as the letter was
burning in his pocket, he saw himself
compelled, after long hesitation, to ap-
peal for help to the man who waited on
Jacques, — to Trumence, in fine. The
latter was, after, all a good enough fellow;
his only besetting sin being unconquera-
ble laziness, and his only crime in the
eyes of the law perpetual vagrancy.
He was attached to Mechinet, who upon
former occasions, when he was in jail,
had given him some tobacco, or a little
money to buy a glass of wine. He made
therefore no objection, when the clerk
asked him to give a letter to M. de Boisco-
ran, and to bring back an answer. He ac-
quitted himself, moreover, faithfully and
honestly of his commission. But, because
every thing had gone well once, it did not
follow that Mechinet felt quite at peace.
Besides being tormented by the thought
that he had betrayed his duty, he felt
wretched in being at the mercy of an
accomplice. How easily might he not
be betrayed J A slight indiscretion, an
awkward blunder, an unlucky accident,
might do it. What would become of
him then?
He would lose his place and all his
other employments, one by one. He
would lose confidence and consideration.
Farewell to all ambitious dreams, all
hopes of wealth, all dreams of an advan-
tageous marriage. And still, by an odd
contradiction, Mechinet did not repent
what he had done, and felt quite ready to
do it over again. He was in this state
of mind when the old nurse brought him
Dionysia's letter.
"What, again ?" he exclaimed.
And when he had read the few lines,
he replied, —
"Tell your mistress, I will be there!"
But in his heart he thought some unto-
ward event must have happened.
The little garden-gate was half open:
he had only to push it to enter. There
was no moon; but the night was clear,
and at a short distance from him, under
the trees, he recognized Dionysia, and
went towards her.
"Pardon me, sir," she said, "for having
dared to send for you."
Me'chinet's anxiety vanished instantly.
He thought no longer of his strange posi-
tion. His vanity was flattered by the
confidence which this young lady put in
him, whom he knew very well as the
noblest, the most beautiful, and the rich-
est heiress in the whole country.
"You were quite right to send for me,
madam," he replied, "if I can be of any
service to you.."
In a few words she had told him all;
and, when she asked his advice, he re-
plied,—
"I am entirely of M. Folgat's opinion,
and think that grief and isolation begin
to have their effect upon M. de Boiscoran's
mind."
"Oh, that thought is maddening!"
murmured the poor girl.
"I think, as M. Magloire does, that M.
de Boiscoran, by his silence, only makes
his situation much worse. I have a proof
of that. M. Galpin, who, at first, was all
doubt and anxiety, is now quite re-assured.
The attorney-general has written him a
letter, in which he compliments his
energy."
"And then."
"Then we must induce M. de Bois-
coran to speak. I know very well that
he is firmly resolved not to speak; but if
you were to write to him, since you can
write to him " —
"A letter would be useless."
"But" —
"Useless, I tell you. But I know a
means."
"You must use it promptly, madam:
don't lose a moment. There is no time."
The night was clear, but not clear
enough for the clerk to see how very pale
Dionysia was.
"Well, then, I must see M. de Bois-
coran: I must speak to him."
She expected the clerk to start, to cry


80
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
out, to protest. Far from it: he said in
the quietest tone, —
"To be sure; but how?"
"Blangin the keeper, and his wife,
keep their places only because they give
them a support. Why might I not offer
them, in return for an interview with M.
de Boiscoran. the means to go and live in
the country?"
"Why not?" said the clerk.
And in a lower voice, replying to the
voice of his conscience, he went on,—
"The jail in Sauveterre is not at all
like the police-stations and prisons of
larger towns. The prisoners are few in
number: they are hardly guarded. When
the doors are shut, Blangin is master
within."
"I will go and see him to-morrow,"
declared Dionysia.
There are certain slopes on which you
must glide down. Having once yielded
to Dionysia's suggestions, Mechinet had,
unconsciously, bound himself to her for-
ever.
"No : do not go there, madam," he said.
"You could not make Blangin believe
that he runs no danger; nor could you
sufficiently arouse his cupidity. I will
speak to him myself."
"O sir!" exclaimed Dionysia, "how
can I ever 1" —
"How much may I offer him?" asked
the clerk.
"Whatever you think proper — any
thing."
"Then, madam, I will bring you an
answer to-morrow, here, and at the same
hour."
And he went away, leaving Dionysia so
buoyed up by hope, that all the evening,
and the next day, the two aunts and the
marchioness, neither of whom was in the
secret, asked each other incessantly, —
"What is the matter with the child?"
She was thinking, that, if the answer
was favorable, ere twenty-four hours had
gone by, she would see Jacques; and she
kept saying to herself,—
"If only Mechinet is punctual!"
He was so. At ten o'clock precisely,
he pushed open the little gate, just as the
night before, and said at once, —
"It is all right!"
Dionysia was so terribly excited, that
she had to lean against a tree.
"Blangin agrees," the clerk went on.
"I promised him sixteen thousand francs.
Perhaps that is rather much?"
"It is very little."
"He insists upon having them in
gold."
"He shall have it."
"Finally, he makes certain conditions
with regard to the interview, which will
appear rather hard to you."
The young girl had quite recovered by
this time.
"What are they?"
"Blangin is taking all possible precau-
tions against detection, although he is quite
prepared for the worst. He has arranged
it this way: To-morrow evening, at six
o'clock, you will pass by the jail. The
door will stand open, and Blangin's wife,
whom you know very well, as she has
formerly been in your service, will be
standing in the door. If she does not
speak to you, you keep on: something
has happened. If she does speak to
you, go up to her, you, quite alone, and
she will show you into a small room
which adjoins her own. There you will
stay till Blangin, perhaps at a late hour,
thinks he can safely take you to M. de
Boiscoran's cell. When the interview is
over, you come back into the little room,
where a bed will be ready for you. and
you spend the night there; for this is
the hardest part of it: you cannot leave
the prison till next day."
This was certainly terrible; still, after
a moment's reflection, Dionysia said, —
"Never mind! I accept. Tell Blangin,
M. Mechinet, that it is all right."
That Dionysia should accept all the
conditions of Blangin the jailer was
perfectly natural; but to obtain M. de
Chandore's consent was a much more
difficult task. The poor girl understood
this so well, that, for the first time in her
life, she felt embarrassed in her grand-
father's presence. She hesitated, she pre-
pared her little speech, and she selected
carefully her words. But in spite of all
her skill, in spite of all the art with
which she managed to present her strange
request, M. de Chandore had no sooner
understood her project than he ex-
claimed, —
"Never, never, never I"
Perhaps in his whole life the old gentle-
man had never expressed himself in so
positive a manner. His brow had never
looked so dark. Usually, when his grand-
daughter had a petition, his lips might
say, "No;" but his eyes always said,
"Yes."
"Impossible!" he repeated, and in a
tone of voice which seemed to admit of
no reply.
Surely, in all these painful events, he
had not spared himself, and he had so
far done for Dionysia all that she could
possibly expect of him. Her will had
been his will. As she had prompted, he
had said, "Yes," or "No." What more
could he have said or done?


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
81
Without telling him what she was
going to do with it, Dionysia had asked
nim for twenty thousand francs, and he
had given them to her, however big the
sum might be everywhere, however im-
mense in a small town like Sauveterre.
He was quite ready to give her as much
again, or twice as much, without asking
any more questions.
But for Dionysia to leave her home one
evening at six o'clock, and not to return
to it till the next morning —
"That I cannot permit," he repeated.
But for Dionysia to spend a night in
the Sauveterre jail, in order to have an
interview with her betrothed, who was
accused of incendiarism and murder; to
remain there all night, alone, absolutely
at the mercy of the jailer, a hard, coarse,
covetous man —
"That I will never permit," exclaimed
the old gentleman once more.
Dionysia remained calm, and let the
storm pass. When her grandfather be-
came silent, she said, —
"But if I must?"
M. de Chandore shrugged his shoulders.
She repeated in a louder tone,—
"If I must, in order to decide Jacques
to abandon this system that will ruin him,
to induce him to speak before the investi-
gation is completed?"
"That is not your business, my child,"
said the old gentleman.
"Oh!"
"That is the business of his mother,
the Marchioness of Boiscoran. Whatever
Blangin agrees to venture for your sake,
he will do as well for her sake. Let the
marchioness go and spend the night at
the jail. I agree to that. Let her see
her son. That is her duty."
"But surely she will never shake
Jacques's resolution."
"And you think you have more in-
fluence over him than his mother?"
"It is not the same thing, dear
papa."
"Never mind!"
This " never mind " of Grandpapa Chan-
dore was as positive as his "impossible ;"
but he had begun to discuss the ques-
tion, and to discuss means to listen to
arguments on the other side.
"Do not insist, my dear child," he said
again. "My mind is made up; and I
assure you " —
"Don't say so, papa," said the young
girl.
And her attitude was so determined,
and her voice so firm, that the old gen-
tleman, was quite overwhelmed for a mo-
ment.
"But, if I am not willing," he said.
"You will consent, dear papa, you will
certainly not force your little grand-daugh-
ter, who loves you so dearly, to the pain-
ful necessity of disobeying you for the
first time in her life."
"Because, for the first time in her life,
I am not doing what ray grand-daughter
wants me to do?"
"Dear papa, let me tell you."
"Rather listen to me, poor dear child,
and let me show you to what dangers, to
what misfortunes, you expose yourself.
To go and spend a night at that prison
would be risking (understand me well)
your honor, — that tender, delicate honor
which is tarnished by a breath, which
involves the happiness and the peace of
your whole life."
"But Jacques's honor and life are at
stake."
"Poor imprudent girl! How do you
know but he would be the very first to
blame you cruelly for such a step?"
"He?"
"Men are made so: the most perfect
devotion irritates them at times."
"Be it so. I would rather endure
Jacques's unjust reproaches than the
idea of not having done my duty."
M. de Chandore began to despair.
"And if I were to beg you, Dionysia,
instead of commanding? If your old
grandfather were to beseech you on his
knees to abandon your fatal pros-
pect."
"You would cause me fearful pain,
dear papa: but it would be all in vain;
for I must resist your prayers, as I must
resist your orders."
"Inexorable I" cried the old gentle-
man. "She is immovable!" And sud-
denly changing his tone, he cried, —
"But, after all, I am master here."
"Dear papa, pray!"
"And, since nothing can move you, I
will speak to Mechinet, I will let Blangin
know my will."
Dionysia, turning as pale as death, but
with burning eyes, drew back a step, and
said,—
"If you do that, grandpapa, if you
destroy my last hope " —
"Well?"
"I swear to you by the sacred memory
of my mother, I will be in a convent
to-morrow, and you will never see me
again in your life, not even if I should
die, which would certainly soon " —
M. de Chandore, raising his hands to
heaven, and with an accent of genuine
despair, exclaimed, —
"Ah, my God! Are these our chil-
dren? And is this what is in store for
us old people? We have spent a life-


82
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
time in watching over them; we have
submissively gratified all their fancies;
they have been our greatest anxiety, and
our sweetest hope; we have given them
our life day by day, and we would not
hesitate to give them our life's blood
drop by drop; they are every thing to us,
and we imagine they love us — poor
fools that we are! One fine day, a man
goes bv. a careless, thoughtless man, with
a bright eye and a ready tongue, and it
is all over. Our child is no longer our
own; our child no longer knows us. Go,
old man, and die in your corner."
Overwhelmed by his grief, the old
man staggered, and sank into a chair, as
an old oak, cut by the woodman's axe,
trembles, and falls.
"Ah, this is fearful!" murmured Dio-
nysia. "What you say, grandpapa, is too
fearful. How can you doubt me?"
She had knelt down. She was weep-
ing: and her hot tears fell upon the old
gentleman's hands. He started up as he
felt them on his icy-cold hand; and,
making one more effort, he said, —
"Poor, poor child! And suppose
Jacques is guilty, and, when he sees you,
confesses his crime, what then?"
Dionysia shook her head.
"That is impossible," she said; "and
still, even if it were so, I ought to be
punished as much as he is; for I know,
if he had asked me, I should have acted
in concert with him."
"She is mad I" exclaimed M. de
Chandore, falling back into his chair.
"She is mad!"
But he was overcome; and the next
day, at five in the afternoon, his heart
torn by unspeakable grief, he went down
the steep street with his daughter on his
arm. Dionysia had chosen her simplest
and plainest dress; and the little bag she
carried on her arm contained not sixteen
but twenty thousand francs. As a mat-
ter of course, it had been necessary to
take the marchioness into their confi-
dence; but neither she, nor the Misses
Lavarande, nor M. Folgat, had raised an
objection. Down to the prison, grand-
father and grandchild had not exchaujred
a word; but, when they reached it, Dio-
nysia said. —-
"I see Mrs. Blangin at the door: let us
be careful."
They came nearer. Mrs. Blangin
saluted them.
"Come, it is time," said the young
girl. "Till to-morrow, dear papa! Go
home quickly, and be not troubled about
me."
Then joining the keeper's wife, she
disappeared inside the prison.
The prison of Sauveterre is in the
castle at the upper end of town, in a poor
and almost deserted suburb. This castle,
once upon a time of great importance,
had been dismantled at the time of
the siege of Rochelle; and all that re-
mains are a few badly-repaired ruins,
ramparts with fosses that have been
filled up, a gate surmounted by a small
belfry, a chapel converted into a maga-
zine, and finally two huge towers con-
nected by an immense building, the
lower rooms in which are vaulted.
Nothing can be more mournful than
these ruins, enclosed within an ivy-cov-
ered wall; and nothing would indicate
the use that is made of them, except the
sentinel which stands day and night at
the gate. Ancient elm-trees overshadow
the vast courts; and on the old walls, as
well as in every crevice, there grow and
bloom enough flowers to rejoice a hun-
dred prisoners. But this romantic pris-
on is without prisoners.
"It is a cage without birds," says the
jailer often in his most melancholy
voice. ♦
He takes advantage of this to raise
his vegetables all along the slopes: and
the exposure is so excellent, that he
is always the first in Sauveterre who
has young peas. He has also taken
advantage of this — with leave granted
by the authorities — to fit up very com-
fortable lodgings for himself in one of
the towers. He has two rooms below,
and a chamber up stairs, which you
reach by a narrow staircase in the thick-
ness of the wall. It was to this chamber
that the keeper's wife took Dionysia
with all the promptness of fear. The
poor girl was out of breath. Her heart
was beating violently; and, as soon as she
was in the room, she sank into a chair.
"Great God!'' cried the woman.
"You are not sick, my dear young lady'?
Wait, I'll run for some vinegar."
"Never mind," replied Dionysia in a
feeble voice. "Stay here, my dear
Colette: don't go away!"
For Colette was her name, though she
was as dark as gingerbread, nearly forty-
five years old, and boasted of a decided
mustache on her upper lip.
"Poor young lady!" she said. "You
feel badly at being here."
"Yes,"" replied Dionysia. "But where
is your husband?"
"Down stairs, on the lookout, madam.
He will come up directly." Very soon
afterwards, a heavy step was heard on


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
83
the stairs; and Blangin came in, looking
pale and anxious, like a man who feels
that he is running a great risk.
"Neither seen nor known," he cried.
"No one is aware of your presence here.
I was only afraid of that dog of a senti-
nel ; and, just as you came by, I had man-
aged to get him round the corner, offering
him a drop of something to drink. I
begin to hope T shall not lose my place."
Dionysia accepted these words as a
summons to speak out.
"Ah!" she said, "don't mind your
place: don't you know I have promised
you a better one?"
And, with a gayety which was very far
from being real, she opened her little bag,
and put upon the table the rolls which it
contained.
"Ah, that is gold !" said Blangin with
eager eyes.
"Yes. Each one of these rolls con-
tains a thousand francs; and here are
sixteen.
An irresistible temptation seized the
jailer.
"May I see?" he asked.
"Certainly!" replied the young girl.
"Look for yourself, and count."
She was mistaken. Blangin did not
think of_ counting, not he. What he
wanted was only to gratify his eye by the
sight of the gold, to hear its sound, to
handle it.
With feverish eagerness he tore open
the wrappings, and let the pieces fall in
cascades upon the table; and, as the heap
increased, his lips turned white, and per-
spiration broke out on his temples.
"And all that is for me?" he said
with a stupid laugh.
"Yes, it is yours," replied Dionysia.
"I did not know how sixteen thousand
francs would look. How beautiful gold
is! Just look, wife."
But Colette turned her head away.
She was quite as covetous as her hus-
band, and perhaps even more excited; but
she was a woman, and she knew how to
dissemble.
"Ah, my dear young lady!" she said,
"never would my old man and myself
have asked you for money, if we had only
ourselves to think of. But we have
children."
"Your duty is to think of your chil-
dren," replied Dionysia.
"I know sixteen thousand francs is a
big sum. Perhaps you will be sorry to
give us so much money."
"I am not sorry at all: I would even
add to it willingly." And she showed
them one of the other four rolls in her
bag.
"Then, to be sure, what do I care for
my place! " cried Blangin. And, intoxi-
cated by the sight and the touch of lie
gold, he added,—
"You are at home here, madam; and
the jail and the jailer are at your dis-
posal. What do you desire? Just
speak. I have nine prisoners, not count-
ing M. de Boiscoran and Trumence.
Do you want me to set them all free?"
"Blangin !'' said his wife reprovingly.
"What? Am I not free to let the
prisoners go?"
"Before you play the master, wait, at
least, till you have rendered our young
lady the service which she expects from
you."
"Certainly."
"Then go and conceal this money,"
said the prudent woman; "or it might
betray us."
And, drawing from her cupboard a
woollen stocking, she handed it to her
husband, who slipped the sixteen thou-
sand francs into it, retaining about a
dozen gold-pieces, which he kept in his
pocket so as always to have in his hands
some tangible evidence of his new for-
tune. When this was done, and the
stocking, full to overflowing, had been
put back in the cupboard under a pile of
linen, she ordered her husband, —
"Now, you go down. Somebody
might be coming; and, if you were not
there to open when they knock, that
might look suspicious."
Like a well-trained husband, Blangin
obeyed without saying a word; and then
his wife bethought herself how to en-
tertain Dionysia. She hoped, she said,
her dear young lady would do her the
honor to take something. That would
strengthen her, and, besides, help her to
pass the time; for it was only seven o'clock,
and Blangin could not take her to M.
de Boiscoran's cell before ten, without
great danger.
"But I have dined," Dionysia objected.
"I do not want any thing."
The woman insisted only the more.
She remembered (God be thanked !) her
dear young lady's taste; and she had
made her an admirable broth, and some
beautiful dessert. And, while thus talk-
ing, she set the table, having made up
her mind that Dionysia must eat at all
hazards ; at least, so says the tradition of
the place.
The eager zeal of the woman had, at
least, this advantage, — that it prevented
Dionysia from giving way to her pain-
ful thoughts.
Night had come, It was nine o'clock;
then it struck ten. At last, the watch


84
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
came round to relieve the sentinels. A
quarter of an hour after that, Blangin
re-appeared, holding a lantern and an
enormous bunch of keys in his hands.
"I have sent Trumenoe to bed," he
said. "You can come now, madam."
Dionysia was all ready.
"Let us go," she said simply.
Then following the jailer along inter-
minable passages, through a vast vaulted
hall, in which their steps resounded as
in a church, then through a long gallery.
At last, pointing at a massive door,
through the cracks of which the light
was piercing, he said, —
"Here we are."
But Dionysia seized his arm, and said
in an almost inaudible voice,—
"Wait a moment."
She was almost overcome by so many
successive emotions. She felt her legs
give way under her, and her eyes become
dim. In her heart she preserved all her
usual energy; but the flesh escaped from
her will, and failed her at the last mo-
ment.
"Are you sick?" asked the jailer.
"What is the matter?"
She prayed to God for courage and
strength: when her prayer was finished,
she said, —
"Now, let us go in."
And, making a great noise with the
keys and the bolts, Blangin opened the
door to Jacques de Boiscoran's cell.
Jacques counted no longer the days,
but the hours. He had been imprisoned
on Friday morning, June 23,. and this
was Wednesday night, June 28. He
had been a hundred and thirty-two hours,
according to the graphic description of a
great writer, "living, but struck from the
roll of the living, and buried alive."
Each one of these hundred and thirty-
two hours had weighed upon him like a
month. Seeing him pale and haggard,
with his hair and beard in disorder, and
his eves shining brightly with fever,
like half-extinguished coals, one would
hardly have recognized in him the happy
lord of Boiscoran, free from care and
trouble, upon whom fortune had ever
smiled, — that haughty sceptical young
man, who from the height of the past
defied the future.
The fact is, that society, obliged to
defend itself against criminals, has in-
vented no more fearful suffering than what
is called "close confinement." There
is nothing that will sooner demoralize a
man, crush his will, and utterly conquer
the most powerful energy. There is no
struggle more distressing than the strug-
gle between an innocent man accused of
some crime, and the magistrate, — a
helpless being in the hands of a man
armed with unlimited power.
If great sorrow was not sacred, to a
certain degree, Dionysia might have
heard all about Jacques. Nothing would
have been easier. She would have been
told by Blangin, who was watching M. de
Boiscoran like a spy, and by his wife,
w ho prepared his meals, through what an-
guish he had passed since his impris-
onment.
Stunned at first, he had soon recovered;
and on Friday and Saturday he had
been quiet and confident, talkative, and
almost cheerful. But Sunday had been
a fatal day. Two gendarmes had car-
ried him to Boiscoran to take off the
seals; and on his way out he had been
overwhelmed with insults and curses by
the people who had recognized him. He
had come back terribly distressed.
During the whole day of Monday, he
had been tortured by the magistrate, and
after six hours' examination, when they
brought him his dinner, he had said that
his health could not stand it, and that
they might just as well kill him at once.
On Tuesday he had received Dio-
nysia's letter, and answered it. This
had excited him fearfully, and, during a
part of the night, Trumence "had seen
him walk up and down in his cell with
all the gestures and incoherent impreca-
tions of a madman.
He had hoped for a letter on Wednes-
day. When none came, he had sunk into
a kind of stupor, during which M. Gal-
pin had been unable to draw a word
from him. He had taken nothing all
day long but a little broth and a cup of
coffee. When the magistrate left him,
he had sat down, leaning his head on
his elbows, facing the window ; and there
he had remained, never moving, and so
deeply absorbed in his reveries, that he
had taken no notice when they brought
him light. He was still in this state,
when, a little after ten o'clock, he heard
the grating of, the bolts of his cell. He
had become so well acquainted with the
prison that he knew all its regulations.
He knew at what hours his meals were
brought, at what time Trumence came
to clean up his room, and when he might
expect the magistrate. After night, he
knew he was his own master till next
morning. So late a visit, therefore, must
needs bring him some unexpected news,
his liberty, perhaps, — that visitor for
whom all prisoners look so anxiously.
He started up. As soon as he distin-
guished in the darkness the jailer's
rugged face, he asked eagerly, —


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS* LIFE.
85
« Who wants me?"
Blangin bowed. He was a polite
jailer. Then he replied, —
"Sir, I bring you a visitor."
And, moving aside, he made way for
Dionysia, or, rather, he pushed her into
the room; for she seemed to have lost all
power to move.
"A visitor ?" repeated M. de Boiscoran.
But the jailer had raised his lantern,
and the poor man could recognize his be-
trothed.
"You," he cried, "you here I"
And he drew back, afraid of being de-
ceived by a dream, or one of those fearful
hallucinations which announce the coming
of insanity, and take hold of the brains of
sick people in times of over-excitement.
"Dionysia I" he barely whispered,
"Dionysia!"
If not her own life (for she cared
nothing for that), but Jacques's life, had at
that moment depended on a single word,
Dionysia could not have uttered it. Her
throat was parched, and her lips refused
to move. The jailer took it upon himself
to answer, —
"Yes." he said, "Miss ChandoreV'
"At this hour, in my prison!"
"She had something important to com-
municate to you. She came to me " —
"O Dionysia!" stammered Jacques,
"what a precious friend " —
"And I agreed," said Blangin in a
paternal tone of voice, " to bring her in
secretly. It is a great sin I commit; and
if it ever should become known— But
one may be ever so much a jailer, one
has a heart, after all. I tell you so merely
because the young lady might not think
of it. If the secret is not kept carefully,
I should lose my place, and I am a poor
man, with wife and children."
"You are the best of men!" exclaimed
M. de Boiscoran, far from suspecting the
price that had been paid for Blangin's
sympathy, "and, on the day on which I
regain my liberty, I will prove to you that
we whom you have obliged are not un-
grateful."
"Quite at your service," replied the
jailer modestly.
Gradually, however, Dionysia had re-
covered her self-possession. She said
gently to Blangin, —
"Leave us now, my good friend."
As soon as he had disappeared, and
without allowing M. de Boiscoran to say
a word, she said, speaking very low, —
"Jacques, grandpapa has told me, that
by coming thus to you at night, alone,
and in secret, I run the risk of losing your
affection, and of diminishing your re-
spect."
"Ah, you did not think so I"
"Grandpapa has more experience than
I have, Jacques. Still I did not hesi-
tate. Here I am; and I should have run
much greater risks; for your honor is at
stake, and your honor is my honor, as
your life is my life. Your future is at
stake, our future, our happiness, all our
hopes here below."
Inexpressible joy had illumined the
prisoner's face.
"O God!" he cried, "one such mo-
ment pays for years of torture."
But Dionysia had sworn to herself, as
she came, that nothing should turn her
aside from her purpose. So she went
on, —
"By the sacred memory of my mother,
I assure you, Jacques, that I have never
for a moment doubted your innocence."
The unhappy man looked distressed.
"You," he said; "but the others? but
M. de Chandore?"
"Do you think I would be here, if he
thought you were guilty? My aunts and
your mother are as sure of it as I
am."
"And my father? You said nothing
about him in your letter."
"Your father remained in Paris in case
some influence in high quarters should
have to be appealed to."
Jacques shook his head, and said, —
"I am in prison at Sauveterre, accused
of a fearful crime, and my father remains
in Paris! It must be true that he never
really loved me. And yet I have always
been a good son to him down to this ter-
rible catastrophe. He has never had to
complain of me. No, my father does not
love me."
Dionysia could not allow him to go off
in this way.
"Listen to me, Jacques," she said: "let
me tell you why I ran the risk of taking
this serious step, that may cost me so
dear. I come to you in the name of all
your friends, in the name of M. Folgat,
the great advocate whom your mother has
brought down from Paris, and in the
name of M. Magloire, in whom you put
so much confidence. They all agree you
have adopted an abominable system.
By refusing obstinately to speak, you
rush voluntarily into the gravest danger.
Listen well to what I tell you. If you
wait till the examination is over, you are
lost. If you are once handed over to the
court, it is too late for you to speak. You
will only, innocent as you are, make one
more on the list of judicial murders."
Jacques de Boiscoran had listened to
Dionysia in silence, his head bowed to
the ground, as if to conceal its pallor


8G
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
from her. As soon as she stopped, all out
of breath, he murmured, —
"Alas! Every thing you tell me I
have told myself more than once."
"And you did not speak?"
'- I did not."
"Ah, Jacques, you are not aware of the
danger you run! Yo do not know " —
"I know," he said, interrupting her in
a harsh, hoarse voice, — "I know that the
scaffold, or the galleys, are at the end."
Dionysia was petrified with horror.
- Poor girl! She had imagined that she
would only have to show herself to tri-
umph over Jacques's obstinacy, and that,
as soon as she had heard what he had to
say, she would feel re-assured. And in-
stead of that —
"What a misfortune!" she cried.
'' You have taken up these fearful no-
tions, and you will not abandon them!"
"I must keep silent."
"You cannot. You have not con-
sidered " —
"Not considered," he repeated.
And in a lower tone he added, —
'' And what do you think I have been
doing these hundred and thirty mortal
hours since I have been alone in this
prison, — alone to confront a terrible ac-
cusation, and a still more terrible emer-
gency ?''
"That is the difficulty, Jacques: you
are the victim of your own imagination.
And who could help it in your place?
M. Folgat said so only yesterday. There
is no man living, who, after four days'
close confinement, can keep his mind
cool. Grief and solitude are bad coun-
sellors. Jacques, come to yourself; listen
to your dearest friends who speak to you
through me. Jacques, your Dionysia
beseeches you. Speak!"
"I cannot."
"Why not?"
She waited for some seconds; and, as he
did not reply, she said, not without a
slight accent of bitterness in her voice, —
"Is it not the first duty of an innocent
man to establish his innocence ?''
The prisoner, with a movement of de-
spair, clasped his hands over his brow.
Then bending over Dionysia, so that she
felt his breath in her hair, he said, —
"And when he cannot, when he can-
not, establish his innocence?"
She drew back, pale unto death, totter-
ing so that she had to lean against the
wall, and cast upon Jacques de Boiscoran
glances in which the whole horror of her
soul was clearly expressed.
"What do you say?" she stammered.
"OGod!"
He laughed, the wretched man! with
that laugh which is the last" utterance of
despair. And then he replied,—
'' I say that there are circumstances
which upset our reason; unheard-of cir-
cumstances, which could make one doubt
of one's self. I say that every thing
accuses me, that every thing overwhelms
me, that every thing turns against me. I
say, that if I were in M. Galpin's place,
and if he were in mine, I should act just
as he does.''
"That is insanity! " cried Dionysia.
But Jacques de Boiscoran did not hear
her. All the bitterness of the last days
rose within him: he turned red, and be-
came excited. At last, with gasping voice,
he broke forth, —
"Establish my innocence! Ah! that
is easily said. But how? No, I am not
guilty: but a crime has been committed;
and for this crime justice will have a cul-
prit. If it is not I who fired at Count
Claudieuse, and set Valpinson on fire,
who is it? 'Where were you,' they ask
me, 'at the time of the murder?' Where
was I? Can I tell it? To clear myself
is to accuse others. And if I should be
mistaken? or if, not being mistaken, I
should be unable to prove the truthfulness
of my accusation? The murderer and
the incendiary, of course, took all possible
precautions to escape detection, and to let
the punishment fall upon me. I was
warned beforehand. Ah, if we always
could foresee, could know beforehand!
How can I defend myself? On the first
day I said, 'Such a charge cannot reach
me: it is a cloud that a breath will
scatter.' Madman that I was! The
cloud has become an avalanche, and I
may be crushed. I am neither a child
nor a coward; and I have always met
phantoms face to face. I have measured
the danger, and I know it is fearful."
Dionysia shuddered. She cried, —
"What will become of us?"
This time, M. de Boiscoran heard her,
and was ashamed of his weakness. But,
before he could master his feelings, the
young girl went on, saying, —
"But never mind. These are idle
thoughts. Truth soars invincible, un-
changeable, high above all the ablest cal-
culations and the most skilful combina-
tions. Jacques, you must tell the truth,
the whole truth, without subterfuge or
concealment."
"I can do so no longer," murmured he.
"Is it such a terrible secret?"
"It is improbable."
Dionysia looked at him almost with
fear. She did not recognize his old face,
nor his eye, nor the tone of his voice.
She drew nearer to him, and taking his


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
87
hand between her own small white hands,
she said, —
"But you can tell it to me, your friend,
your''—
He trembled, and, drawing back, he
said, —
"To you less than anybody else."
And, feeling how mortifying such an
answer must be, he added, —
'' Your mind is too pure for such
-wretched intrigues. I do not want your
wedding-dress to be stained by a speck of
that mud into which they have thrown
me.''
Was she deceived? No; but she had
the courage to seem to be deceived. She
went on quietly, —
"Very well, then. But the truth will
have to be told sooner or later."
"Yes, to M. Magloire."
"Well, then, Jacques, write down at
once what you mean to tell him. Here
are pen and ink: I will carry it to him
faithfully."
"There are things, Dionysia, which
cannot be written."
She felt she was beaten; she understood
that nothing would ever bend that iron
will, and yet she said once more, —
"But if I were to beseech you, Jacques,
by our past and our future, by that gieat
and eternal love which you have sworn?"
'' Do you really wish to make my prison
hours a thousand times harder than they
are? Do you want to deprive me of my
last remnant of strength and of courage?
Have you really no confidence in me any
longer? Could you not believe me a few
days more?"
He paused. Somebody knocked at the
door; and almost at the same time Blan-
gin the jailer called out through the
wicket, —
'' Time is passing. I want to be down
stairs when they relieve guard. I am
running a great risk. I am a father of a
family.''
'' Go home now, Dionysia,'' said Jacques
eagerly, "go home. I cannot think of
your being seen here."
Dionysia had paid dear enough to know
that she was quite safe; still she did not
object. She offered her brow to Jacques,
who touched it with his lips; and half
dead, holding on to the walls, she went
back to the jailer's little room. They
had made up a bed for her, and she threw
herself on it, dressed as she was, and re-
mained there, immovable, as if she had
been dead, overcome by a kind of stupor
which deprived her even of the faculty of
suffering.
It was blight 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 re-
member me, if I should need you again."
And, dropping her veil over her .face,
she went away.
XI.
Baron ChandorA 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 honorable
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 certain-
ly did not hear a word of what the lawyer
told him to re-assure him. At last, how-
ever, 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 par-


88
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
lor, 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 as pale as death!" he went
on. "Your eyes are red and swollen!"
"I have cried, dear papa," she re-
plied 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 Chan-
dore, 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 improb-
able that he should certainly not be be-
lieved; 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 de-
nounce 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 pre-
cise?"
"No."
'' You did not ask him even what those
improbable facts were?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Well?"
"He said that I was the very last per-
son 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 coura-
geous 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, exasper-
ated 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 in-
audible voice, —
"I am broken to pieces! Excuse me,
grandpa, 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 " —
"You are needlessly alarmed," began
the advocate.
But Grandpapa Chandore' shook his head,
and said, —
"No, no. I fear my child has been
hurt in her heart's heart. Did you not
see how white she looked, and how faint
her voice was? Great God! wilt thou
leave me all alone here upon earth? O
God! for which of my sins dost thou
punish me in my children? For mercy's
sake, call me home before she also leaves
me, who is the joy of my life. And I can
do nothing to turn aside this fatality —
stupid, inane old man that I am! And
this Jacques de Boiscoran — if he were
guilty, after all? Ah the wretch! I
would hang him with my own hands!"
Deeply moved, M. Folgat had watched
the old gentleman's grief. Now he
said, —>-
"Do not blame M. de Boiscoran, sir,
now that every thing is against him! Of


90
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
ture had spent under the doctor's treat-
ment.
"What! Cocoleu not idiotic?" he re-
peated.
"No!" Dr. Seignebos declared per-
emptorily; "and you have only to look
at him to be convinced. Has he a large
flat face, disproportionate mouth, a yel-
low, tanned complexion, thick lips, defec-
tive teeth, and squinting eyes? Does
his deformed head sway from side to
side, being too heavy to be supported by
his neck? Is his body deformed, and
his spine crooked? Do you find that his
stomach is big and pendent, that his
hands drop upon his thighs, that his legs
are awkward, and the joints unusually
large? These are the symptoms of idio-
cy, gentlemen, and you do not find them
in Cocoleu. I, for my part, see in him a
scamp, who has an iron constitution, who
uses his hands very cleverly, climbs trees
like a monkey, and leaps ditches ten feet
wide. To be sure, I do not pretend that
his intellect is normal; but I maintain
that he is one of those imbeciles who have
certain faculties very fully developed,
while others, more essential, are miss-
ing."
While M. Folgat listened with the most
intense interest, M. de Chandore became
impatient, and said,—
'' The difference between an idiot and
an imbecile ''—
"There is a world between them,"
cried the doctor.
And at once he went on with over-
whelming volubility, —
"The imbecile preserves some frag-
ments of intelligence. He can speak,
make known his wants, and express his
feelings. He associates ideas, compares
impressions, remembers things, and ac-
quires experience. He is capable of cun-
ning and dissimulation. He hates and
likes and fears. If he is not always socia-
ble, he is susceptible of being influenced
by others. You can easily obtain perfect
control over him. His inconsistency is
remarkable; and still he shows, at times,
invincible obstinacy. Finally, imbeciles
are, on account of this semi-lucidity,
often very dangerous. You find among
them almost all those monomaniacs whom
society is compelled to shut up in asylums,
because they cannot master their in-
stincts."
"Very well said," repeated M. Folgat,
who found here some elements of a plea,
—'' very well said.''
The doctor bowed.
"Such a creature is Cocoleu. Does it
follow that I hold him responsible for his
actions? By no means! But it follows
that I look upon him as a false witness,
brought forth to ruin an honest man."
It was evident that such views did not
please M. de Chandore'.
"Formerly," he said, "you did not
think so.''
"No, I even said the contrary," re-
plied Dr. Seignebos, not without dignity.
'' I had not studied Cocoleu sufficiently,
and I was taken in by him: I confess it
openly. But this avowal of mine is an
evidence of the cunning and the astute
obstinacy of these wretched creatures, and
of their capacity to carry out a design.
After a year's experience, I sent Cocoleu
away, declaring, and certainly believing,
that he was incurable. The fact is, he
did not want to be cured. The country-
people, who observe carefully and shrewd-
ly, were not taken in: they will tell you,
almost to a man, that Cocoleu is bad,
but not an idiot. That is the truth. He
has found out, that, by exaggerating his
imbecility, he could live without work;
and he has done it. When he was taken
in by Count Claudieuse, he was clever
enough to show just so much intelligence
as was necessary to make him endura-
ble, without being compelled to do any
work."
"In a word," said M. de Chandore' in-
credulously, "Cocoleu is a great actor."
"Great enough to have deceived me,"
replied the doctor: "yes, sir."
Then turning to M. Folgat, he went
on, —
'' All this I had told my learned brother,
before taking him to the hospital. There
we found Cocoleu more obstinate than
ever in his silence, which even M. Galpin
had not induced him to break. All our
efforts to obtain a word from him were
fruitless, although it was very evident
to me that he understood very well. I
proposed to resort to quite legitimate
means, which are employed to discover
feigned defects and diseases; but my
learned brother refused, and was encour-
aged in his resistance by M. Galpin:
I do not know upon what ground. Then
I asked that the Countess Claudieuse
should be sent for, as she has a talent of
making him talk. Mv Galpin would not
permit it — and there we are."
It happens almost daily, that two
physicians employed as experts differ in
their opinions. The courts would have a
great deal to do, if they had to force them
to agree. They appoint simply a third
expert, whose opinion is decisive. This
was necessarily to be done in Cocoleu's
case.
"And as necessarily," continued Dr.
Seignebos, '' the court, having appointed a


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
91
first ass, will associate with me a second
ass. They will agree with each other, and
I shall be accused and convicted of igno-
rance and presumption."
He came, therefore, as he now said, to
ask M. de Chandore to render him a little
service. He wanted the two families,
Chandore and Boiscoran, to employ all
their influence to obtain that a commission
of physicians from outside — if possible,
from Paris — should be appointed to ex-
amine Cocoleu, and to report on his mental
condition.
"I undertake," he said, "to prove to
really enlightened men, that this poor crea-
ture is partly pretending to be imbecile,
and that his obstinate speechlessness is
only adopted in order to avoid answers
which would compromise him.''
At first, however, neither M. de Chan-
dore nor H. Folgat gave any answer.
They were considering the question.
"Mind," said the doctor again, shocked
at their silence, '' mind, I pray, that if my
view is adopted, as I have every reason to
hope, a new turn will be given to the
whole case."
Why, yes! The ground of the accusa-
tion might be taken from under the
prosecution; and that was what kept M.
Folgat thinking.
"And that is exactly," he commenced
at last, "what makes me ask myself
whether the discovery of Cocoleu's ras-
cality would not be rather injurious than
beneficial to M. de Boiscoran.''
The doctor was furious. He cried, —
"I should like to know " —
"Nothingcan be more simple," replied
the advocate. "Cocoleu's idiocy is, per-
haps, the most serious difficulty in the way
of the prosecution, and the most powerful
argument for the defence. What can M.
Galpin say, if M. de Boiscoran charges
him with basing a capital charge upon the
incoherent words of a creature void of
intelligence, and, consequently, irrespon-
sible."
"Ah! permit me," said Dr. Seignebos.
But M. de Chandore heard every syl-
lable.
"Permit yourself, doctor," he said.
"This argument of Cocoleu's imbecility
is one which you have pleaded from the
beginning, and which appeared to you,
you said, so conclusive, that there was no
need of looking for any other."
Before the doctor could find an answer,
M. Folgat went on, —
"Let it be, on the contrary, established
that Cocoleu really knows what he says,
and all is changed. The prosecution is
justified, by an opinion of the faculty, in
saying to M. de Boiscoran, 'You need not
deny any longer. You have been seen:
here is a witness.'"
These arguments must have struck Dr.
Seignebos very forcibly; for he remained
silent for at least ten long seconds, wiping
his gold spectacles with a pensive air.
Had he really done harm to Jacques de
Boiscoran, while he meant to help him?
But he was not the man to be long in
doubt. He replied in a dry tone, —
"I will not discuss that, gentlemen. I
will ask you only one question: 'Yes or
no, do you believe in M. de Boiscoran's
innocence?'"
"We believe in it fully," replied the
two men.
"Then, gentlemen, it seems to me we
are running no risk in trying to unmask
an impostor."
That was not the young lawyer's
opinion.
"To prove that Cocoleu knows what he
says," he replied, "would be fatal, unless
we can prove at the same time that he has
told a falsehood, and that his evidence has
been prompted by others. Can we prove
that? Have we any.means to prove that
his obstinacy in not replying to any ques-
tions arises from his fear that his answers
might convict him of perjury?"
The doctor would hear nothing more.
He said rather uncourteously, —
"Lawyers' quibbles! I know only one
thing; and that is truth."
"It will not always do to tell it," mur-
mured the lawyer.
"Yes, sir, always," replied the physi-
cian, — "always; and at all hazards, and
whatever may happen. I am M. de Bois-
coran's friend; but I am still more the
friend of truth. If Cocoleu is a wretched
impostor, as I am firmly convinced, our
duty is to unmask him.''
Dr. Seignebos did no\ say — and he
probably did not confess it to himself —
that it was a personal matter between
Cocoleu and himself. He thought Cocoleu
had taken him in, and been the cause of a
host of small witticisms, under which he
had suffered cruelly, though he had al-
lowed no one to see it. To unmask Co-
coleu would have given him his revenge,
and return upon his enemies the ridi-
cule with which they had overwhelmed
him.
"I have made up my mind," he said,
"and, whatever you may resolve, I mean
to go to work at once, and try to obtain
the 'appointment of a commission.''
"It might be prudent," M. Folgat said,
'' to consider before doing any thing, to
consult with M. Magloire.''
"I do not want to consult with Ma-
gloire when duty calls."


92
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
"You will grant us twenty-four hours,
I hope."
Dr. Seignebos frowned till he looked
formidable.
"Not an hour," he replied; "and I go
from here to M. Daubigeon, the common-
wealth attorney."
Thereupon, taking his hat and cane, he
bowed and left, as dissatisfied as possible,
without stopping even to answer M. de
Chandore, who asked him how Count
Claudieuse was, who was, according to re-
ports in town, getting worse and worse.
"Hang the old original'" cried M. de
Chandore before the doctor had left the
passage.
Then turning to M. Folgat, he add-
ed, - -
"I must, however, confess that you
received the great news which he brought
rather coldly."
"The very fact of the news being so
very grave," replied the advocate, "made
me wish for time to consider. If Cocoleu
pretends to be imbecile, or, at least, exag-
gerates his incapacity, then we have a
confirmation of what M. de Boiscoran
last night told Miss Dionysia. It would
be the proof of an odious trap, of a long-
premeditated vengeance. Here is the
turning-point of the affair evidently.''
M. de Chandore was bitterly unde-
ceived.
"What! " he said, "you think so, and
you refuse to support Dr. Seignebos, who
is certainly an honest man?"
The young lawver shook his head.
"I wanted to have twenty-four hours'
delay, because we must absolutely consult
M. de Boiscoran. Could I tell the doctor
so? Had I a right to take him into Miss
Dionysia's secret?"
"You are right," murmured M. de
Chandore, "you are right."
But, in order to write to M. de Bois-
coran, Dionysia's assistance was necessary;
and she did not re-appear till the after-
noon, looking still very pale, but evidently
armed with new courage.
M. Folgat dictated to her certain ques-
tions to ask the prisoner.
She hastened to write them in cipher;
and about four o'clock the letter was sent
to Mcchinet, the clerk.
The next evening the answer came.
"Dr. Seignebos is no doubt right, my
dear friends," wrote Jacques. "I have
but too good reasons to be sure that Co-
coleu's imbecility is partly assumed, and
that his evidence has been prompted by
others. Still I must beg you will take
no steps that would lead to another medi-
cal investigation. The slightest impru-
dence may ruin me. For Heaven's sake
wait tiil the end of the preliminary in-
vestigation, which is now near at band,
from what Galpin tells me."
The letter was read in the family circle;
and the poor mother uttered a cry of de-
spair as she heard these words of resigna-
tion.
"Are we going to obey him," she said.
'' when we all know that he is raining
himself by his obstinacy?"
Dionysia rose, and said, —
"Jacques alone can judge his situation,
and he alone, therefore, has the right to
command. Our duty is to obey. I appeal
to M. Folgat."
The young advocate nodded his head.
'' Every thing has been done that coold
be done," he said. "Now we can only
wait."
xn.
The famous night of the fire at Val-
pinson had been a godsend to the good
people of Sauveterre. They had hence-
forth an inexhaustible topic of discussion,
ever new and ever rich in unexpected con-
jectures,— the Boiscoran case. When
people met in the streets, they simply
asked, —
"What are they doing now?"
Whenever, therefore, M. Galpin went
from the court-house to the prison, or came
striding up National Street with his stiff,
slow step, twenty good housewives peeped
from behind their curtains to read in bis
face some of the secrets of the trial.
They saw, however, nothing there but
traces of intense anxiety, and a pallor
which became daily more marked. They
said to each other, —
'' You will see poor M. Galpin will
catch the jaundice from it."
The expression was commonplace; but
it conveyed exactly the feelings of the
ambitious lawyer. This Boiscoran case
had become like a festering wound to
him, which irritated him incessantly and
intolerably.
"I have lost my sleep by it," he told the
commonwealth attorney. Excellent M.
Daubigeon, who had great trouble in
moderating his zeal, did not pity him par-
ticularly. He would say in reply, —
"Whose fault is it? But you want to
rise in the world; and increasing fortune
is always followed by increasing care, —
'Crescentem sequitur cura pecuniam
Majorumque fames.'"
"Ah!" said the magistrate, "I have


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
93
only done my duty; and, if I had to
begin again, I would do just the same."
Still every day he saw more clearly
that he was in a false position. Public
opinion, strongly arrayed against M. de
Boiscoran, was not, on that account, very
favorable to him. Everybody believed
Jacques guilty, and wanted him to be
punished with all the rigor of the law;
but, on the other hand, everybody was
astonished that M. Galpin should choose
to act as magistrate in such a case.
There was a touch of treachery in this
proceeding against a former friend, in
looking everywhere for evidence against
him, in driving him into court, that is to
say. towards the galleys or the scaffold;
and this revolted people's conscience.
The very way in which people returned
his greeting, or avoided him altogether,
made the magistrate aware of the feel-
ings they entertained for him. This only
increased his wrath against Jacques, and,
with it, his trouble. He had been con-
gratulated, it is true, by the attorney-
general; but there is no certainty in a
trial, as long as the accused refuses to
confess. The charges against Jacques, to
be sure, were so overwhelming, that his
being sent before the court was out of
question. But by the side of the court
there is still the jury.
"And in fine, my dear," said the com-
monwealth attorney, "you have not a
single eye-witness. And from time im-
memorial an eye-witness has been looked
upon as worth a hundred hearsays."
"I have Cocoleu," said M. Galpin, who
was rather impatient of all these objec-
tions.
"Have the doctors decided that he is
not an idiot?"
"No: Dr. Seignebos alone maintains
that doctrine."
"Well, at least Cocoleu is willing to
repeat his evidence?"
"No."
"Why, then you have virtually no
witness!"
Yes, M. Galpin understood it but too
well, and hence his anxiety. The more
he studied his accused, the more he
found him in an enigmatic and threaten-
ing position, which was ominous of evil.
"Can he have an alibi? " he thought.
"Or does he hold in reserve one of those
unforeseen revelations, which at the last
moment destroy the whole edifice of the
prosecution, and cover the prosecuting
attorney with ridicule?"
Whenever these thoughts occurred to
him, they made big drops of perspira-
tion run down his temples; and then he
treated his poor clerk Mcchinet like a
! slave. And that was not all. Although
he lived more retired than ever, since
this case had begun, many a report
reached him from the Chandore' family.
To be sure, he was a thousand miles
from imagining that they had actually
opened communications with the pris-
oner, and, what is more, that this inter-
course was carried on by Mechinet, his
own clerk. He would have laughed if
one had come and told him that Dionysia
had spent a night in prison, and paid
Jacques a visit. But he heard continu-
ally of the hopes and the plans of the
friends and relations of his prisoner; and
he remembered, not without secret fear
and trembling, that they were rich and
powerful, supported by relations in high
Elaces, beloved and esteemed by every-
ody. He knew that Dionysia was sur-
rounded by devoted and intelligent men,
by M. de Chandore, M. Seneschal, Dr.
Seignebos, M. Magloire, and, finally, that
advocate whom the Marchioness de Bois-
coran had brought down with her from
Paris, M. Folgat.
"And Heaven knows what they would
not try," he thought " to rescue the guilty
man from the hands of justice!"
It may well be said, therefore, that
never was prosecution carried on with
as much passionate zeal or as much
minute assiduity. Every one of the
pointe upon which the prosecution relied
became, for M. Galpin, a subject of
special study. In less than a fortnight
he examined sixty-seven witnesses in his
office. He summoned the fourth part of
the population of Brechy. He would
have summoned the whole country, if he
had dared.
But all his efforts were fruitless. After
weeks of furious investigations, the in-
quiry was still at the same point, the
mystery was still impenetrable. The
prisoner had not refuted any of the
charges made against him; but the
magistrate had, also, not obtained a
single additional piece of evidence after
those he had secured on the first day.
There must be an end of this, how-
ever.
One warm afternoon in July, the good
ladies in National Street thought they
noticed that M. Galpin looked even .more
anxious than usual. They were right.
After a long conference with the com-
monwealth attorney and the presiding
judge, the magistrate had made up his
mind. When he reached the prison, he
went to Jacques's cell and there, con-
cealing his embarrassment under the
greatest stiffness, he said,—
"My painful duty draws to an cud,


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
upon me, because I have my reasons. I
have formed very singular suspicions, sir,
— very singular.''
M. Folgat, Dionysia, and the marchion-
ess urged him to explain; but he declared
that the moment had not come yet, that
he was not perfectly sure yet.
And he left again, vowing that he was
overworked, that he had forsaken his
patients for forty-eight hours, and that
the Countess Claudieuse was waiting for
him, as her husband was getting worse
and worse.
"What can the old man suspect?"
Grandpapa Chandore asked again, an
hour after the doctor had left.
M. Folgat might have replied that these
probable suspicions were no doubt his
own suspicions, only better founded, and
more fully developed. But why should
he say so, since all inquiry was prohibited,
and a single imprudent word might ruin
everything? Why, also, should he excite
new hopes, when they must needs wait
patiently till it should seem good to M.
Galpin to make an end to this melancholy
suspense?
They heard very little now-a-days of
Jacques de Boiscoran. The examina-
tions took place only at long intervals;
and it was sometimes four or five days
before Mechinet brought another letter.
"This is intolerable agony," repeated
the marchioness over and over again.
The end was, however, approaching.
Dionysia was alone one afternoon in
the sitting-room, when she thought she
heard the clerk's voice in the hall. She
went out at once and found him there.
"Ah," she cried, "the investigation
is ended!" For she knew very well that
nothing less would have emboldened
Mechinet to show himself openly at their
house.
"Yes, indeed, madam!" replied the
good man; "and upon M. Galpin's own
order I bring you this letter from M. de
Boiscoran."
Sbe took it, read it at a single glance,
and forgetting every thing, half delirious
with joy, she ran to her grandfather and
M. Folgat, calling upon a servant at the
same time to run and fetch M. Magloire.
In less than an hour, the eminent advo-
cate of Sauveterre arrived; and, when
Jacques's letter had been handed to him,
he said with some embarrassment, —
'' I have promised M. de Boiscoran my
assistance, and he shall certainly have it.
I shall be at the prison to-morrow morn-
ing as soon as the doors open, and I will
tell you the result of our interview."
He would say nothing more. It was
very evident that he did not believe in the
innocence of his client; and, as soon as he
had left, M. de Chandore' exclaimed, —
'' Jacques is mad to intrust his defence
to a man who doubts him."
"M. Magloire is an honorable man,
papa," said Dionysia; "and, if he
thought he could compromise Jacques, he
would resign."
Yes, indeed, M. Magloire was an hon-
orable man, and quite accessible to tender
sentiments; for he felt very reluctant to
go and see the prisoner, charged as he
was with an odious crime, and, as he
thought, justly charged, — a man who had
been his friend, and whom, in spite of all,
he could not help loving still.
He could not sleep for it that night; and
all noticed his anxious air as he crossed
the street next morning on his way to the
jail. Blangin the keeper was on the
lookout for him, and cried, —
"Ah, come quick, sir! the accused is
devoured with impatience."
Slowly, and his heart beating furiously,
the famous advocate went up the narrow
stairs. He crossed the long passage; Blan-
gin opened a door; he was in Jacques de
Boiscoran's cell.
"At last you are coming," exclaimed
the unhappy young man, throwing him-
self on the lawyer's neck. "At last I see
an honest face, and hold a trusty hand.
Ah! I have suffered cruelly, so cruelly,
that I am surprised my mind has not
given way. But now you are here, you
are by my side, I am safe."
The lawyer could not speak. He was
terrified by the havoc which grief had
made of the noble and intelligent face of
his friend. He was shocked at the dis-
tortion of his features, the unnatural
brillancy. of his eyes, and the convulsive
laugh on his lips.
'' Poor man!" he murmured at last.
Jacques misunderstood him: he stepped
back, as white as the walls of his cell.
'' You do not think me guilty?" he ex-
claimed.
An inexpressibly sad expression con-
vulsed his features.
"To be sure," he went on with his
terrible convulsive laughter, "the charges
must be overwhelming indeed, if they
have convinced my best friends. Alas!
why did I refuse to speak that first day?
My honor!—what a phantom! And still,
victimized as I am by an infamous con-
spiracy, I should still refuse to speak, if
my life alone were at stake. But my
honor is at stake, Dionysia's honor, the
honor of the Boiscorans. I shall speak.
You, M. Magloire, shall know the truth:
you shall see my innocence in a word."
And, seizing M. Msgloire's hand, he


-WITHIN AN INCH
97.
OF HIS LIFE.
me that I had never in all my life met a
woman so perfectly beautiful and grace-
ful; that I had never seen so charming a
face, such beautiful eyes, and such a
sweet smile.
"She did not seem to notice me. I did
not speak to her; and still I felt within
me a kind of presentiment that this
woman would play a great, a fatal part
in my life.
"This impression was so strong, that,
as we left the house, I could not keep
from mentioning it to my uncle. He
.only laughed, and said that I was a fool,
and that, if my existence should ever be
troubled by a woman, it would certainly
not be by the Countess Claudieuse.
"He was apparently right. It was
hard to imagine that any thing should
ever again bring me in contact with the
countess. M. de Besson's attempt at
reconciliation had utterly failed; the
countess lived at Valpinson; and I went
back to Paris.
'' Still I was unable to shake off the
impression; and the memory of the din-
ner at M. de Besson's house was still in
my mind, when a month later, at a party
at my mother's brother's, M. de Chalusse,
I thought I recognized the Countess
Claudieuse. It was she. I bowed, and,
seeing that she recognized me, I went up
to her, trembling, and she allowed me to
sit down by her.
'' She told me then that she had come
up to Paris for a month, as she did every
year, and that she was staying at her
father's, the Marquis de Tassar. She
had come to this party much against her
inclination, as she disliked going out.
She did not dance; and thus I talked to
her till the moment when she left.
"I was madly in love when we parted;
and still I made no effort to see her again.
It was mere chance again which brought
us together.
"One day I had business at Melun,
and, reaching the station rather late, I
had but just time to jump into the
nearest car. In the compartment was
the countess. She told me«- and that is
all I ever recollected of the whole conver-
sation— that she was on her way to
Fontainebleau to see a friend, with
whom she spent every Tuesday and
Saturday. Usually she took the nine
o'clock train. ,
"This was on a Tuesday; and during
the next three days a great struggle went
on in my heart. I was desperately in
love with the countess, and still I was
afraid of her. But my evil star con-
quered; and the next Saturday, at nine
o'clock, I was at the station again.
'' The countess has since confessed to
me that she expected me. When she
saw me, she made a sign; and, when they
opened the doors, I managed to find a
place by her side."
M. Magloire had for some minutes
given signs of great impatience; now he
broke forth, —
'' This is too improbable!''
At first Jacques de Boiscoran made no
reply. It was no easy task for a man,
tried as he had been of late, to stir up
thus the ashes of the past; and it made
him shudder. He was amazed at seeing
on his lips this secret which he had so
long buried in his innermost heart. Be-
sides, he had loved, loved in good earnest;
and his love had been returned. And
there are certain sensations which come
to us only once in life, and which can
never again be effaced. He was moved
to tears. But as the eminent advocate of
Sauveterre repeated his words, and even
added, —
"No, it is not credible!''
"I do not ask you to believe me," he
said gently: "Ionly ask you to hear me.''
And, overcoming with all his energy
the kind of torpor which was mastering
him, he continued, —
"This trip to Fontainebleau decided
our fate. Other trips followed. The
countess spent her days with her friend,
and I passed the long hours in roam-
ing through the woods. But in the
evening we met again at the station.
We took a coupd, which I had engaged
beforehand, and I accompanied her in a
carriage to her father's house.
'' Finally, one evening, she left her
friend's house at the usual hour; but
she did not return to her father's house
tift the day after."
"Jacques!" broke in M. Magloire,
shocked, as if he had heard a curse,
— "Jacques!"
M. de Boiscoran remained unmoved.
"Oh!" he said, "I know you must
think it strange. You fancy that there
is no excuse for the man who betrays the
confidence of a woman who has once
given herself to him. Wait, before you
judge me.''
And he went on, in a firmer tone of
voice, —
'' At that time I thought I was the
happiest man on earth; and my heart
was full of the most absurd vanity at
the thought that she was mine, this
beautiful woman, whose purity was high
above all calumny. I had tied around
my neck one of those fatal ropes which
death alone can sever, and, fool that I
was, I considered myself happy.
7


98
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
"Perhaps she really loved me at that
time. At least she did not hesitate, and,
overcome by the only real great passion ot
her life, she told me all that was in her
innermost heart. At that time she did
not think yet of protecting herself against
me, and of making me her slave. She
told me the secret of her marriage, which
had at one time created such a sensation
in the whole country.
"When her father, the Marquis de
Brissac, had given up his place, Tie had
soon begun to feel his inactivity weigh
upon him, and at the same time he had
become impatient at the narrowness of
his means. He had ventured upon haz-
ardous speculations. He had lost every
tiling he had; and even his honor was at
stake. In his despair he was thinking of
suicide, when chance brought to his house
a former comrade, Count Claudieuse. In
a moment of confidence, the marquis con-
fessed every thing; and the other had
promised to rescue him, and save him
from disgrace. That was noble and
grand. It must have cost an immense
sum. And the friends of our youth who
are capable of rendering us such sen-ices
are rare in our day. Unfortunately,
Count Claudieuse could not all the time
be the hero he had been at first. He
saw Genevieve de Tassar. He was struck
with her beauty; and overcome by a sud-
den passion — forgetting that she was
twenty, while he was nearly fifty — he
made his friend aware that he was still
willing to render him all the services in his
power, but that he desired to obtain
Genevieve's hand in returns
'' That very evening the ruined noble-
man entered his daughter's room, and,
with tears in his eyes, explained to her
his terrible situation. She did not hesi-
tate a moment.
"'Above all,' she said to her father,
'let us save our honor, which even your
death would not restore. Count Clau-
dieuse is cruel to forget that he is thirty
years older than I am. From this moment
I hate and despise him. Tell him I am
willing to be his wife.'
"And when her father, overcome with
grief, told her that the count would never
accept her hand in this form, she re-
plied, —
"' Oh, do not trouble yourself about
that! I shall do the thing handsomely,
and your friend shall have no right to
complain. But I know what I am worth;
and you must remember hereafter, that.
'whatever service he may render you, you
owe him nothing.'
'' Less than a fortnight after this scene,
Genevieve had allowed the count to per-
ceive that he was not indifferent to her;
and a month latej she became his wife.
'' The count, on his side, had acted with
the utmost delicacy and tact; so that no
one suspected the cruel position of the
Marquis de Tassar. He had placed two
hundred thousand francs in his hands to
settle his most pressing debts. In his
marriage-contract he had acknowledged
having received with his wife a dower of
the same amount; and finally, he had
bound himself to pay to his father-in-law
and his wife an annual income of ten
thousand francs. This had absorbed more
than half of all he possessed."
M. Magloire no longer thought of pro-
testing. Sitting stiffly on his chair, his
eyes wide open, like a man who asks him-
self whether he is asleep or awake, he
murmured,— »
'' That is incomprehensible! That is
unheard of!"
Jacques was becoming gradually ex-
cited. He went on, —
"This is, at least, what the countess
told me in her first hours of enthusiasm.
But she told it to me calmly, coldly, like
a thing that was perfectly natural. 'Cer-
tainly,' she said, 'Count Claudieuse has
never had to regret the bargain he made.
If he has been generous, I have been
faithful. My father owes his life to him;
but I have given him years of happiness
to which he was not entitled. If he has
received no love, he has had all the appear-
ance of it, and an appearance far more
pleasant than the reality.'
'' When I could not conceal my aston-
ishment, she added, laughing heartily,—
'' ' Only I brought to the bargain a
mental reservation. I reserved to myself
the right to claim my share of earthly
happiness whenever it should come within
my reach. That share is yours, Jacques;
and do not fancy that I am troubled by
remorse. As long as my husband thinks
he is happy, I am within the terms of the
contract.'
"That was the way she spoke at that
time, Magloire; and a man of more ex-
perience would have been frightened.
But I was a child: I loved her with all
my heart. I admired her genius; 1 was
overcome by her sophisms.
"A letter from Count Claudieuse
aroused us from our dreams.
'- The countess had committed the only
and the last imprudence of her whole life:
she had remained three weeks longer in
Paris than was agreed upon; and her im-
patient husband threatened to come for
her.
"'I must go back to Valpinson,' she
said; 'for there is nothing I would not do


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
99
to keep up the reputation I have managed
to make for myself. My life, your life,
my daughter's life — I would give them all,
without hesitation, to protect my reputa-
tion.'
"This happened — ah! the dates have
remained fixed in my mind as if engraven
on bronze — on the 12th October.
"'I cannot remain longer than a
month,' she said to me, 'without seeing
you. A month from to-day, that is to
say, on 12th November, at three o'clock
precisely, you must be in the forest of
Rochepommier, at the Red Men's Cross-
roads. I will be there.'
"And she left Paris. I was in such a
state of delirium, that I scarcely felt the
pain of parting. The thought of being
loved by such a woman filled me with
extreme pride, and, no 65>ubt, saved me
from many an excess. Ambition was
rising within me whenever I thought of
her. I wanted to work, to distinguish
myself, to become eminent in some way.
"'I want her to be proud of me,' Isaid
to myself, ashamed at being nothing at
my age but the son of a rich father."
Ten times, at least, M. Magloire had
risen from his chair, and moved his lips,
as if about to make some objection. But
he had pledged himself, in his own mind,
not to interrupt Jacques, and he did his
best to keep his pledge.
"In the mean time," Jacques went on,
'' the day fixed by the countess was
drawing near. I went down to Boiscoran;
and en the appointed day, at the precise
hour, I was in the forest at the Red Men's
Cross-roads. I was somewhat behind
time, and I was extremely sorry for it:
but I did not know the forest very well,
and the place chosen by the countess for
the rendezvous is in the very thickest part
of the old wood. The weather was un-
usually severe for the season. The night
before, a heavy snow had fallen: the paths
were all white; and a sharp wind blew the
flakes from the heavily-loaded branches.
From afar off, I distinguished the count-
ess, as she was walking up and down in
a kind of feverish excitement, confining
herself to a narrow space, where the
ground was dry, and where she was
sheltered from the wind by enormous
masses of stone. She wore a dress of
dark-red silk, very long, a cloak trimmed
with fur, and a velvet hat to match her
dress. In three minutes I was by her
side. But she did not draw her hand
from her muff to offer it to me; and,
without giving me time to apologize for
the delay, she said in a dry tone, —
"' When did you reach Boiscoran?'
"'Last night.'
"'How childish you are!' she ex-
claimed, stamping her foot. 'Last night!
And on what pretext?'
"'I need no pretext to visit my uncle.'
"'And was he not surprised to see you
drop from the clouds' at this time of the
year?'
"'Why, yes, a little,' I answered
foolishly, incapable as I was of conceal-
ing the truth.
'' Her dissatisfaction increased visibly.
"'And how did you get here?' she
commenced again. 'Did you know this
cross-road?'
"'No, I inquired about it.'
'' ' From whom?'
'' ' From one of my uncle's servants;
but his information was so imperfect, that
I lost my way.'
'' She looked at me with such a bitter,
ironical smile, that I stopped.
"'And all that, you think, is very sim-
ple,' she broke in. 'Do you really ima-
gine people will think it very natural that
you should thus fall like a bombshell
upon Boiscoran, and immediately set out
for the Red Men's Cross-roads in the
forest? WTho knows but you have been
followed? Who knows but behind one of
these trees there may be eyes even now
watching us?'
"And as she looked around with all
the signs of genuine fear, I answered, —
"'And what do you fear? Am I not
here?'
'' I think I can even now see the look
in her eyes as she said, —
"'I fear nothing in the world—do you
hear me? nothing in the world, except
being suspected; for I cannot be compro-
mised. I like to do as I do;. I like to
have a lover. But I do not want it to be
known; because, if it became known,
there would be mischief. Between my
reputation and my life I have no choice.
If I were to be surprised here by any one,
I would rather it should be my husband
than a stranger. I have no love for the
count, and I shall never forgive him for
having married me; but he has saved my
father's honor, and I owe it to him to keep
his honor unimpaired. He is my hus-
band, besides, and the father of my child:
I bear his name, and I want it to be re-
spected. I should die with grief and
shame and rage, if I had to give my arm
to a man at whom people might look and
smile. Wives are absurdly stupid when
they do not feel that all the scorn with
which their unfortunate husbands are re-
ceived in the great world fulls back upou
them. No. I do not love the count,
Jacques, and I love you. But remember,
that, between him and you, I should not


100
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
I
hesitate a moment, and that I should
sacrifice your life and your honor, with a
smile on my lips, even though my heart
should break, if I could, by So doing,
spare him the shadow of a suspicion.'
"I was about to reply; but she said,—
"' Xo more! Every minute we stay
here increases the danger. What pretext
will you plead for your sudden appearance
at Boiscoran?'
"I do not know,' I replied.
"'You must borrow some money from
your uncle, a considerable sum, to pay
your debts. He will be angry, perhaps;
but that will explain your sudden fancy
for travelling in the month of November.
Good-by, good-by!'
"All amazed, I cried,—
'' 'What! You will not let me see you
again, at least from afar?'
"' During this visit that would be the
height of imprudence. But, stop! Stay
at Boiscoran till Sunday. Your uncle
never stays away from high mass: go
with him to church. But be careful, con-
trol yourself. A single imprudence, one
blunder, and I should despise you. >Tow
we must part. You will find in Paris a
letter from me.'"
Jacques paused here, looking to read in
M. Magloire's face what impression his
recital had produced so far. But the
famous lawyer remained impassive. He
sighed, and continued,—
'- 1 have entered into all these details,
Magloire, because I want you to know
what kind of a woman the countess is, so
that you may understand her conduct.
You see that she did not treat me like a
traitor: she had given me fair warning,
and shown me the abyss into which I was
going to fall. Alas! so far from being
terrified, these dark sides of her character
only attracted me the more. I admired
her imperious air, her courage, and her
prudence, even her total lack of principle,
which contrasted so strangely with her
fear of public opinion. I said to myself
with foolish pride, —
"'She certainly is a superior woman!'
'' She must have been pleased with my
obedience at church; for I managed to
check even a slight trembling which
seized me when I saw her and bowed to
her as she passed so close to me that my
hand touched her dress. I obeyed her in
other ways also. I asked my uncle for
six thousand francs, and he gave them to
me, laughing; for he was the most gener-
ous man on earth: but he said at the same
time, —
"'I thought you had not come to Bois-
coran merely for the purpose of exploring
the forest of Kochepommier.'
'"This trifling circumstance increased
my admiration for the Countess Clau-
dieuse. How well she had foreseen my
uncle's astonishment, when I had not
even dreamed of it!
"' She has a genius for prudence,' I
thought.
"Yes, indeed she had a genius for it,
and a genius for calculation also, as I soon
found out. When I reached Paris, I found
a letter from her waiting for me; but it was
nothing more than a repetition of all she
had told me at our meeting. This letter
was followed by several others, which she
begged me to keep for her sake, and which
all had a number in the upper corner.
"The first time I saw her again, I
asked her,—
"'What are these numbers?'
"'My dear M. Jacques,' she replied,
'a woman ought always to know how
many letters she has written to her lover.
Up to now, you must have had nine.'
"This occurred in May, 1807, at Roche-
fort, where she had gone to be present at
the launching of a frigate, and where I had
followed her, at her suggestion, with a view
to spending a few hours-in each other's
company. Like a fool, I laughed at the
idea of this epistolary responsibility, and
then I thought no more of it. I was at
that time too busy otherwise. She had
recalled to me the fact that time was
passing, in spite of the sadness of our
separation, and that the month of Sep-
tember, the month of her freedom, was
drawing near. Should we be compelled
again, like the year before, to resort to
these perilous trips to Fontainebleau?
Why not get a house in a remote quarter
of town?
"Every wish of hers was an order for
me. My uncle's liberality knew no end.
I bought a house."
At last, in the midst of all of Jacques's
perplexities, there appeared a circum-
stance which might furnish tangible evi-
dence.
M. Magloire started, and asked eager-
!y. —
"Ah, you bought a house?"
"Yes, a nice house with a large garden,
in Vine Street, Passy."
"And you own it still?"
"Yes."
"Of course you have the title-papers?"
Jacques looked in despair.
"Here, again, fate is against me. There
is quite a tale connected with that house."
The features of the Sauveterre lawyer
grew dark again, much quicker than they
had brightened up just now.
"Ah!" he said, — "a tale, ah!"
"I was scarcely of age," resumed


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
103
to the charms .of love. The difficulties
only increased my passion. I saw some-
thing sublime in this success with which
two superior beings devoted all their in-
telligence and cleverness to the carrying-
on of a secret intrigue. The more fully
I became aware of the veneration with
which the countess was looked up to by
the whole country, the more I learned to
appreciate her ability in dissembling and
her profound perversity; and I was all
the mere proud of her. I felt this pride
setting my cheeks aglow when I saw her
at Brechy; for I came there every Sunday
for her sake alone, to see her pass calm
and serene in the imposing security of her
lofty reputation. I laughed at the sim-
plicity of all these honest, good people,
who bowed so low to her, thinking they
saluted a saint; and I congratulated my-
self with idiotic delight at being the only
one who knew the true Countess Clau-
dieuse, — she who took her revenge so
bravely in our house in Passy!
"But such delights never last long.
"It had not taken me long to find out
that I had given myself a master, and the
most imperious and exacting master that
ever lived. I had almost ceased to belong to
myself. I had become her property; and I
lived and breathed and thought and acted
for her alone. She did not mind my tastes
and my dislikes. She wished a thing,
and that was enough. She wrote to me,
'Come!' and I had to be instantly on the
spot: she said to me, 'Go!' and I had to
leave at once. At first I accepted these
evidences of her despotism with joy; but
gradually I became tired of this perpetual
abdication of my own will. I disliked to
have no control over myself, to be unable
to dispose of twenty-four hours in ad-
vance. I began to feel the pressure of
the halter around my neck. I thought of
flight. One of my friends was to set
out on a voyage around the world, which
was to last eighteen months or two years,
and I had an idea of accompanying him.
There was nothing to retain me. I was,
by fortune and position, perfectly inde-
pendent. Why should I not carry out my
plan?
"Ah, why? The prism was not broken
yet. I cursed the tyranny of the count-
ess; but I still trembled when I heard
her name mentioned. I thought of escap-
ing from her; but a single glance moved
me, to the bottom of my heart. I was
bound to her by the thousand tender
threads of habit and of complicity, —
those threads which seem to be more deli-
cate than gossamer, but which are harder
to break than a ship's cable.
'' Still, this idea which had occurred to
me brought it about that I uttered for the
first time the word 'separation' in her
presence, asking her what she would do
if I should leave her. She looked at me
with a strange air, and asked me, after a
moment's hesitation, —
"'Are you serious? Is it a warning?'
'' I dared not carry matters any farther,
and, making an effort to smile, I said, —
"'It is only a joke.'
"' Then,' she said, 'let us not say any
thing more about it. If you should ever
come to that, you would soon see what I
would do.'
"I did not insist; but that look re-
mained long in my memory, and made me
feel that I was far more closely bound
than I had thought. From that day it
became my fixed idea to break with her."
"Well, you ought to have made an
end of it," said Magloire.
Jacques de Boiscoran shook his head.
"That is easily said," he replied. "I
tried it; but I could not do it. Ten times
I went to her, determined to say, 'Let us
part;' and ten times, at the last moment,
my courage failed me. She irritated me.
I almost began to hate her; but I could not
forget how much I had loved her, and how
much she had risked for my sake. Then
— why should I not confess it? — I was
afraid of her.
"This inflexible character, which I had
so much admired, terrified me; and I
shuddered, seized with vague and sombre
apprehensions, when I thought what she
was capable of doing. I was thus in
the utmost perplexity, when my mother
spoke to me of a match which she had
long hoped for. This might be the
pretext which I had so far failed to
find. At all events, I asked for time to
consider; and, the first time I saw the
countess again, I gathered all my courage,
and said to her, —
"'Do you know what has happened?
My mother wants me to marry.'
"She turned as pale as death; and look-
ing me fixedly in the eyes, as if want-
ing to read my innermost thoughts, she
,asked, —
"'And you, what do you want?'
"'I,' I replied with a forced laugh, —
'I want nothing just now. But the thing
will have to be done sooner or later. A
man must have a home, affections which
the world acknowledges ' —
"'And I,' she broke in; 'what am Ito
you?'
"'You,' I exclaimed, 'you, Genevieve!
I love you with all the strength of my
heart. But we are separated by a gulf:
you are married.'
'' She was still looking at me fixedly.


104
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
"'In other words,' she said, 'you have
loved me as a pastime. I have been the
amusement of your youth, the poetry of
twenty years, that love-romance which
every man wants to have. But you are
becoming: serious; you want sober affec-
tions, and you leave me. Well, be it so.
But what is to become of me when you
are married?'
'' I was suffering terribly.
"'You have your husband,' I stam-
mered, 'your children ' —
"She stopped me.
"' Yes,' she said. 'I shall go back to
live at Valpinson, in that country full of
associations, where every place recalls a
rendezvous. I shall live with my hus-
band, whom I have betrayed; with daugh-
ters, one of whom— That cannot be,
Jacques.'
"I had a fit of courage.
"' Still,' I said, 'I may have to mar-
ry. What would you do?'
"'Oh! very little,' she replied. 'I
should hand all your letters to Count
Claudieuse.'"
During the thirty years which he' had
spent at the bar, M. Magloire had heard
many a strange confession; but never in
his life had all his ideas been overthrown,
as in this case.
"That is utterly confounding," he
murmured.
But .Jacques went on, —
"Was this threat of the countess meant
in earnest? I did not doubt it; but, af-
fecting great composure, I said, —
'' 'You would not do that.'
'' ' By all that I hold dear and sacred
in this world,' she replied, 'I would do
if
'' Many months have passed by since
that scene, Magloire, many events have
happened; and still I feel as if it had
taken place yesterday. I see the count-
ess still, whiter than a ghost. I still
hear her trembling voice; and I can re-
peat to you her words almost literally, —
'| ' Ah! you are surprised at my deter-
mination, Jacques. 1 understand that.
Wives who have betrayed their husbands
have not accustomed their lovers to be
held responsible by them. When they are
betrayed, they dare not cry out; when
they are abandoned, they submit; when
they are sacrificed, they hide their tears,
for to cry would be to avow their wrong.
Who would pity them, besides? Have
they not received their well-known pun-
ishment? Hence it is that all men agree,
and there are some of them cynical enough
to confess it, that a married woman is a
convenient lady-love, because she can
never be jealous, and she may be aban-
doned at any time. Ah J we women are
great cowards. If we had more courage,
you men would look twice before you
would dare speak of love to a married
woman. But what no one dares I will
dare. It shall not be said that in our
common fault there are two parts, and
that you shall have had all the benefit of
it, and that I must bear all the punish-
ment. What? You might be free to-
morrow to console yourself with a new
love; and I — I should have to sink under
my shame and remorse. No, no! Such
bonds as those that bind us, riveted by
long years of complicity, are not broken
so easily.
"'You belong to me; you are mine;
and I shall defend you against all and
every one, with such arms as I possess.
I told you that I valued my reputation
more than my life; but I never told you
that I valued life. On the eve of your
wedding-day, my husband shall know all.
I shall not survive the loss of my honor;
but at least I shall have my revenge.
If you escape the hatred of Count Clau-
dieuse, your name will be bound up with
such a tragic affair that your life will be
ruined forever.'
"That was the way she spoke, Magloire,
and with a passion of which I can give
you no idea. It was absurd, it was in-
sane, I admit. But is not all passion ab-
surd and insane? Besides, it was by no
means a sudden inspiration of her pride,
which made her threaten me with such
vengeance. The precision of her phrases,
the accuracy of her words, all made me
feel that she had long meditated such a
blow, and carefully calculated the effect
of every word.
'' I was thunderstruck.
. "And as I kept silent for some time,
she asked me coldly,—
"'Well?'
"I had to gain time, first of all.
"'Well,' I said, 'I cannot understand
your passion. This marriage which I
mentioned has never existed as yet, ex-
cept in my mother's imagination.'
"'True?' she asked.
"'I assure you.' ■
"She examined me with suspicious
eyes. At last she said,—
"' Well, I believe you. But now you
are warned: let us think no more of such
horrors.'
"She might think no more of them,
but I could not.
"I left her with fury in my heart.
"She had evidently settled it all. I
had for lifetime this halter around my
neck, which held me tighter day by day,
and, at the slightest effort to free myself,


106
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
my confession every day to the next, one
evening, after Dionysia and I had been
talking of presentiments, I said to my-
self, 'To-morrow it shall be done.'
'' The next morning, I went to Boisco-
ran much earlier than usual, and on foot,
because I wanted to give some orders to
a dozen workmen whom I employed in
my vineyards. I took a short cut through
the fields. Alas! not a single detail has
escaped from my memory. When I had
given my orders, I returned to the high
road, and there met the priest from Bre-
chy, who is a friend of mine.
"'You must,' he said, 'keep me com-
pany for a little distance. As you are on
your way to Sauveterre, it will not delay
you much to take the cross-road which
passes by Valpinson and the forest of
Iiochepommier.'
"On what trifles our fate depends!
'' I accompanied the priest, and only left
him at the point where the high-road and
the cross-road intersect. As soon as I
was alone, I hastened on; and I was al-
most through the wood, when, all of a
sudden, some twenty yards before me, I
saw the Countess Claudieuse coming
towards me. In spite of my emotion, I
kept on my way, determined to bow to
her, but to pass her without speaking. I
did so, and had gone on a little distance,
when I heard he* call me,—
"'Jacques!'
"I stopped; or, rather, I was nailed to
the spot by that voice which for a long
time had held such entire control over my
heart. She came up to me, looking even
more excited than I was. Her lips trem-
bled, and her eyes wandered to and fro.
"' Well,' she said, 'it is no longer a
fancy: this time you marry Miss Chan-
dore.'
'' The time for half-measures had
passed.
"' Yes,' I replied.
"'Then it is really true,' she said
again. 'It is all over now. I suppose it
would be in vain to remind you of those
vows of eternal love which you used to
repeat over and over again. Look down
there under that old oak. They are the
same trees, this is the same landscape,
and I am still the same woman; but your
heart has changed.'
'' I made no reply.
"' You love her very much, do you?'
she asked me.
"I kept obstinately silent.
"'I understand,' she said, 'I under-
stand you but too well. And Dionysia?
She loves you so much she cannot keep it
to herself. She stops her friends to tell
them all about her marriage, and to as-
sure them of her happiness. Oh, yes, in-
deed, very happy! That love which was
my disgrace is her honor. I was forced
to conceal it like a crime: she can display
it as a virtue. Social forms are, after all,
very absurd and unjust; but a fool is he
who tries to defy them.'
"Tears, the very first tears I had ever
seen her shed, glittered in her long silky
eyelashes.
"' And to be . nothing more to you,—
nothing at all! Ah, I was too cautious!
Do you recollect the morning after your
uncle's death, when you, now a rich man,
proposed that we should flee? I refused.
I clung to my reputation. I wanted to
be respected. I thought it possible to
divide life into two parts, —one to be de-
voted to pleasure; the other, to the hypoc-
risy of duty. Poor fool that I was! And
still I discovered long ago that you were
weary of me. I knew you so well! Your
heart was like an open book to me, in
which I read your most secret thoughts.
Then I might have retained you. I ought
to have been humble, obliging, submis-
sive. Instead of that, I tried to com-
mand.
"' And you,' she said after a short
pause, —' are you happy?'
"'I cannot be completely happy as
long as I know that you are unhappy.
But there is no sorrow which time does
not heal. You will forget' —
"' Never!' she cried.
"And, lowering her voice, she added,—
"'Can I forget you? Alas! my crime
is fearful; but the punishment is still
more so.'
'' People were coming down the road.
"' Compose yourself,' I said.
'' She made an effort to control her
emotion. The people passed us, saluting
politely. And after a moment she said
again, —
"'Well, and when is the wedding?'
"I trembled. She herself insisted
upon an explanation.
"'No day has as yet been fixed,' I
replied. 'Had I not to see you first?
You uttered once grave threats.'
'' 'And you were afraid?'
"' No: I was sure I knew you too well
to fear that you would punish me for
having loved you, as if that had been a
crime. So many things have happened
since the day when you made those
threats!'
"'Yes,' she replied, 'many things in-
deed! My poor father is incorrigible.
Once more he has committed himself
fearfully; and once more my husband has
been compelled to sacrifice a large sum to
save him. Ah, Count Claudieuse has a


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
107
noble heart; and it is a great pity I should
be the only one towards whom he has
failed to show generosity. Every kind-
ness which he shows me is a new griev-
ance for me; but, having accepted them
all, I have forfeited the right to strike
him, as I had intended to do. You may
marry Dionysia, Jacques: you have noth-
ing to fear from me.'
"All ! I had not hoped for so much,
Magloire. Overcome with joy, I seized
her band, and, raising it to my lips, I
said,—
"' You are the kindest of friends.'
"But promptly, as if my lips had burnt
her hand, she drew it back, and said,
turning very pale, —
"'No, don't do that!" «
"Then, overcoming her emotion to a
certain degree, she added," —
"'But we must meet once more. You
have my letters, I dare say.'
"' I have them all.'
"' Well, you must bring them to me.
But where? and how? Iean hardly ab-
sent myself at this time. My youngest
daughter — our daughter, Jacques — is
very ill. Still, an end must be made.
Let us see, on Thursday — are you free
then? Yes. Very well, then come on
Thursday evening, towards nine o'clock,
to Yalpinson. You will find me at the
edge of the wood, near the towers of
the old castle, which my husband had
repaired.'
"' Is that quite prudent?' I asked.
'' 'Have I ever left any thing to chance?'
she replied, 'and would I be apt, at this
time, to be imprudent? Rely upon me.
Come, we must part, Jacques. Thurs-
day, and be punctual!'
'' Was I really free? Was the chain
really broken? and had 1 become once
more my own master?
"I thought so, and in my almost deli-
rious joy I forgave the countess all the
anxieties of the last year. What do I
say? I began to accuse myself of in-
justice and cruelty. I admired her for
sacrificing herself to my happiness. I
felt, in the fulness of my gratitude, like
kneeling down, and kissing the hem of
her dress.
"It had become useless now to confide
my secret to M. de Chandore. I might
have gone back to Boiscoran. But I was
more than half-way: I kept on; and,
when I reached Sauveterre, my face bore
such evident traces of my relief, that
Dionysia said to me, —
'' ' Something very pleasant must have
happened to you, Jacques.'
"Oh, yes, very pleasant! For the first
time, I breathed freely as I sat by her
side. I could love her now, without fear-
ing that my love might be fatal to her.
"This security did not last long. As
I considered the matter, I thought it very
singular that the countess should have
chosen such a place for our meeting.
"'Can it be a trap?' I asked, as the
day drew nearer.
'' All day long on Thursday I had the
most painful presentiments. If I had
known how to let the countess know, I
should certainly not have gone. But I
had no means to send her word; and
I knew her well enough to be sure that
breaking my word would expose me to
her full vengeance. I dined at the usual
hour; and, when I had finished, I went up
to my room, where I wrote to Dionysia
not to expect me that evening, as I should
be detained by a matter of the utmost
importance.
"I handed this note to Michael, the
son of one of my tenants, and told him to
carry it to town without losing a minute.
Then I tied up all of the countess's letters
in a parcel, put it in my pocket, took my
gun, and went out. It might have been
eight o'clock; but it was still broad day-
light."
Whether M. Magloire accepted every
thing that the prisoner said as truth, or
not, he was evidently deeply interested.
He had drawn up his chair, and at every
statement he uttered half-loud exclama-
tions.
"Under any other circumstances," said
Jacques, '' I should have taken one of
the two public roads in going to Valpin-
son. But troubled, as I was, by vague
suspicions, I thought only of concealing
myself, and cut across the marshes.
They were partly overflowed; but I
counted upon my intimate familiarity
with the ground, and my agility. I
thought, moreover, that here I should
certainly not be seen, and should meet no
one. In this I was mistaken. When I
reached the Seille Canal, and was just
about to cross it, I found myself face to
face with young Ribot, the son of a
farmer at Brechy. He looked so very
much surprised at seeing me in such a
place, that I thought I ought to give him
some explanation; and, rendered stupid
by my troubles, I told him I had business
at Brechy, and was crossing the marshes
to shoot some birds.
"'If that is so,' he replied, laughing,
'we are not after the same kind of
game.'
"He went his way; but this accident
annoyed me seriously. I continued on
my way, swearing, I fear, at young Ribot,
and found that the path became more


108
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE. -
and more dangerous. It was long past
nine when I reached Valpinson at last.
But the night was clear, and I became
more cautious than ever.
"The place which the countess had
chosen for our meeting was about two
hundred yards from the house and the
farm-buildings, sheltered by other build-
ings, and quite close to the wood. I ap-
proached it through this wood.
"Hid among the trees, I was exam-
ining the ground, when I noticed the
countess standing near one of the old
towers: she wore a simple costume of
light muslin, which could be seen at a
distance. Finding every thing quiet, I
went up to her; and, as soon as she saw
me, she said, —
"'I have been waiting for you nearly
an hour.'
"I explained to her the difficulties I
had met with on my way there ; and then
I asked her, —
"'But where is your husband?'
"'He is laid up with rheumatism,'
she replied.
'' 'Will he not wonder at your ab-
sence?'
"'No : he knows I am sitting up with
my youngest daughter. I left the house
through the little door of the laundry.'
'' And, without giving me time to reply,
she asked, —
"'Where are my letters?'
"'Here they are,' I said, handing them
to her.
"She took them with feverish haste,
saying in an undertone, —
'' 'There ought to be twenty-four.'
"And, without thinking of the insult,
she went to work counting them.
"'They are all here,' she said when
she had finished.
"Then, drawing a little package from
her bosom, she added, —
"' And here are yours.'
'' But she did not give them to me.
"'We'll burn them,' she said.
'' I started with surprise.
"'You cannot think of it,' I cried,
'here, and at this hour. The fire would
certainly be seen.'
"'What? Are you afraid? How-
ever, we can go into the wood. Come,
give me some matches.'
"I felt in my pockets; but I had
none.
"'I have no matches,' I said.
'' 'Oh, come! — you who smoke all day
long, —you who, even in my presence,
could never give up your cigars.'
"'I left my match-box, yesterday, at
M. de Chandore's.'
'' She stamped her foot vehemently.
'' ' Since that is so, I'll go. in and
get some.'
"This would have delayed us, and thus
would have been an additional imprudence.
I saw that I must do what she wanted,
and so I said, — .
'' ' That is not necessary. Wait!'
"All sportsmen know that there is a
way to replace matches. I employed the
usual means. I took a'cartridge out of
my gun, emptied it of its shot, and put
in, instead, a piece of paper. Then,
resting my gun on the ground, so as to
prevent a loud explosion, I made the
powder flash up.
"We had fire, and put the letters to
the flame.
"A few minutes later, and nothing
was left of them but a few blackened
fragments, which I crumbled in my
hands, and scattered to the winds. Im-
movable, like a statue, the Countess
Claudieuse had watched my operations.
"'And that is all,' she said, 'that
remains of five years of our life, of our
love, and of your vows, —ashes.'
"I replied by a commonplace remark.
I was in a hurry to be gone.
"She felt this, and cried with great
vehemence, —
"' Ah! I inspire you with horror.'
"'We have just committed a marvel-
lous imprudence,' I said.
"'Ah! what does it matter?'
"Then, in a hoarse voice, she added, —
"'Happiness awaits you, and a new
life full of intoxicating hopes: it is quite
natural that you' should tremble. I,
whose life is ended, and who have noth-
ing to look for, — I, in whom you have
killed every hope, —I am not afraid.'
"I saw her anger rising within her,
and said very quietly, —
'" 'I hope you do not repent of your
generosity, Genevieve.'
"'Perhaps I do,' she replied, in an
accent which made me tremble. 'How
you must laugh at me! What a wretched
thing a woman is who is abandoned, who
resigns, and sheds tears!'
"Then she went on fiercely, —
"'Confess that you have never loved
me really!'
"'Ah, you know very well the con-
trary!'
"' Still you abandon me for another,
—for that Hionysia!'
"'You are married: you cannot be
mine.'
"'Then if I were free — if I had been
a widow' —
'' 'You would be my wife you know
very well.'
"She raised her arms to heaven, like a


-WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
109
drowning person; and, in a voice which I
thought they could hear at the house, she
cried, —
"'His wife! If I were a widow, I
would be his wife! O God! Luckily,
that thought, that terrible thought, never
occurred to me before.'"
All of a sudden, at these words, the
eminent advocate of Sauveterre rose from
his' chair, and, placing himself before
Jacques de Boiscoran, he asked, looking
at him with one of those glances which
seem to pierce our innermost heart, —
"And then?"
Jacques had to summon all the energy
that was left him to be able to continue
with a semblance of calmness, at least, —
'' Then I tried every thing in the world
to quiet the countess, to move her, and
bring her back to the generous feelings of
former days. I was so completely upset,
that I hardly knew what I was saying.
I hated her bitterly, and still I could not
help pitying her. I am a man; and there
is no man living who would not feel
deeply moved at seeing himself the object
of such bitter regrets and such terrible
despair. Besides, my happiness and
Dionysia's honor were at stake. How
do I know what I said? I am not a hero
of romance. No doubt I was mean. I
humbled myself, I besought her, I told
falsehoods, I vowed to her that it was
my family, mainly, who made me marry.
I hoped I should be able, by great kind-
ness and caressing words, to soften the
bitterness of the parting. She listened
to me, remaining as impassive as a block
of ice; and, when I paused, she said with
a sinister laugh, —
'' ' And you tell me all that! Your
Dionysia! Ah! if I were a woman like
other women, I would say nothing to-day,
and, before the year was over, you would
again be at my feet.'
'' She must have been thinking of our
meeting at the cross-roads. Or was this
the last outburst of passion at the moment
when, the last ties were broken off? I
was going to speak again; but she inter-
rupted me bruskly, saying,—
"'Oh, that is enough! Spare me,
at least, the insult of your pity! I'll see.
I promise nothing. Good-by!'
"And she escaped toward the house,
while I remained rooted to the spot,
almost stupefied, and asking myself if
she was not, perhaps at that moment,
telling Count Claudieuse every thing. It
was at that moment that I drew from my
gun, almost mechanically, the burnt car-
tridge and put in a fresh one. Then, as
nothing stirred, I went off with rapid
strides."
"What time was it?" asked M. Ma-
gloire.
"I could>not tell you precisely. My
state of mind was such, that I lost all idea
of time. I went back through the forest
of Bochepommier."
"And you saw nothing?"
"No."
"Heard nothing?"
"Nothing."
"Still, from your statement, you could
not have been far from Valpinson when
the fire broke out.''
'' That is true, and, in the open country,
I should certainly have seen the fire;
but I was in a dense wood: the trees
cut off all view."
"And these same trees prevented the
sound of the two shots fired at Count
Claudieuse from reaching your-ear?"
"They might have helped to prevent
it; but there was no need for that. I was
walking against the wind, which was
very high; and it is an established fact,
that, under such circumstances, the sound
of a gun is not heard beyond fifty
yards."
M. Magloire once more could hardly
restrain his impatience; and, utterly un-
conscious that he was even harsher than
the magistrate, he said, —
'' And you think your statement ex-
plains every thing?"
"I believe that my statement, which is
founded upon the most exact truth, ex-
plains the charges brought against me by
M. Galpin. It explains how I tried to
keep my visit to Valpinson secret; how I
was met in going and in coming back,
and at hours which correspond with the
time of the fire. It explains, finally, how
I came at first to deny. It explains how
one of my cartridge-cases was found near
the ruins, and why I had to wash my
hands when I reached home."
Nothing seemed to be able to shake
the lawyer's conviction. He asked, —
"And the day after, when they came
to arrest you, what was your first im-
pression ?''
"I thought at once of Valpinson."
'' And when you were told that a crime
had been committed?"
'' I said to myself, 'The countess wants
to be a widow.'"
All of M. Magloire's blood seemed to
rise in his face. He cried, —
'' Unhappy man i How can you dare
accuse the Countess Claudieuse of such a
crime?"
Indignation gave Jacques strength to
reply, —
"Whom else should I accuse? A
crime has been committed, and under


110
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
such circumstances that it cannot have
been committed by any one except by
her or by myself. I am innocent: con-
sequently she is guilty."
"Why did you not say so at once?"
Jacques shrugged his shoulders, and
replied in a txjne 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, be-
cause I did not then know the circum-
stances 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 be-
cause 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 advocate's 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 probabil-
ity. 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 Clau-
dieuse is precise. He has seen his mur-
derer: it was a man who fired at him."
'' And who tells you that Count Clau-
dieuse does not know all, and wants to
save his wife, and ruin rde? 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 bumed."
"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. Ma-
gloire.
And, in a voice full of pity and emo-
tion, 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," con-
tinued 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 suffer-
ing intense anxiety at M. de Chandord's
house. Ever since eight o'clock in the
morning the two aunts, the old gentle-
man, the marchioness, and M. Folgat had
been assembled in the sitting-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 care-
fully 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 re-appear 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 marchion-
ess 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!"


WITHIN- AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
Ill
At ten o'clock no news had come.
"Could M. Magloire have forgotten his
promise 9 " said Dionysia, becoming anx-
ious.
"No, he has not forgotten it," replied
a new-comer, 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 suit-
able. 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 ig 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 siuce 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 be-
trayed his duty; oh, no! but he feared
discovery.
More than ten times he had changed
the hiding-place of his precious stocking;
but, wherever he put it, he always fancied
that the eyes of his visitors were riveted
upon that very spot. He recovered, how-
ever, from his fright when Anthony told
him his errand, and replied in the most
civil manner, —
"M. Magloire came here at nine
o'clock precisely. I took him immedi-
ately to M. de Boiscoran's cell; and ever
since they have been talking, talking."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Of course I am. Must I not know
every thing that happens in my jail? I
went and listened. You can hear nothing
from the passage: they have shut the
wicket, and the door is massive."
"That is strange," murmured the old
servant.
"Yes, and a bad sign," declared the
keeper with a knowing air. "I have
noticed that the prisoners who take so
long to state their case to their advocate
always catch the maximum of punish-
ment."
Anthony, of course, did not report to
his masters the jailer's mournful anticipa-
tions; but what he told them about the
length of the interview did not tend to
relieve their anxiety.
Gradually the color had faded from
Dionysia's cheeks; and the clear ring of
her voice was half drowned in tears,
when she said, that it would have been
better, perhaps, if she had put on mourn-
ing, and that seeing the whole family
assembled thus reminded her of a fune-
ral.
The sudden arrival of Dr. Seignebos
cut short her remarks. He was in a
great passion, as usual; and, as soon as
he entered, he cried,—
"What a stupid town Sauveterre is!
Nothing but gossip and idle reports!
The people are all of them old women.
I feel like running away, and hiding my-
self. On my way here, twenty curious
people have stopped me to ask me what
M. de Boiscoran is going to do now. For
the town is full of rumors. They know
that Magloire is at the jail now; and
everybody wants to be the first to hear
Jacques's story."
He had put his immense broad-
brimmed hat on the table, and, looking
around the room at all the sad faces he
asked, —
"And you have no news yet?"
"Nothing," replied M. Seneschal and
M. Folgat in the same breath.
"And we are frightened by this delay,"
added Dionysia.
"And why ?" asked the physician.
Then taking down his spectacles, and
wiping them diligently, he said, —-
"Did you think, my dear young lady,
that Jacques de Boiscoran's affair could
be settled in five minutes? If they let
you believe that, they did wrong. I, who
despise all concealment, I will tell you
the truth. At the bottom of all these
occurrences at Valpinson, there lies, I am
perfectly sure, some dark intrigue. Most
assuredly we shall pull Jacques out of
his trouble; but I fear it will be hard
work."
"M. Magloire!" announced old An-
thony.
The eminent advocate of Sauveterre


'WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
113
question was not likely to produce such
an effect all of a sudden: hence M.
Seneschal said, —
"I was present at Cocoleu's examina-
tion, and I noticed, on the contrary, the
amazement of the countess."
The doctor raised his shoulders, and
said, —
"Certainly she said,' Ah!' But that is
no proof. I, also, could very easily say,
- 'Ah!' if anybody should come and tell
me that the mayor of Sauveterre was in
the wrong; and still I should not be sur-
prised."
"Doctor!" said M. de Chandore, anx-
ious to conciliate, — " doctor!"
But Dr. Seignebos had already turned
to M. Magloire, whom he was anxious to
convert, and went on, —
"Yes, the face of the Countess Claudi-
euse expressed amazement; but her eyes
spoke of bitter, fierce hatred, of joy, and
of vengeance. And that is not all.
Will you please tell me, Mr. Mayor, when
Count Claudieuse was roused by the fire,
was the countess by him? No, she was
nursing her youngest daughter, who had
the measles. Hm! what do you think of
measles which make sitting up at night
necessary? And when the two shots
were fired, where was the countess then?
Still with her daughter, and on the other
side of the house from where the fire
was."
The mayor of Sauveterre was no less
obstinate than the doctor. He at once
objected,—
"I beg you will notice, doctor, that
Count Claudieuse himself deposed, how,
when he ran to the fire, he found the
door shut from within, just as he had
left it a few hours before."
Dr. Seignebos returned a most ironical
bow, and then asked, —
"Is there really only one door in the
chateau at Valpinson?"
"To my knowledge," said M. de Chan-
dore, "there are at least three."
"And I must say," added M. Magloire,
"that, according to M. de Boiscoran's
statement, the countess, on that evening,
had gone out by the laundry-door when
she came to meet him."
"What did I say?" exclaimed the
doctor.
And, wiping his glasses in a perfect
rage, he added, —
"And the children! Does Mr. Mayor
think it natural that the Countess Claudi-
euse, this incomparable mother in his
estimation, should forget her children in
the height of the fire?"
"What! The poor woman is called
out by the discharge of fire-arms; she
sees her house on fire; she stumbles over
the lifeless body of her husband: and
you blame her for not having preserved
all her presence of mind."
"That is one view of it; but it is not
the one I take. I rather think that the
countess, having been delayed out of
doors, was prevented by the fire from
getting in again. I think, also, that
Cocoleu came very opportunely; and that
it was very lucky Providence should in-
spire his mind with that sublime idea of
saving the children at the risk of his
life."
This time M. Seneschal made no reply.
"Supported by all these facts," con-
tinued the doctor," my suspicions became
so strong that I determined to ascertain
the truth, if I could. The next day I
questioned the countess, and, I must con-
fess, rather treacherously. Her replies
and her looks were not such as to modify
my views. When I asked her, looking
straight into her eyes, what she thought
of Cocoleu's mental condition, she nearly
fainted; and she could hardly make me.
hear her when she said that she occa-
sionally caught glimpses of intelligence
in him. When I asked her if Cocoleu
was fond of her, she said, in a most em-
barrassed manner, that his devotion was
that of an animal which is grateful for
the care taken of him. What do you
think of that, gentlemen? To me it
appeared that Cocoleu was at the bottom
of the whole affair; that he knew the
truth; and that I should be able to save
Jacques, if I could prove Cocoleu's im-
becility to be assumed, and his speechless-
ness to be an imposture. And I would
have proved it, if they had associated
with me any one else but this ass and
this jackanapes from Paris."
He paused for a few seconds; but,
without giving anybody time to reply, he
went on, —
"Now, let us go back to our point of
departure, and draw our conclusions.
Why do you think it so improbable and
impossible that the Countess Claudieuse
should have betrayed her duties? Be-
cause she has a world-wide reputation for
purity and prudence. Well. But was
not Jacques de Boiscoran's reputation as
a man of honor also above all doubt?
According to your views, it is absurd to
suspect the countess of having had a
lover. According to my notions, it is
absurd that Jacques should, overnight,
have become a scoundrel."
"Oh! that is not the same thing," said
M. Seneschal.
"Certainly not!" replied the doctor;
"and there you are right, for once. If
8


114
WITHIN' AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
M. de Boiscoran had committed this
crime, it would be one of those absurd
crimes which are revolting to us; but, if
committed by the countess, it is only the
catastrophe prepared by Count Claudi-
euse on the day when he married a wo-
man thirty years younger than he was."
The great wrath of Dr. Seignebos was
not always as formidable as it looked.
Even when he appeared to be almost
beside himself, he never said more than
he intended to say, possessed as he was
of that admirable southern quality, which
enabled-him to pour forth fire and flames,
and to remain as cold as ice within. But
in this case he showed what he thought
fully. He had said quite enough, too,
and had presented the whole affair under
such a new aspect, that his friends be-
came very thoughtful.
"You would have converted me, doc-
tor," said M. Folgat, "if I had not been
of your opinion before."
"I am sure," added M. de Chandore,
after hearing the doctor, " the thing no
longer looks impossible."
"Nothing is impossible," said M. Sen-
eschal, like a philosopher.
The eminent advocate of Sauveterre
alone remained unmoved.
"Well," said he, "I had rather admit
one hour of utter insanity even than
five years of such monstrous hypocrisy.
Jacques may have committed the crime,
and be nothing but a madman; but, if
the countess is guilty, one might despair
of mankind, and renounce all faith in
this world. I have seen her, gentlemen,
with her husband and her children. No
one can feign such looks of tenderness
and affection."
"He will never give her up !" growled
Dr. Seignebos,—
And touching his friend on the shoul-
der, — for M. Magloire had beeu his
friend for many years, and they were
quite intimate, — he said, —
"Ah! There I recognize my friend, the
strange lawyer, who judges others by
himself, and refuses to believe any thing
bad. Oh, do not protest! for we love
and honor you for that very faith, and
are proud to see you amtrag us Republi-
cans. But I must confess you are not
the man to bring light into such a dark
intrigue. At twenty-eight you married
a girl whom you. loved dearly: you lost
her, and ever since you have remained
faithful to her memory, and lived so far
from all passions that you no longer
believe in their existence. Happy man!
Your heart is still at twenty; and with
your gray hair you still believe in the
smiles and looks of woman."
There was much truth in this; but
there are certain truths which we are not
over-fond of hearing.
"My simplicity has nothing to do with
the matter," said M. Magloire. "I affirm
and maintain that a man who has been
for five years the lover of a woman must
have some proof of it"
"Well, there you are mistaken, mas-
ter," said the physician, arranging his
spectacles with an air of self-conceit,
which, under other circumstances, would
have been irresistibly ludicrous.
"When women determine to be prudent
and suspicious,'' remarked M. de Chan-
dore', "they never are so by halves."
"It is evident, besides," added M. Fol-
gat, "that the Countess Claudieuse would
never have determined upon so bold a
crime, if she had not been quite sure, that,
after the burning of her letters, no proof
could be brought against her."
"That is it! " cried the doctor.
M. Magloire did not conceal his impa-
tience. He said dryly, —
"Unfortunately, gentlemen, it does not
depend on you to acquit or condemn M.
de Boiscoran. I am not here to convince
you, or to be convinced: I came to dis-
cuss with M. de Boiscoran's friends our
line of conduct, and the basis of our de-
fence."
And M. Magloire was evidently right in
this estimate of his dut}-. He went and
leaned against the mantlepiece ; and, when
the others had taken their seats around
him, he began, —
"In the first place, I will admit the
allegations made by M. de Boiscoran. He
is innocent. He has been the lover of the
Countess Claudieuse; but he has no proof.
This being granted, what is to be done?
Shall I advise him to send for the magis-
trate, and to confess it all?"
No one replied at first. It was only
after a long silence that Dr. Seignebos
said,—
"That would be very serious."
"Very serious, indeed," repeated the
famous lawyer. "Our own feelings give
us the measure of what M. Galpin will
think. First of all, he, also, will ask for
proof, the evidence of a witness, any thing,
in fact. And, when Jacques tells him that
he has nothing to give but his word, M.
Galpin will tell him that he docs not
speak the truth."
"He might, perhaps, consent to extend
the investigation," said M. Seneschal. "He
might possibly summon the countess."
M. Magloire nodded, and said, —
"He would certainly summon her. But,
then, would she confess? It would be
madness to expect that. If she is guilty,


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
115
she is far too strong-minded to let the
truth escape her. She would deny every
thing, haughtily, magnificently, and in
such a manner as not to leave a shadow
of doubt."
"That is only too probable," growled
the doctor. "That poor Galpin is not the
strongest of men."
"What would be the result of such a
step ?" asked M. Magloire. "M. de Bois-
coran's case would be a hundred times
worse; for to his crime would now be
added the odium of the meanest, vilest
calumny."
M. Folgat was following with the ut-
most attention. He said, —
"I am very glad to hear my honorable
colleague give utterance to that opinion.
We must give up all hope of delaying
the proceedings, and let M. de Boiscoran
go into court at once."
M. de Chandore raised his hands to
heaven, as if in sheer despair.
"But Dionysia will die of grief and
shame," he exclaimed.
M. Magloire, absorbed in his own views,
went on, —
"Well, here we are now before the court
at Sauveterre, before a jury composed of
people from this district, incapable of
prevarication, I am sure, but, unfortu-
nately, under the influence of that public
opinion which has long since condemned
M. de Boiscoran. The proceedings begin;
the judge questions the accused. Will he
say what he told me, — that, after having
been the lover of the Countess Clau-
dieuse, he had gone to Valpinson to carry
her back her letters, and to get his own,
and that they are all burnt 1 Suppose he
says so. Immediately there will arise a
storm of indignation; and he will be over-
whelmed with curses and with contempt.
Well, thereupon, the president of the court
uses his discretionary powers, suspends
the trial, and sends for the Countess Clau-
dieuse. Since we look upon her as
guilty, we must needs endow her with
supernatural energy. She has foreseen
what is coming, and has read over her
part. When summoned, she appears,
pale, dressed in black; and a murmur of
respectful sympathy greets her at her
entrance. You see her before you, don't
you? The president explains to her why
she has been sent for, and she does not
comprehend. She cannot possibly com-
prehend such an abominable calumny.
But when she has comprehended it? Do
you see the lofty look by which she crushes
Jacques, and the grandeur with which she
replies, 'When this man had failed in
trying to murder my husband, he tried to
disgrace his wife. I intrust to you my
honor as a mother and a wife, gentle-
men. I shall not answer the infamous
charges of this abject calumniator.'"
"But that means the galleys for
Jacques," exclaimed M. de Chandore,." or
even the scaffold I"
"That would be the 'maximum, at all
events," replied the advocate of Sau-
veterre. "But the trial goes on; the
prosecuting attorney demands an over-
whelming punishment; and at last the
prisoner's council is called upon to speak.
Gentlemen, you were impatient at my
persistence. I do not credit, I confess,
the statement made by M. de Boiscoran.
But my young colleague here does credit
it. Well, let him tell us candidly. Would
he dare to plead this statement, and assert
that the Countess Claudieuse had been
Jacques's mistress?"
M. Folgat looked annoyed.
"I don't know," he said in an under-
tone.
"Well, I know you would not," ex-
claimed M. Magloire; "and you would
be right, for you would risk your reputa-
tion without the slightest chance of
saving Jacques. Yes, no chance what-
ever! For after all, let us suppose, what
can hardly be even supposed, you should
prove that Jacques has told the truth,
that he has been the lover of the countess.
What would happen then? They arrest
the countess. Do they release M. de Bois-
coran on that account? Certainly not!
They keep him in prison, and say to him,
'This woman has attempted her husband's
life; but she has been your mistress, and
you are her accomplice.'
"That is the situation, gentlemen!"
M. Magloire had stripped it of all un-
necessary comments, of idle conjectures,
and all sentimental phraseology, and
placed it before them as it had to be
looked at, in all its fearful simplicity.
Grandpapa Chandore ' was terrified. He
rose, and said in an almost inaudible
voice,—
"Ah, all is over indeed! Innocent,
or guilty, Jacques de Boiscoran will be
condemned."
M. Magloire made no reply.
"And that is," continued the old gen-
tleman, "what you call justice!"
"Alas!" sighed M. Seneschal, "it is
useless to deny it: trials by jury are a
lottery."
M. de Chandore, driven nearly to mad-
ness by his despair, interrupted him, —
"In other words, Jacques's honor and
life depend at this hour on a chance, —
on the weather on the day of the trial, or
the health of a juror. And if Jacques
was the only one! But there is Dionysia's


116
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
life, gentlemen, my child's life, also at
stake. If you strike Jacques, you strike
Dionysia!"
M. Folgat could hardly restrain a tear.
M. Seneschal, and even the doctor, shud-
dered at such grief in an old man, who
was threatened in all that was dearest to
him, — in his one great love upon earth.
He had taken the hand of the great advo-
cate of Sauveterre, and, pressing it con-
vulsively, he went on, —
"You will save him, Magloire, won't
you? What does it matter whether he be
innocent or guilty, since Dionysia loves
him? You have saved so many in your
life! It is well known the judges cannot
resist the weight of your words. You
will find means to save a poor, unhappy
man who once was your friend.''
The eminent lawyer looked cast-down,
as if he had been guilty himself. When
Dr. Seignebos saw this, he exclaimed, —
"What do you mean, friend Magloire?
Are you no longer the man whose marvel-
lous eloquence is the pride of our country?
Hold your head up: for shame! Never
was a nobler cause intrusted to you."
But he shook his head, and mur-
mured,—
"I have no faith in it; and I cannot
plead when my conscience does not fur-
nish the arguments."
And, becoming more and more em-
barrassed, he added, —
"Seignebos was right in saying just
now, I am not the man for such a cause.
Here all my experience would be of no use.
It will be better to intrust it to my young
brother here."
For the first time in his life, M. Folgat
came here upon a case such as enables a
man to rise to eminence, and to open a
great future before him. For the first
time, he came upon a case in which were
united all the elements of supreme in-
terest, — greatness of crime, eminence of
victim, character of the accused, mystery,
variety of opinions, difficulty of defence,
and uncertainty of issue,—one of those
cases for which an advocate is filled with
enthusiasm, which he seizes upon with
all his energies, and in which he shares
all the anxiety and all the hopes with his
client.
He would readily have given five years'
income to be offered the management of
this case; but he was, above all, an
honest man. He said, therefore,—■
"You would not think of abandoning
M. de Boiscoran, M. Magloire?"
'' You will be more useful to him than
I can be," was the reply.
Perhaps M. Folgat was inwardly of the
same opinion. Still he said, —
'' You have not considered what an
effect this would have."
"Oh!"
"What would the public think if they
heard all of a sudden that you had with-
drawn? 'This affair of M. de Boiscoran
must be a very bad one indeed,' they
would say, 'that M. Magloire should re-
fuse to plead in it.' And that would be
an additional burden laid upon the un-
fortunate man."
The doctor gave his friend no time to
reply.
'' Magloire is not at liberty to with-
draw," he said; "but he has the right
to associate a brother-lawyer with him-
self. He must remain the advocate and
counsel of M. de Boiscoran; but M. Fol-
gat can lend him the assistance of his
advice, the support of his youth and his
activity, and even of his eloquence."
A passing blush colored the cheeks of
the young lawyer.
"I am entirely at M. Magloire's ser-
vice," he said.
The famous advocate of Sauveterre con-
sidered a while. After a few moments
he turned to his young colleague, and
asked him, —
"Have you any plan? any idea? What
would you do?"
To the astonishment of all, M. Folgat
now revealed his true character to some
extent. He looked taller, his face bright-
ened up, his eyes shone brightly, and he
said in a full, sonorous voice, — a voice
which by its metallic ring made all hearts
vibrate, —
"First of all, I should go and see M.
de Boiscoran. He alone should determine
my final decision. But my plan is formed
now. I, gentlemen, I have faith, as I
told you before. The man whom Miss
Dionysia loves cannot be a criminal.
What would I do? I would prove the
truth of M. de Boiscoran's statement.
Can that be done? I hope so. He tells
us that there are no proofs nor witnesses
of his intimacy with the Countess Clau-
dieuse. I-am sure he is mistaken. She
has shown, he says, extraordinary care
and prudence. That may be. But mis-
trust challenges suspicion; and, when you
take the greatest precautions, you are
most likely to be watched. You want to
hide, and you are discovered. You see
nobody; but they see you.
"If I were charged with the defence, I
should commence to-morrow a counter-in-
vestigation. We have money, the Marquis
de Boiscoran has influential connections;
and we should have help everywhere. Be-
fore forty-eight hours are gone, I should
have experienced agents at work. I know


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
121
their faces, that he had been mistaken,
and that Jacques had not explained.
Still, before M. Magloire, he did not dare
inquire.
"Here are the papers," he said simply,
putting upon the table an immense box.
Then, drawing M. Folgat aside, he
asked, —
"What is the matter, pray?"
The clerk had certainly acted so well,
that they could have no secret from him;
and he was so fully committed, that there
was no danger in relying upon his discre-
tion. Still M. Folgat did not dare to
mention the name of the Countess Clau-
dieuse; and he replied evasively, —
"This is the matter: M. de Boiscoran
explains fully; but he has no proofs for
his statement, and we are busy collecting
proofs."
Then he went and sat down by M.
Magloire, who was already deep in the
papers. With the help of these docu-
ments, it was easy to follow step by step
M. Galpin's work, to see the efforts he had
made, and to comprehend his strategy.
First of all, the two lawyers looked for
the papers concerning Cocoleu. They
found none. Of the statement of the
idiot on the nighfr of the fire, of the ef-
forts made since to obtain from him a
repetition of this evidence, of the report
of the experts, —of all this there was not
a trace to be found.
M. Galpin dropped Cocoleu. He had a
right to do so. The prosecution, of course,
only keeps those witnesses which it thinks
useful, and drops all the others.
"Ah, the scamp is clever!" growled
M. Magloire in his disappointment.
It was really very well done. M. Gal-
pin deprived by this step the defence of
one of their surest means, of one of those"
incidents in a trial which are apt to affect
the mind of the jury so powerfully.
'' We can, however, summon him at any
time," said M. Magloire.
They might do so, it is true; but what
a difference it would make! If Cocoleu
appeared for M. Galpin, he was a witness
for the prosecution, and the defence could
exclaim with indignation, —
"AVhat! You suspect the prisoner upon
the evidence of such a creature?"
But, if he had to be summoned by the
defence, he became prisoner's evidence,
that is to say, one of those witnesses whom
the jury always suspect; and then the
prosecution would exclaim, —
"What do you hope for from a poor
idiot, whose mental condition is such, that
we refused his evidence when it might
have been most useful to us?"
"If we have to go into court," mur-
mured M. Folgat, "here is certainly a
considerable chance of which we are de-
prived. The whole character of the case
is changed. But, then, how can M. Galpin
prove the guilt?"
Oh! in the simplest possible manner.
He started from the fact that Count Clau-
dieuse was able to give the precise hour
at which the crime was committed.
Thence he passed on immediately to the
deposition of young Ribot, who had met
M. de Boiscoran on his way to Valpinson,
crossing the marshes, before the crime,
and to that of Gaudry, who had seen him
come back from Valpinson through the
woods, after the crime. Three other wit-
nesses who had turned up during the in-
vestigation confirmed this evidence; and
by these means alone, and by comparing
the hours, M. Galpin succeeded in proving,
almost beyond doubt, that the accused had
gone to Valpinson, and nowhere else, and
that he had been there at the time the
crime was committed.
What was he doing there?
To this question the prosecution replied
by the evidence taken on the first day of
the inquiry, by the water in which
Jacques had washed his hands, the car-
tridge-case found near the house, and the
identity of the shot extracted from the
count's wounds with those seized with
the gun at Boiscoran.
Every thing was plain, precise, and for-
midable, admitting of no discussion, no
doubt, no suggestion. It looked like a
mathematical deduction.
"Whether he be innocent or guilty,"
said M. Magloire to his young colleague,
"Jacques is lost, if we cannot get hold of
some evidence against the Countess Clau-
dieuse. And even in that case, even if
it should be established that she is guilty,
Jacques will always be looked upon as her
accomplice."
Nevertheless, they spent a part of the
night in going over all the papers care-
fully, and in studying every point made by
the prosecution.
Next morning, about nine o'clock, hav-
ing had only a few hours' sleep, they
went together to the prison.
xvn.
The night before, the jailer of Sauve-
terre had said to his wife, at supper, —
'' I am tired of the life I am leading
here. They have paid me for my place,
have not they? Well, I mean to go."
"You are a fool!" his wife had replied.
"As long as M. de Boiscoran is a prisoner,
there is a chance of profit. You don't


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
123
Blangin went on, "that I did not feel
quite re-assured. It is a bad cell that in
which M. de Boiscoran is staying. Since
I have been at Sauveterre, one man has
killed himself in it, and one man has
tried to commit suicide. So I called
Trumence, a poor vagrant who assists
me in the jail; and we arranged it that
one of us would always be on guard,
never losing the prisoner out of sight for
a moment. But it was a useless precau-
tion. At night, when they carried M. de
Boiscoran his supper, he was perfectly
calm; and he even said he would try to
eat something to keep his strength. Poor
man! If he has no other strength than
what his meal would give him, he won't
go far. He had not swallowed four
mouthfuls, when he was almost smoth-
ered; and Trumence and I at one time
thought he would die on our hands: I
almost thought it might be fortunate.
However, about nine o'clock he was a
little better; and he remained all night
long at his window."
M. Magloire could stand it no longer.
"Let us go up," he said to his col-
league.
They went up. But, as they entered
the passage, they noticed Trumence, who
was making signs to them to step lightly.
"What is the matter? " they asked in
an undertone.
"I believe he is asleep," replied the
prisoner. "Poor man! Who knows but
he dreams he is free, and in his beautiful
chateau?"
M. Folgat went on tiptoe to the wicket.
But Jacques had waked up. He had
heard steps and voices, and he had just
risen. Blangm, therefore, opened the
door; and at once M. Magloire said to the
prisoner, —
"I bring you re-enforcements, — M. Fol-
gat, my colleague, who has come down
from Paris with your mother."
Coolly, and without saying a word, M.
de Boiscoran bowed.
"I see you are angry with me," con-
tinued M. Magloire. "I was too quick
yesterday, much too quick."
Jacques shook his head, and said in
an icy tone, —
"I was angry; but I have reflected
since, and now I thank you for your can-
dor. At least, I know my fate. Innocent
though I be, if I go into court, I shall be
condemned as an incendiary and a mur-
derer. I shall prefer not going into court
at all."
"Poor man! But all hope is not lost."
"Yes. Who would believe me, if you,
my friend, cannot believe me?"
"I would," said M. Folgat promptly,.
"I, who, without knowing you, from the
beginning believed in your innocence, —
I who, now that I have seen you, adhere
to my conviction."
Quicker than thought, M. de Boiscoran
had seized the young advocate's hand,
and, pressing it convulsively, said, —
"Thanks, oh, thanks for that word
alone! I bless you, sir, for the faith you
have in me!"
This was the first time that the unfor-
tunate man, since his arrest, felt a ray of
hope. Alas! it passed in a second. His
eye became dim again; his brow clouded
over; and he said in a hoarse voice, —
"Unfoitunately, nothing can be done
for me now. No doubt M. Magloire has
told you my sad history and my state-
ment. I h ve no proof; or at least, to
furnish proof, I should have to entjr into
details which the court would refuse to
admit; or, if by a miracle they were ad-
mitted, I should be ruined forever by
them. There are confidences which cau-
not be spoken of, secrets which are never
betrayed, veils which must not be lifted.
It is better to be condemned innocent
than to be acquitted infamous and dis-
honored. Gentlemen, I decline being
defended."
What was his desperate purpose that
he should have come to such a decision?
His counsel trembled as they thought
they guessed it.
"You have no right," said M. Folgat,
"to give yourself up thus."
"Why not?"
"Because you are not alone in your
trouble, sir. Because you have relations,
friends, and " —
A bitter, ironical smile appeared on the
lips of Jacques de Boiscoran as he broke
in,—
"What do I owe to them, if they have
not even the courage to wait for the sen-
tence to be pronounced before they con-
demn me? Their merciless verdict has
actually anticipated that of the jury.
It was to an unknown person, to you, M.
Folgat, that I had to be indebted for the
first expression of sympathy."
"Ah, that is not so," exclaimed M.
Magloire, "you know very well."
Jacques seemed not to hear him. He
went on, —
"Friends? Oh, yes! I had friends in
my days of prosperity. There was M.
Galpin and M. Daubigeon: they were my
friends. One has become my judge, the
most cruel and pitiless of judges; and
the other, who is commonwealth attor-
ney, has not even made an effort to coino
to my assistance. M. Magloire also used
to be a friend of mine, and told ine a


124
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
hundred times, that I could count upon
him as I count upon myself, and that was
my reason to choose him as my counsel;
and, when I endeavored to convince him
of my innocence, he told me I lied."
Once more the eminent advocate of
Sauveterre tried to protest; but it was in
vain.
"Relations!" continued Jacques with a
voice trembling with indignation, — " oh,
yes! I have relations, a father and a
mother. Where are they when their
son, victimized by unheard-of fatality,
is struggling in the meshes of a most
odious and infamous plot?
"My father stays quietly in Paris,
devoted to his pursuits and usual pleas-
ures. My mother has come down to
Sauveterre. She is here now; and she has
been told that I am at liberty to receive
visitors: but in vain. I was hoping for
her yesterday; but the wretch who is
accused of a crime is no longer her son!
She never came. No one came. Hence-
forth I stand alone in the world; and now
you see why I have a right to dispose of
myself."
M. Folgat did not think for a moment
of discussing the point. It would have
been useless. Despair never reasons. He
only said, —
"You forget Miss Chandore, sir."
Jacques turned crimson all over, and he
murmured, trembling in all his limbs, —
"Dionysia!"
"Yes, Dionysia," said the young ad-
vocate. "You forget her courage, her
devotion, and all she has done for you.
Can you say that she abandons and
denies you, — she who set aside all her
reserve and her timidity for your sake,
and came and spent a whole night in this
prison? She was risking nothing less
than her maidenly honor; for she might
have been discovered or betrayed. She
knew that very well, nevertheless she did
not hesitate."
"Ah! you are cruel, sir," broke in
Jacques.
And, pressing the lawyer's arm hard, he
went on, —
"And do you not understand that her
memory kills me, and that my misery
is all the greater as I know but too well
what bliss I am losing? Do you not see
that I love Dionysia as woman never was
loved before? Ah, if my life alone was
at stake! I, at least, I have to make
amends for a great wrong; but she —
Great God, why did I ever come across
her path?"
He remained for a moment buried in
thought; then he added,—
"And yet she, also, did not come yester-
day. Why? Oh ! no doubt they have told
her all. They have told her how I came
to be at Valpinson the night of the crime."
"You are mistaken, Jacques," said M.
Magloire. "Miss Chandore knows noth-
ing."
"Is it possible?"
"M. Magloire did not speak in her
presence," added M. Folgat; "and we
have bound over M. de Chandore' to
secrecy. I insisted upon it that you
alone had the right to tell the truth to
Miss Dionysia."
"Then how does she explain it to her-
self that I am not set free?"
"She cannot explain it."
"Great God! she does not also think
I am guilty?"
"If you were to tell her so yourself, she
would not believe you."
"And still she never came here yester-
day."
"She could not. Although they told
her nothing, your mother had to be told.
The marchioness was literally thunder-
struck. She remained for more than an
hour unconscious in Miss Dionysia's arms.
When she recovered her consciousness, her
first words were for you; but it was then
too late to be admitted here."
When M. Folgat mentioned Miss Dio-
nysia's name, he had found the surest, and
perhaps the only means to break Jacques's
purpose.
"How can Iever sufficiently thank you,
sir? " asked the latter.
"By promising me that you will forever
abandon that fatal resolve which you had
formed," replied the young advocate. "If
you were guilty, I should be the first to say,
'Be it so !' and I would furnish you the
means. Suicide would be an expiation.
But, as you are innocent, you hare no
right to kill yourself: suicide would be a
confession."
"What am I to do?"
"Defend yourself. Fight."
"Without hope?"
"Yes, even without hope. When you
faced the Prussians, did you ever think of
blowing out your brains? No! And yet
you knew that they were superior in num-
bers, and would conquer, in all probability.
Well, you are once more in face of the
enemy; and even if you were certain of
being conquered, that is to say, of being
condemned, I should still say, 'Fight.'
If you were condemned, and it was the
day before you should have to mount the
scaffold, I should still say, 'Fight. You
must live on; for up to that hour some-
thing may happen which will enable us
to discover the guilty one.' And, if no
such event should happen, I should repeat,


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
125
neverthless, 'You must wait for the exe-
cutioner in order to protest from the scaf-
fold against the judicial murder, and
once more to affirm your innocence.'"
As M. Folgat uttered these words,
Jacques had gradually recovered his bear-
ing; and now he said, —
"Upon my honor, sir, I promise you I
will hold out to the bitter end."
"AVell!" said M. Magloire, — " very
well!"
"But what is to be done?" asked
Jacques.
"First of all," replied M. Folgat, "I
mean to recommence, for our benefit, the
investigation which M. Galpin has left
incomplete. To-night your mother and
I will leave for Paris. I have come to
ask you for the necessary information,
and for the means to explore your house
in Vine Street, to discover the friend
* whose name you assumed, and the ser-
vant who waited upon you."
The bolts were drawn as he said this;
and at the open wicket appeared Blan-
gin's rubicund face.
"The Marchioness de Boiscoran," he
said, "is in the parlor, and begs you will
come down as soon as you have done with
these gentlemen."
Jacques had turned very pale.
"My mother," he murmured. Then
he added, speaking to the jailer, —
"Do not go yet. We have nearly
done."
His agitation was too great: he could
not master it. He said to the two law-
yers, —
"We must stop here for to-day. I can-
not think now."
But M. Folgat had declared he would
leave for Paris that very night; and he
was determined to do so. He said, there-
fore, —
"Our success depends on the rapidity
of our movements. I beg you will let me
insist upon your giving me at once the
few items of information which I need
for my purposes."
Jacques shook his head sadly. He
began,—
"The task is out of your power, sir."
"Nevertheless, do what my colleague
asks you," urged M. Magloire. Without
any further opposition, and (who knows ?)
perhaps with a secret hope which he
would not confess to himself, Jacques in-
formed the young advocate of the most
minute details about his relations to the
Countess Claudieuse. He told him at
what hour she used to come to the house,
what roads she took, and how she was
most commonly dressed. The keys of the
house were at Boiscoran, in a drawer
which Jacques described. He had only
to ask Anthony for them. Then he men-
tioned how they might find out what had
become of that Englishman whose name
he had borrowed. Sir Francis Burnett
had a brother in London. Jacques did
not know his precise address; but he knew
he had important business-relations with
India, and had, once upon a time, been
cashier in the great house of Gilmour and
Benson.
As to the English servant-girl who had
for three years attended to his house in
Vine Street, Jacques had taken her
blindly, upon the recommendation of an
agency in the suburbs; and he had had
nothing to do with her, except to pay her
her wages, and, occasionally, some little
gratuity besides. All he could say, and
even that he had learned by mere chance,
was, that the girl's name was Suky
Wood; that she was a native of Folk-
stone, where her parents kept a sailors'
tavern; and that, before coming to France,
she had been a chambermaid at the
Adelphi in Liverpool.
M. Folgat took careful notes of all he
could learn. Then he said, —
"This is more than enough to begin
the campaign. Now you must give me
the name and address of your tradesmen
in Passy."
"You will find a list in a small pocket-
book which is in the same drawer with the
keys. In the same drawer are also all
the deeds and other papers concerning
the house. Finally, you might take An-
thony with you: he is devoted to me."
"I shall certainly take him, if you per-
mit me," replied the lawyer. Then putting
up his notes, he added, —
"I shall not be absent more than three
or four days; and, as soon as I return, we
will draw up our plan of defence. Till
then.my dear client.keep up your courage."
They called Blangin to open the door
for them; and, after hav ing shaken hands
with Jacques de Boiscoran, M. Folgat and
M. Magloire went away.
"Well, ave we going down now?" asked
the jailer.
But Jacques made no reply.
He had most ardently longed for his
mother's visit; and now, when he was
about to see her, he felt assailed by all
kinds of vague and sombre apprehen-
sions. The last time he had kissed her
was in Paris, in the beautiful parlor of
their family mansion. He had left her,
his heart swelling with hopes and joy,
to go to his Dionvsia; and his mother,
he remembered distinctly, had said to
him, '- I shall not see you again till the
day before the wedding."


126
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
And now she was to see him again, in
the parlor of a jail, accused of an abomi-
nable crime. And perhaps she was doubt-
ful of his innocence.
"Sir, the marchioness is waiting for
you," said the jailer once more. At the
man's voice, Jacques trembled.
"I am ready." he replied: "let us go!"
And, while descending the stairs, he tried
his best to compose his features, and to
arm himself with courage and calm-
ness.
"For," he said, "she must not become
aware of it, how horrible my position
is."
At the foot of the steps, Blangin point-
ed at a door, and said, —
, "That is the parlor. When the mar-
chioness wants to go, please call me."
On the threshold, Jacques paused once
more.
The parlor of the jail at Sauveterre is
an immense vaulted hall, lighted up by
two narrow windows with close, heavy
iron gratings. There is no furniture
save a coarse bench fastened to the damp,
untidy wall; and on this bench, in the
full light of the sun, sat, or rather lay,
apparently bereft of all strength, the
Marchioness de Boiscoran.
When Jacques saw her, he could hard-
ly suppress a cry of horror and grief.
Was that really his mother, — that thin
old lady with the sallow complexion, the
red eyes, and trembling hands?
"O God, O God!" he murmured.
She heard him, for she raised her head;
and, when she recognized him, she wanted
to rise; but her strength forsook her, and
she sank back upon the bench, crying, —
"O Jacques, my child!"
She, also, was terrified when she saw
what two months of anguish and sleep-
lessness had done for Jacques. But he
was kneeling at her feet upon the muddy
pavement, and said in a barely intelligi-
ble voice, —
"Can you pardon me the great grief I
cause you?"
She looked at him for a moment with
a bewildered air; and then, all of a sud-
den, she took his head in her two hands,
kissed him with passionate vehemence,
and said, —
"Will I pardon you? Alas, what
have I to pardon? If you were guilty, I
should love you still; and you are inno-
cent."
Jacques breathed more freely. In his
mother's voice he felt that she, at least,
was sure of him.
"And father?" he asked.
There was a faint blush on the pale
cheeks of the marchioness.
"I shall see him to-morrow," she
replied; "for I leave to-night with M.
Folgat."
"What! In this state of weakness?"
"I must."
"Could not father leave his collec-
tions for a few days? Whv did he not
I come down? Does he think I am
guilty?"
"No : it is just because he is so sure of
your innocence, that he remains in Paris,
He does not believe you in danger,
He insists upon it that justice cannot
err."
"I hope so," said Jacques with a forced
smile.
Then changing his tone, —
"And Dionysia? Why did she not
come with you?"
"Because I would not have it. She
knows nothing. It has been agreed upon
that the name of the Countess Claudi-
euse is not to be mentioned in her pres-
ence; and I wanted to speak to you about
that abominable woman. Jacques, my
poor child, where has that unlucky pas-
sion brought you!"
He made no reply.
"Did you love her?" asked the mar-
chioness.
"I thought I did."
"And she?"
"Oh, she I God alone knows the
secret of that strange heart."
"There is nothing to hope from her,
then, no pity, no remorse?"
"Nothing. I have given her hp. She
has had her revenge. She had fore-
warned me."
The marchioness sighed.
"I thought so," she said. "Last Sun-
day, when I knew as yet of nothing, I
happened to be close to her at church,
and unconsciously admired her profound
devotion, the purity of her eye, and the
nobility of her manner. Yesterday,
when I heard the truth, I shuddered. I
felt how formidable a woman must be
who can affect such calmness at a time
when her lover lies in prison accused of
the crime which she has committed."
"Nothing in the world would trouble
her, mother."
"Still she ought to tremble; for she
must know that you have told us every
thing. How can we unmask her?"
But time was passing; and Blangin
came to tell the marchioness that she
had to withdraw. She went, after hav-
ing kissed her son once more.
That same evening, according to their
arrangement, she left for Paris, accom-
panied by M. Folgat and old Antho-
ny.


'WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
127
xvni.
At Sauveterre, everybody, M. de Chan-
dore as much as Jacques himself, blamed
the Marquis de Boiscoran. He persisted
in remaining in Paris, it is true: but it
was certainly not from indifference; for
he was dying with anxiety. He had
shut himself up, and refused to see even
his oldest friends, even his beloved deal-
ers in curiosities. He never went out; the
dust accumulated on his collections ; and
nothing could arouse him from this state
of prostration, except a letter from Sauve-
terre.
Every morning he received three or four,
— from the marchioness or M. Folgat,
from M. Seneschal or M. Magloire, from
M. de Chandore, Dionysia, 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: ne
would not come down, however impor-
tant 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, eating little, and sleep-
ing 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 state-
ments. 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 irre-
sistible than before, like the waves of
the rising tide.
He was thus one morning in his cabi-
net. 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 mar-
chioness herself entered, looking even
worse than she had done in the prison
parlor; for she was overcome by the fa-
tigue 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 con-
fessed?"
"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 unpre-
pared 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 iron}', 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 at-
tempted to murder her husband; eh?"


128
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
"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 in-
vent! And to come to such an abortive
story —- was that the reason of his obsti-
nate silence?"
"You do not let me finish. Our son is
the victim of unparalleled coinci-
dences."
"Of course! Unparalleled coinci-
dences! 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 judg-
ment. 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.
"What then?" insisted the marquis.
"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 appall-
ing'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 regaius 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, madame,
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. "1 rememember every thing, if you
have forgotten every thing. Come, let us
go back to your past. Remember the
time w hen Jacques was born, and tell me
what year it was when M. de Margeril
refused to meet me."
Indignation restored to the marchion-
ess her strength. She cried, —
"And you come and tell me this to-
day, after thirty years, and God knows
under what circumstances!"
"Yes, after thirty years. Eternity
might pass over these recollections, and
it would not efface them. And, but for
these circumstances to which you refer, I
should never have said any thing. At
the time to which I allude, I had to
choose between two evils, — either to be
ridiculous, or to be hated. I preferred to
keep silence, and not to inquire too far.
My happiness was gone; but I w ished to
save my peace. We have lived together
on excellent terms; but there has always
been between us this high wall, this
suspicion. As long as I was doubtful, I
kept silent. But now, when the facts
confirm my doubts, I say again, 'Jacques
is no sop of mine !'"
Overcome with grief, shame, and in-
dignation, the Marchioness de Boiscoran
was wringing her hands; then she
cried, —-
"What a humiliation! What you are
saying is too horrible. It is unworthy of
you to add this terrible suffering to the
martyrdom which I am enduring."
M. de Boiscoran laughed convulsively.
"Have I brought about this catastro-
phe?"
"Well then, yes! One day I was im-
prudent and indiscreet. I was youug;
1 knew nothing of life; the world wor-
shipped me; and you, my husband, my
guide, gave yourself up to your ambition,
and left me to myself. I could not fore-
see the consequences of a very inoffensive
piece of coquetry."
"You see, then, now these consequen-
ces. After thirty years, I disown the child
that bears my name; and I say, that, if he
is innocent, he suffers for his mother's
sins. Fate would have it that your son
should covet his neighbor's wife, and,
having taken her, it is but justice that
he should die the death of the adulterer."
"But you know very well that I have
never forgotten my duty."
"I know nothing."
"You have acknowledged it, because
you refused to hear the explanation
which would have justified me."
"True, I did shrink from an explana-
tion, which, with your unbearable pride,
would necessarily have led to a rupture,
and thus to a fearful scandal."


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
131
count Society; and he harl vowed, that,
if ever the opportunity should come, he
would employ this marvellously able man.
Goudar, who was married, and had a
child, lived out of the world on the road
to Versailles, not far from the fortifica-
tions. He occupied with his family a
small house which he owned, —a veritable
philosopher's home, with a little garden
in front, and a vast garden behind, in
which he raised vegetables and admirable
fruit, and where he kept all kinds of
animals.
For it is a remarkable fact that police-
men who constantly stir up the dung-
heaps of society love the country, and, no
doubt disgusted with man, are passion-
ately fond of flowers and animals.
When M. Folgat stepped out of his
carriage before this pleasant home, a
young woman of twenty-five or twenty-
six, of surpassing beauty, young and
fresh, was playing in the front-garden
with a little girl of three or four years,
all milk and roses.
"M. Goudar, madam?" asked M. Fol-
gat, raising his hat.
The young woman blushed slightly,
and answered modestly, but without em-
barrassment, and in a most pleasing
voice, —
"My husband is in the garden; and you
will find him, if you will walk down this
path around the house."
The young man followed the direction,
and soon saw his man at a distance. His
head covered with an old straw hat, with-
outacoat, and in slippers, with ahugeblue
apron such as gardeners wear, Goudar
had climbed up a ladder, and was busy
dropping into a horse-hair bag the mag-
nificent Chasselas grapes of his trellises.
When he heard the sand grate under the
footsteps of the new-comer, ho turned his
head, and at once said, —
"Why, M. Folgat? Good-morning,
sir!"
The young advocate was not a little
surprised to see himself recognized so in-
stantaneously. He should certainly never
have recognized the detective. It was
more than three years since they had seen
each other; and how often had they seen
each other then? Twice, and not an
hour each time.
It is true that Goudar was one of those
men whom nobody remembers. Of
middle height, ho 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, ordi-
nary; nose, ordinary; mouth, ordinary;
eyes, neutral color; special marks, none.
It could not be said that he looked
stupid; but neither did he look intelli-
gent. 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 enthu-
siasm of the land-owner, ho praised the
flavor of his duchess pears, the bright
colors of his dahlias, the new arrange-
ments 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, say-
ing. —
'.' 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 homo. 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, in-
offensive, 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 melonhouso, 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


132
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
every thing. Without a moment's hesi-
tation, therefore, and without a break,
M. Folgat told him the whole story of
Jacques and the Countess Claudieuse.
He listened, without saying a word, with-
out 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 some-
thing of the kind. After a minute's re-
flection, he looked fixedly at M. Folgat,
and said, —
"If I understand you correctly, you
would like to begin a counter-investiga-
tion 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 mas-
ter. 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 head-
quarters. They would probably have
mo watched; and, if they found out
that I was doing police work for private
individuals, they would scold me griev-
ously, 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 be-
come 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 Xapoleons are not to
be despised; but what would they do for
me if I were turned out? I have to think
of somebody else beside myself. I have
a wife and a child; and my whole fortune
consists in this little cottage, which is
not even entirely paid for. Jly 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
a great reputation for himself."
'' W'ould he make friends also at the
bar?"
"I admit he would not."
The detective shook his head.
"Well, I confess," ho said, "I do not
work for glory, nor from love of my art.
I know very well that vanity is the great
motive-power with some of my colleagues;
but I am more practical. I have never
liked my profession; and, if I continue to
practise it, it is because I have not the
money to go into any other. It drives
my wife to despair, besides: she is only
half alive as long as I am away; and she
trembles every morning for fear I may
be brought home with a knife between
my shoulders."
M. Folgat had listened attentively; but
at the same time he had pulled out a
pocket-book, which looked decidedly ple-
thoric, and placed it on the table.



134
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
There are not many neighbors in Vine
Street.
A teacher and a nurseryman, a lock-
smith and a liveryman, five or six owners
of houses, and the inevitable keeper of a
wine-shop and restaurant, these were the
whole population.
'-We shall soon make the rounds,"
said Goudar, after having ordered the
coachman to wait for them at the end of
the street.
Neither the head master nor his assist-
ants knew any thing. The nurseryman
had heard it said that No. 23 belonged to
an Englishman; but he had never seen
him, and did not even know his name.
The locksmith knew that he was called
Francis Burnett. He had done some
work for him, for which he had been
well paid, and thus he had frequently
seen him; but it was so long since, that
he did not think he would recognize him.
"We are unlucky," said M. Folgat,
after this visit.
The memory of the liveryman was
more trustworthy. He said he knew the
Englishman of No. 23 very well, having
driven him three or four times; and the
description he gave of him answered
fully to Jacques de Boiscoran. He also
remembered that one evening, when the
weather was wretched, Sir Burnett had
come himself to order a carriage. It
was for a lady, who had got in alone, and
who had been driven to the Place de la
Madeleine. But it was a dark night;
the lady wore a thick veil; he had not
been able to distinguish her features, and
all he could say was that she looked
above medium height.
"It is always the same story," said
Goudar. "But the wine-merchint ought
to be best informed. If I were alone, I
would breakfast there."
"I shall breakfast with you," said M.
Folgat.
They did so, and they did wisely.
The wine-merchant did not know much;
but his waiter, who had been with him
five or six years, knew Sir Burnett, as
everybody called the Englishman, by sight,
and was quite well acquainted with the
servant-girl, Suky Wood. While he was
bringing in breakfast, ho told them all
he knew.
Suky, he said, was a tall, strapping
girl, with hair red enough to set her
bonnets on fire, and graceful enough to
be mistaken for a heavy dragoon in fe-
male disguise. He had often had long
talks with her when she came to fetch
some ready-made dish, or to buy some
beer, of which she was very fond. She
told him she was very much pleased with
her place, as she got plenty of money,
and had, so to say, nothing to do, being
being left alone in the house for nine
months in the year. From her the waiter
had also learned that Sir Burnett must
have another house, and that he came to
Vine Street only to receive visits from a
lady.
This lady troubled Suky very much.
She declared she had never been able to
see the end of her nose even, so very cau-
tious was she in all her movements; but
she intended to see her in spite of
all.
'' And you may be sure she managed to
do it some time or other," Goudar whis-
pered into M. Folgat's ear.
Finally they learned from this waiter,
that Suky had been very intimate with the
servant of an old gentleman who lived
quite alone in No. 27.
"We must see her," said Goudar.
Luckily the girl's master had just gone
out, and she was alone in the house. At
first she was a little frightened at being
called upon and questioned by two un-
known men; but the detective knew how
to re-assure her very quickly, and, as she
was a great talker, she confirmed all the
waiter at the restaurant had told them,
and added some details.
Suky had been very intimate with her;
she had never hesitated to tell her that
Burnett was not an Englishman; that his
name was not Burnett, and that he was
concealing himself in Vine Street under a
false name, for the purpose of meeting
there his lady-love, who was a grand, fine
lady, and marvellously beautiful. Finally,
at the outbreak of the war, Suky had
told her that she was going back to Eng-
land to her relations. When they left
the old bachelor's house, Goudar said to
the young advocate, —
"We have obtained but little informa-
tion, and the jurymen would pay little
attention to it; but there is enough of it
to confirm, at least in part, M. de Bois-
coran's statement. We can prove that he
met a lady here who had the greatest
interest in remaining unknown. Was
this, as he says, the Countess Claudieuse?
We might find this out from Suky; for
she has seen her, beyond all doubt. Hence
we must hunt up Suky. And now, let
us take our carriage, and go to headquar-
ters. You can wait for me at the cafe
near the Palais de Justice. I shall not be
away more than a quarter of an hour."
It took him, however, a good hour and
a half; and M. Folgat was beginning to
be troubled, when he at last re-appeared,
looking very well pleased.
"Waiter, a glass of beer!" he said.


136 WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
"What are you thinking of, dear
child?"
"Of nothing, dear papa," she replied.
"You are sadder than usual: why are
you so?"
"Alas! How do I know? Does any-
body know why one day we have sunshine
in our hearts, and another day dismal
clouds?"
But the next day she insisted upon being
taken to her seamstresses, and finding
Mechinet, the clerk, there, she remained
a full half-hour in conference with him.
Then, in the evening, when Dr. Seigne-
bos, after a short visit, was leaving the
room, she lay in wait for him, and kept
him talking a long time at the door.
Finally, the day after, she asked once more
to be allowed to go and see Jacques.
They could no longer refuse her this sad
satisfaction; and it was agreed that the
older of the two Misses Lavarande, Miss
Adelaide, should accompany her.
About two o'clock on that day they
knocked at the prison-door, and asked
the jailer, who had come to open the
door, to let them see Jacques.
"I'll go for him at once, madam," re-
plied Blangin. "In the mean time pray
step in here: the parlor is rather damp,
and the less you stay in it, the better it
will be."
Dionysia did so, or, rather, she did a
great deal more; for, leaving her aunt
down stairs, she drew Mrs. Blangin to
the upper room, having something to say
to her, as she pretended.
When they came down again, Blangin
told them that M. de Boiscoran was wait-
ing for them.
'' Come!" said the young girl to her
aunt.
But she had not taken ten steps in the
long narrow passage which led to the
parlor, when she stopped. The damp
which fell from the vaulted ceiling like a
pall upon her, and the emotions which
were agitating her heart, combined to
overwhelm her. She tottered, and had to
lean against the wall, reeking as it was
with wet and with saltpetre.
"O Lord, you are ill I" cried Miss
Adelaide.
Dionysia beckoned to her to be silent.
"Oh, it is nothing I" she said. "Be
quiet!"
And gathering up all her strength, and
putting her little hand upon the old
lady's shoulder, she said, —
"My darling aunty, you must render
us an immense service. It is all impor-
tant that I should speak -to Jacques
alone. It would be very dangerous for
us to' be overheard. I know they often
set spies to listen to prisoners' talk. Do,
please, dear aunt, remain here in the pas-
sage, and give us warning, if anybody
should come."
"You do not think of it, dear child.
Would it be proper?"
The young girl stopped her again.
"Was it proper when I came and
spent a night here? Alas! in our posi-
tion, every thing is proper that may be
useful."
And, as Aunt Lavarande made no
reply, she felt sure of her perfect sub-
mission, and went on towards the parlor.
"Dionysia!" cried Jacques as soon as
she entered, — " Dionysia!"
He was standing in the centre of this
mournful hall, looking whiter than the
whitewash on the wall, but apparently
calm, and almost smiling. The violence
with which he controlled himself was
horrible. But how could he allow his
betrothed to see his despair? Ought he
not, on the contrary, do every thing to
re-assure her?
He came up to her, took her hands in
his, and said, —
"Ah, it is so kind in you to come I and
yet I have looked for you ever since the
morning. I have been watching and
waiting, and trembling at every noise.
But will you ever forgive me for having
made you come to a place like this,
untidy and ugly, without the fatal poetry
of horror even?"
She looked at him with such obstinate
fixedness, that the words expired on his
lips.
"Why will you tell me a falsehood?"
she said sadly.
"I tell you a falsehood!"
"Yes. Why do you affect this gayety
and tranquillity, which are so far from
your heart? Have you no longer confi-
dence in me? Do you think I am a
child, from whom the truth must be con-
cealed, or so feeble and good for nothing,
that I cannot bear my share of your
troubles? Do not smile, Jacques; fori
know you have no hope."
"You are mistaken, Dionysia, I assure
you."
"No, Jacques. They are concealing
something from me, 1 know, and I do not
ask you to tell me what it is. I know
quite enough. You will have to appear
in court."
"I beg your pardon. That question
has not yet been decided."
"But it will be decided, and against
you."
Jacques knew very well it would be so,
and dreaded it; but he still insisted upon
playing his part.


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
137
"Well," he said, " if I appear in court,
I shall be acquitted."
"Are you quite sure of that?"
"I have ninety-nine chances out of a
hundred for me."
"There is one, however, against you,"
cried the young girl. And seizing
Jacques's hands, and pressing them with
a force of which he would never have
suspected her, she added, —
"You have no right to run that one
chance."
Jacques trembled in all his limbs.
Was it possible? Did he understand
her? Did Dionysia herself come and
suggest to him that act of supreme de-
spair, from which his counsel had so
strongly dissuaded him?"
"What do you mean? " he said with
trembling voice.
"You must escape."
"Escape?"
"Nothing so easy. I have considered
the whole matter thoroughly. The jail-
ers are in our pay. I have just come to
an understanding with Blangin's wife.
One' evening, as soon as night falls, they
will open the doors to you. A horse will
be ready for you outside of town, and
relays have been prepared. In four
hours you can reach Rochelle. There,
one of those pilot-boats which can stand
any storm takes you on board, and carries
you to England."
Jacques shook his head.
"That cannot be," he replied. "I am
innocent. I cannot abandon all I hold
dear, — you, Dionysia."
A deep flush covered the young girl's
cheeks. She stammered, —
"I have expressed myself badly. You
shall not go alone."
He raised his hands to heaven, as if
in utter despair.
"Great God! Thou grantest me this
consolation!"
But Dionysia went on speaking in a
firmer voice, —
**Did you think I would be mean
enough to forsake the friend who is
betrayed by everybody else? No, no!
Grandpapa and my aunts will accompany
me, and we will meet you in England.
You will change your name, and go
across to America; and we will look out,
far in the West, for some new country
where we can establish ourselves. It
won't be France, to be sure. But our
country, Jacques, is the country where
we are free, where we are beloved, where
we are happy."
Jacques de Boiscoran was moved to
the last fibre of his innermost heart, and
in a kind of ecstasy which did not allow
him to keep up any longer his mask of
impassive indifference. Was there a
man upon earth who could receive a
more glorious proof of love and devo-
tion? And from what a woman I From
a young girl, who united in herself all
the qualities of which a single one makes
others proud, — intelligence and grace,
high rank and fortune, beauty and en-
gelic purity.
Ah! she did not hesitate, like that
other one; she did not think of asking
for securities before she granted the first
favor; she did not make a science of
duplicity, nor hypocrisy her only virtue.
She gave herself up entirely, and without
the slightest reserve.
And all this at the moment when
Jacques saw every thing else around him
crumbled to pieces, when he was on the
very brink of utter despair, just then this
happiness came to him, this great and
unexpected happiness, which well-nigh
broke his heart. \
For a moment he could not move, he
cfculd not think.
Then all of a sudden, drawing his
betrothed to him, pressing her convul-
sively to his bosom, and covering her hair
with a thousand kisses, he cried, —
"I bless you, oh, my darling! I bless
you, my well beloved I I shall mourn no
longer. Whatever may happen, I have
had my share of heavenly bliss."
She thought he consented. Palpitat-
ing like the bird in the hand of a
child, she drew back, and, looking at
Jacques with ineffable love and tender-
ness, she said, —
"Let w fix the day I"
"What day?"
"The day for your flight."
This word alone recalled Jacques to a
sense of his fearful position. . He was
soaring in the supreme heights of the
ether, and he was plunged down into the
vile mud of reality. His face, radiant
with celestial joy, grew dark in an
instant, and he said hoarsely, —
"That dream is too beautiful to be
realized."
"What do you say ?" she stammered.
"I can not, I must not, escape I"
"You refuse me, Jacques?"
He made no reply.
"You refuse me, when I swear to you
that I will join you, and share your exile?
Do you doubt my word? Do you fear
that my grandfather or my aunts might
keep me here in spite of myself?"
As this suppliant voice fell upon his
ears, Jacques felt as if all his energy
abandoned him, and his will was shaken.
"I beseech you, Dionysia," he said,


140
-WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
thy and the most sincere admiration by
the whole population."
"Ah, that wretch Boiscoran!" cried
the good people of Sauveterre when they
read such an article.
The next day, they found this, —
'' We have sent to the hospital to in-
quire from the lady superior how the
poor idiot is, who has taken such a promi-
nent part in the bloody drama at Valpin-
son. His mental condition remains un-
changed since he has been examined by
experts. The spark of intelligence which
the crime had elicited seems to be ex-
tinguished entirely and forever. It is im-
possible to obtain a word from him. He
hardly recognizes the persons who attend
to him. He is, however, not locked up.
Inoffensive and gentle, like a poor animal
that has lost its master, he wanders
mournfully through the courts and gar-
dens of the hospital. Dr. S., who used
to take a lively interest in him, hardly
ever sees him now.
"It was thought at one time, that C.
would be summoned to give evidence in
the approaching trial. We are informed
by high authority, that such a dramatic
scene must not be expected to take place.
C. will not appear before the jury."
"Certainly, Cocoleu's deposition must
have been an interposition of Provi-
dence," said people who were not far
from believing that it was a genuine mir-
acle.
The next day the editor took M. Gal-
pin in hand.
"M. G.," he wrote, "the eminent
magistrate, is very unwell just now, and
very naturally so after an investigation
of such length and importance as that
which preceded the Boiscoran trial. We
are told that he only awaits the decree of
the court, to ask for a furlough and to go
to one of the rural stations of the Py-
renees."
Then came Jacques's turn, —
"M. J. de B. stands his imprisonment
better than could be expected. Accord-
ing to direct information, his health is
excellent, and his spirits do not seem to
have suffered. Ho reads much, and
spends part of the night in preparing his
defence, and making notes for his coun-
sel."
Then came, from day to day, smaller
items, —
"M. J. de B. is no longer in close con-
finement."
0l''-
"M. de B. had this morning an inter-
view with his counsel, M. M., the most
eminent member of our bar, and M. F.,
a young bat distinguished advocate from
Paris. The conference lasted several
hours. We abstain from giving details;
but our readers will understand the re-
serve required in the case of an accused
who insists upon protesting energetically
that he is innocent."
And again, —
"M. de B. was yesterday visited by his
mother."
Or, finally, —
"We hear at the last moment that the
Marchioness de P. and M. Folgat have
left for Paris. Our correspondent in P.
writes us that the decree of the court
will not be delayed much longer."
Never had " The Sauveterre Independ-
ent" been read with so much interest.
And, as everybody endeavored to be better
informed than his neighbor, quite a num-
ber of idle men had assumed the duty of
watching Jacques's friends, and spent their
days in trying to find out what was going
on at M. de Chandore's house. Thus it
came about, that, on the evening of Dio-
nysia's visit to Jacques, the street was
full of curious people. Towards half-
past ten, they saw M. de Chandore's car-
riage come out of the courtyard, and draw
up at the door. At eleven o'clock M. de
Chandore and Dr. Seignebos got in, the
coachman whipped the horse, and they
drove off.
"Where can they be going?" asked
they.
They followed the carriage. The two
gentlemen drove to the station. They
had received a telegram, and were expect-
ing the return of the marchioness and M.
Folgat, accompanied, this time, by the old
marquis.
They reached there much too soon.
The local branch railway which goes to
Sauveterre is not famous for regular-
ity, and still reminds its patrons occa-
sionally of the old habits of stage-
coaches, when the driver or the conduc-
tor had, at the last moment, to stop to
pick up something they had forgotten.
At a quarter-past midnight the train,
which ought to have been there twenty
minutes before, had not yet been sig-
nalled. Every thing around* was silent
and deserted. Through the windows the
station-master might be seen fast asleep
in his huge leather chair. Clerks and
porters all were asleep, stretched out on
the benches of the waiting-room. But
people are accustomed to such delays at
Sauveterre; they are prepared for being
kept waiting: and Ihe doctor and M. de
Chandore were walking up and down the
platform, being neither astonished nor
impatient at the irregularity. Nor would
they have been much surprised if they


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
143
» There is not a man alive who could
see his father shed tears, and not feel his
heart melt within him. All the resolu-
tions 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 suf-
ferings. I thought I was abandoned,
disowned."
For the first time since his imprison-
ment, 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 his 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 I To know the guilty one,
and not to dare mention the name. Ah!
at first I did not take in the whole hor-
ror of my situation. I was frightened, to
be sure; but I had recovered, thinking
that surely j ustice would not be slow in dis-
covering 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
nave been victimized by the most un-
heard-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 pru-
dence. 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 under-
stand 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, "Dio-
nysia came to see. Do you know what
brought her here? She offered to flee
with me. Father, that temptation was
terrible. Once free, and Diouysia 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 im-
prisonment, 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 noth-
ing 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 over 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 unfortu-
nate 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 com-
prehend that such a suspicion is quite
sufficient to imbitter 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. Check-
ing his excitement by an heroic effort,
he said,—
"But I did not come here to discuss


144
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
this question: I came to tell you, that,
whatever may happen, your father will
■ stand by you, and that, if you must un-
dergo 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 see-
ing 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 prom-
ise 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 par-
don for ever having doubted your heart
for a moment."
M. de Boiscoran tried his best to re-
cover 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,
as yet, no real success has been achieved."
Jacques looked rather discouraged.
"Traces?" he asked.
"Be patient. They are feeble traces,
I admit, and such as could not be pro-
duced in court; but from day to day
they may become decisive. And already
they have had one good effect: they
have brought us back M. Magloire."
"O God! Could I really be sared?"
"I shall leave to M. Folgat," continued
the marquis, " the satisfaction of telling
you the result of his efforts. He can
explain their bearing better than I could.
And you will not have long to wait; for
last, night, or rather this morning, when
we separated, he and M. Magloire agreed
to meet here at the prison, before two
o'clock."
A few minutes later a rapid step ap-
proached in the passage; and Trumence
appeared, the prisoner of whom Blangin
had made an assistant, and whom
Mechinet had employed to carry Jacques's
letters to Dionysia. He was a tall, well-
made man of twenty five or six years,
whose large mouth and small eyes were
perpetually laughing. A vagabond,
without hearth or home, Trumence had
once been a land-owner. At the death
of his parents, when he was only eigh-
teen years old, Trumence had come into
possession of a house surrounded by a
yard, a garden, several acres of land, and
a salt meadow; all worth about fifteen
thousand francs. Unfortunately the
time for the conscription was near. Like
many young men of that district, Tru-
mence believed in witchcraft, and had
gone to buy a charm, which cost him
fifty francs. It consisted of three tama-
rind-branches gathered on Christmas
Eve, and tied together by a magic num-
ber of hairs drawn from a dead man's
head. Having sewed this charm into his
waistcoat, Trumence had. gone to town,
and, plunging his hand boldly into the
urn, had drawn number three. This
was unexpected. But as he had a great
horror of military service, and, well-made
as he was, felt quite sure that he would
not be rejected, he determined to employ
a chance much more certain to succeed;
namely, to borrow money in order to buy
a substitute.
As he was a land-owner, he found no
difficulty in meeting with an obliging
person, who consented to lend him for
two years thirty-five hundred francs, in
return for a first mortgage on his property.
When the papers were signed, and
Trumence had the money in his pocket,
he set out for Rochefort, where dealers in
substitutes abounded; and for the sum of
two thousand francs, exclusive of some
smaller items, they furnished him a sub-
stitute of the best quality.
Delighted with the operation, Tru-
mence was about to return home, when
his evil star led him to sup at his inn
with a countryman, a former schoolmate,
who was now a sailor on board a coal-
barge. Of course, countrymen when they
meet must drink. They did drink; and,
as the sailor very soon scented the twelve
hundred francs which still remained in
Trumence's pockets, he swore that he
was going to have a jolly time, and
would not return on board his barge as
long as there remained a cent in his
friend's pocket. So it happened, that,
after a fortnight's carouse, the sailor was
arrested and put in jail; and Trumence
was compelled to borrow five francs from
the stage-driver to enable him to get
home.
This fortnight was decisive for his life.
During these days he had lost all taste
for work, and acquired a real passion for
taverns where they played with greasy
cards. After his return he tried to con-
tinue this jolly life; and, to do so, he
made more debts. He sold, piece after
piece, all he possessed that was salable,
down to his mattress and his tools. This
was not the way to repay the thirty-five
hundred francs which he owed. When


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
145
pay-day came, the creditor, seeing that his
security was diminishing every day, lost
no time. Before Trumence was well
aware of what was going on, an execution
was in the house; his lands were sold;
and one fine day he found himself in the
street, possessing literally nothing in the
world butthe wretched clothes on his back.
He might easily have found employ-
ment; for he was a good workman, and
people were fond of him in spite of all.
But he was even more afraid of work
than he was fond of drink. Whenever
want pressed too hard, he worked a few
days; but, as soon -as he had earned ten
francs, good-by! Off he went, loun-
ging by the road-side, talking with the
wagoners, or loafing about the villages,
and watching for one of those kind topers,
who, rather than drink alone, invite the
first-comer. Trumence boasted of being
well known all along the coast, and even
far into the department. And what was
most surprising was that people did not
blame him much for his idleness. Good
housewives in the country would, it is
true, greet him with a "Well, what do vou
want here, good-for-nothing?" But they
would rarely refuse him a bowl of soup
or a glass of white wine. His unchan-
ging good-humor, and his obliging disposi-
tion, explained this forbearance. This
man, who would refuse a well-paid job,
was ever ready to lend a hand for noth-
ing. And he was handy at every thing,
by land and by water, he called it, so
that the farmer whose business was press-
ing, and the fisherman in his boat who
wanted help, appealed alike to Trumence.
The mischief, however, is, that this life
of rural beggary, if it has its good days,
also has its evil times. On certain days,
Trumence could not find either kind-
hearted topers or hospitable housewives.
Hunger, however, was ever on hand;
then he had to become a marauder; dig
some potatoes, and cook them in a corner
of a wood, or pilfer the orchards. And
if he found neither potatoes in the fields,
nor apples in the orchards, what could he
do but climb a fence, or scale a wall?
Relatively speaking, Trumence was an
honest man, and incapable of stealing a
piece of money; but vegetables, fruits,
chickens —
Thus it had come about that he had
been arrested twice, and condemned to
several days' imprisonment; and each
time he had vowed solemnly that he
would never be caught at it again, and
that he was going to work hard. And
yet he had been caught again.
The poor fellow had told his misfor-
tunes to Jacques; and Jacques, who
owed it to him that he could, when still
in close confinement, correspond with
Dionysia, felt very kindly towards him.
Hence, when he saw him come up very
respectful, and cap in hand, he asked, —
"What is it, Trumence?"
"Sir," replied the vagrant, "M. Blan-
gin sends you word that the two advo-
cates are coming up to your room."
Once more 'the marquis embraced his
son, saying,—
"Do not keep them waiting, and keep
up your courage."
XXIH.
The Marquis de Boiscoran had not
been mistaken about M. Magloire. Much
shaken by Dionysia's statement, he had
been completely overcome by M. Folgat's
explanations; and, when he now came to
the jail, it was with a determination to
prove Jacques's innocence.
"But I doubt very much whether he
will ever forgive me for my incredulity,"
he said to M. Folgat while they were
waiting for the prisoner in his cell.
Jacques came in, still deeply moved by
the scene with his father. M. Magloire
went up to him, and said,—
"I have never been able to conceal my
thoughts, Jacques. When I thought you
guilty, and felt sure that you accused the
Countess Claudieuse falsely, I told you
so with almost brutal candor. I have
since found out my error, and am now con-
vinced of the truth of your statement: so
I come and tell you as frankly, Jacques,
I was wrong to have had more faith in
the reputation of a woman than in the
words of a friend. Will you give me
your hand?"
The prisoner grasped his hand with a
profusion of joy, and cried,—-
"Since you believe in my innocence,
others may believe in me too, and my
salvation is drawing near."
The melancholy faces of the two advo-
cates told him that he was rejoicing too
soon. His features expressed his grief;
but he said with a firm voice,—
"Well, I see that the struggle will be
a hard one, and that the result is still
uncertain. Never mind. You may be
sure I will not give way."
In the mean time M. Folgat had spread,
out on the table all the papers he had
brought with him, — copies furnished by
Me'chinet, and notes taken during his
rapid journey.
"First of all, my dear client," he said,
"I must inform you of what has been
done."


146
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
And when he had stated every thing,
down to the minutest details of what
Goudar and he had done, he said, —
"Let us sum up. We are able to prove
three things: 1. That the house in Vjne
Street belongs to you, and that Sir
Francis Burnett, who is known there,
and you are one; 2. That you were
visited in this house by a lady, who, from
all the precautions she took, had power-
ful reasons to remain unknown; 3. That
the visits of this lady took place at cer-
tain epochs every year, which coincided pre-
cisely with the journeys which the Count-
ess Claudieuse yearly made to Paris."
The great advocate of Sauveterre ex-
pressed his assent.
"Yes," he said, "all this is fully es-
tablished."
"For ourselves, we have another cer-
tainty,— that Suky Wood, the servant
of the false Sir Francis Burnett, has
watched the mysterious lady; that she has
seen her, and consequently would know
her again."
"True, that appears from the deposi-
tion of the girl's friend."
"Consequently, if we discover Suky
Wood, the Countess Claudieuse is un-
masked."
"If we discover her," said M. Ma-
gloire. "And here, unfortunately, we
enter into the region of suppositions."
"Suppositions!" said M. Folgat.
"Well, call them so; but they are based
upon positive facts, and supported by a
hundred precedents. Why should we
not find this Suky Wood, whose birth-
place and family we know, and who has
no reason for concealment? Goudar has
found very different people; and Goudar
is on our side. And you may be sure he
will not be asleep. I have held out to
him a certain hope which will make him
do miracles, — the hope of receiving as
a reward, if he succeeds, the house in
Vine Street. The stakes are too magnifi-
cent: he must win the game, — he who
has won so many already. Who knows
what he may not have discovered since
we left him? Has he not done wonders
already?"
"It is marvellous I" cried Jacques,
amazed at these results.
Older than M. Folgat and Jacques, the
eminent advocate of Sauveterre was less
ready to feel such enthusiasm.
"Yes," he said, "it is marvellous; and,
if we had time, I would say as you do,
'We shall carry the day!' But there is no
time for Goudar's investigations: the
sessions are on hand, and it seems to me
it would be very difficult to obtain a post-
ponement."
"Besides, I do not wish it to be post-'
poned," said Jacques.
"But" —
"On no account, Magloire, never!
What? I should endure three months
more of this anguish which tortures me?
I could not do it: my strength is ex-
hausted. This uncertainty has been too
much for me. I could bear no more sus-
pense."
M. Folgat interrupted him, saying, —
'' Do not trouble yourself about that:
a postponement is out of question. On
what pretext could we ask for it? The
only way would be to introduce an en-
tirely new element in the case. We
should have to summon the Countess
Claudieuse."
The greatest surprise appeared on
Jacques's face.
"Will we not summon her anyhow?"
he asked.
"That depends."
"I do not understand you."
"It is very simple, however. If Goudar
should succeed, before the trial, in col-
lecting sufficient evidence against her, I
should summon her certainly; and then
the case would naturally change entirely;
the whole proceedings would begin anew;
and you would probably appear only as a
witness. If, on the contrary, we obtain,
before the trial begins, no other proof
but what we have now, I shall not mention
her name even; for that would, in my
opinion and in M. Magloire's opinion,
ruin your cause irrevocably."
"Yes," said the great advocate, "that
is my opinion."
Jacques's amazement was boundless.
"Still," he said, "in self-defence, I
must, if I am brought up in court, speak of
my relations to the Countess Claudieuse."
"No." .
"But that is my only explanation."
"If it were credited."
"And you think you can defend me,
you think you can save me, without tell-
ing the truth?"
M. Folgat shook his head, and said, —
"In court the truth is the last thing to
be thought of."
"Oh!"
"Do you think the jury would credit
allegations which M. Magloire did not
credit? No. Well, then, we had better
not speak of them any more, and try to
find some explanation which will meet
the charges brought against you. Do
you think we should be the first to act
thus? By no means. There are very
few cases in which the prosecution says
all it knows, and still fewer in which
the defence calls for every thing it might


'WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE. 147
call for. Out of ten criminal trials,
there are at least three in which side-
issues are raised. What will be the
charge in court against you? The sub-
stance of the romance which the magis-
trate has invented in order to prove your
guilt. You must meet him with another
romance which proves vour innocence."
"But the truth."
"Is dependent on probability, my dear
client. Ask M. Magloire. The prosecu-
tion only asks for probability: hence
probability is all the defence has to care
for. Human justice is feeble, and limited
in its means; it cannot go down to the
very bottom of things; it cannot judge
of motives, and fathom consciences. It
can only judge from appearances, and
decide by plausibility: there is hardly a
case which has not some unexplored mys-
tery, some undiscovered secret. The
truth! Ah! do you think M. Galpin has
looked for it? If he did, why did he not
summon Cocoleu? But no, as long as he
can produce a criminal, who may be re-
sponsible for the crime, he is quite con-
tent. The truth! Which of us knows the
real truth? Your case, M. de Boiscorari,
is one of those in which neither the prose-
cution, nor the defence, nor the accused
himself, knows the truth of the mat-
ter."
There followed a long silence, so deep
a silence, that the step of the sentinel
could be heard, who was walking up and
down under the prison-windows. M.
Folgat had said all he thought proper to
say: he feared, in saying more, to assume
too great a responsibility. It was, after
all, Jacques's life and Jacques's honor
which were at stake. He alone, there-
fore, ought to decide the nature of
his defence. If his judgment was too
forcibly controlled by his counsel, he
would have had a right hereafter to say,
"Why did you not leave me free to
choose? I should not have been con-
demned."
To show this very clearly, M. Folgat
went on, —
"The advice I give you, my dear
client, is, in my eyes, the best: it is the
advice I would give my own brother.
But, unfortunately, I cannot say it is
infallible. You must decide yourself.
Whatever you may resolve, I am still at
your service."
Jacques made no reply. His elbows
resting on the table, his face in his hands,
he remained motionless, like a statue,
absorbed in his thoughts. What should
he do? Should he follow his first im-
pulse, tear the veil aside, and proclaim
the truth? That was a doubtful policy,
but, also, what a triumph if he suc-
ceeded!
Should he adopt the views of his coun-
sel, employ subterfuges and falsehoods?
That was more certain of success; but to
be successful in this way — was that a
real victory?
Jacques was in a terrible perplexity.
He felt it but too clearly. The decision
he must form now would decide his fate.
Suddenly he raised his head, and said, —
"What is your advice, M. Magloire?"
The great advocate of Sauveterre
frowned angrily, and said, in a some-
what rough tone of voice, —
'' I have had the honor to place before
our mother all that my young colleague
as just told you. M. Folgat has but
one fault, — he is too cautious. The
physician must not ask what his patient
thinks of his remedies: he must prescribe
them. It may be that our prescriptions
do not meet with success; but, if you do
not follow them, you are most assuredly
lost."
Jacques hesitated for some minutes
longer. These prescriptions, as M. Ma-
gloire called them, were painfully re-
pugnant to his chivalrous and open
character.
"Would it be worth while," he mur-
mured, "to be acquitted on such terms?
Would I really be exculpated by such
proceedings? Would not my whole life
thereafter be disgraced by suspicions?
I should not come out from the trial with
a clear acquittal: I should have escaped
by a mere chance."
"That would still be better than to go,
by a clear judgment, to the galleys,"
said M. Magloire brutally.
This word, "the galleys," made Jacques
bound. He rose, walked up and down
a few times in his room, and then,
placing himself in front of his counsel,
said,—
"I put myself in your hands, gentle-
men. Tell me what I must do."
Jacques had at least this merit, if he
once formed a resolution, he was sure to
adhere to it. Calm now, and self-pos-
sessed, he sat down, and said, with a
melancholy smile, —
"Let us hear the plan of battle."
This plan had been for a month now
the one great thought of M. Folgat. All
his intelligence, all his sagacity and
knowledge of the world, had been brought
to bear upon this case, which he had
made his own, so to say, by his almost
passionate interest. He knew the tactics
of the prosecution as well as M. Galpin
himself, and he knew its weak and its
strong side even better than M. Galpin.
y
h


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
149
Q. — Have a care: the system of
negation and concealment is dangerous.
A. — I know it, and I accept the con-
sequences.'"
Jacques was dumfounded. And neces-
sarily every accused person is equally sur-
prised when he hears what he has stated
in the examination. There is not one
who does not exclaim, —
'' AVhat, I said that? Never!"
He has said it, and there is no denying
it; for there it is written, and signed by
himself. How could he ever say so?
Ah! that is the point. However clever
a man may be, he cannot for many
months keep all his faculties on the
stretch, and all his energy up to its full
power. He has his hours of prostration
and his hours of hope, his attacks of
despair and his moments of courage;
and the impassive magistrate takes ad-
vantage of them all. Innocent or guilty,
no prisoner can cope with him. However
powerful his memory may be, how can
he recall an answer which he may have
given weeks and weeks before? The
magistrate, however, remembers it; and
twenty times, if needs be, he brings it
up again. And as the small snowflake
may become an irresistible avalanche, so
an insignificant word, uttered at hap-
hazard, forgotten, then recalled, com-
mented upon, and enlarged, may become
crushing evidence.
Jacques now experienced this. These
questions had been put to him so skil-
fully, and at such long intervals of time,
that he had totally forgotten them; and
yet now, when he recalled his answers,
he had to acknowledge that he had con-
fessed his purpose to devote that evening
to some business of great importance.
"That is fearful!" he cried.
And, overcome by the terrible reality
of M. Folgat's apprehension, he added,—
"How can we get out of that?"
"I told you," replied M. Folgat, "we
must find some plausible explanation."
"I am sure I am incapable of that."
The young lawyer seemed to reflect a
moment, and then he said, —
"You have been a prisoner while I
have been free. For a month now I have
thought that matter over."
"Ah!"
"Where was your wedding to be?"
"At my house at Boiscoran."
"Where was the religious ceremony to
take place?"
"At the church at Brechy."
"Have you ever spoken of that to the
priest?"
"Several times. One day especially,
when we discussed it in a pleasant way,
he said jestingly to me, 'I shall have
you, after all, in my confessional.'"
M. Folgat almost trembled with satis-
faction, and Jacques saw it.
'' Then the priest at Brechy was your
friend?"
"An intimate friend. He sometimes
came to dine with me quite unceremoni-
ously, and I never passed him without
shaking hands with him."
The young lawyer's joy was growing
perceptibly.
"Well," he said, "my explanation is
becoming quite plausible. Just hear
what I have positively ascertained to be
the fact. In the time from nine .to eleven
o'clock, on the night of the crime, there
was not a soul at the parsonage in
Brechy. The priest was dining with M.
Besson, at his house; and his servant had
gone out to meet him with a lantern."
"I understand," said M. Magloire.
'' Why should you not have gone to see
the priest at Brechy, my dear client? In
the first place, you had to arrange the
details of the ceremony with him; then,
as he is your friend, and a man of ex-
perience, and a priest, you wanted to ask
him for his advice before taking so grave
a step, and, finally, you intended to fulfil
that religious duty of which he spoke,
and which you were rather reluctant to
comply with."
"Well said!" approved the eminent
lawyer of Sauveterre, —" very well
said!"
"So, you see, my dear client, it was for
the purpose of consulting the priest at
Brechy that you deprived yourself of the
pleasure of spending the evening with
your betrothed. Now let us see how'that
answers the allegations of the prosecu-
tion. They ask you why you took to the
marshes. Why? Because it was the
shortest way, and you were afraid of
finding the priest in bed. Nothing more
natural; for it is well known that the
excellent man is in the habit of going to
bed at nine o'clock. Still you had put
yourself out in vain; for, when you
knocked at the door of the parsonage,
nobody came to open."
Here M. Magloire interrupted his col-
league, saying, —
"So far, all is very well. But now
there comes a very great improbability.
No one would think of going through the
forest of Rochepommier in order to re-
turn from Brechy to Boiscoran. If you
knew the country " —
"I know it; for I have carefully ex-
plored it. And the proof of it is, that, hav-
ing foreseen the objection, I have iound
an answer. While M. de Boiscoran


150 .
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
knocked at the door, a little peasant-girl
passed by, and told him that she had just
met the priest at a place called the Mar-
shalls' Cross-roads. As the parsonage
stands quite isolated, at the end of the
villagp, such an incident is very probable.
As for the priest, chance led me to learn
this: precisely at the hour at which M. de
Boiscoran would have been at Brechy, a
priest passed the Marshalls' Cross-roads;
and this priest, whom I have seen, belongs
to the next parish. He also dined at M.
Besson's, and had just been sent for to
attend a dying woman. The little girl,
therefore, did not tell a story: she only
made a mistake."
"Excellent!" said M. Magloire.
"Still," continued M. Folgat, "after
this information, what did M. de Bois-
coran do? He went on; and, hoping
every moment to meet the priest, he
walked as far as the forest of Rochepom-
mier. Finding, at last, that the peasant-
girl had — purposely or not — led him
astray, he determined to return to Bois-
coran through the woods. But he was
in very bad humor at having thus lost an
evening which he might have spent with
his betrothed; and this made him swear
and curse, as the witness Gaudry has tes-
tified."
The famous lawyer of Sauveterre
shook his head.
"That is ingenious, I admit; and I con-
fess, in all humility, that I could not have
suggested any thing as good. But — for
there is a but—your story sins by its very
simplicity. The prosecution will say,
'If that is the truth, why did not M. de
Boiscoran say so at once? and what need
was there to consult his counsel ?'"
M. Folgat showed in his face that he
was making a great effort to meet the
objection. After a while, he replied,—
"I know but too well that that is the
weak spot in our armor, — a very weak
spot too; for it is quite clear, that, if M. de
Boiscoran had given this explanation on
the day of his arrest, he would have been
released instantly. But what better can
be found? What else can be found?
However, this is only a rough sketch of
my plan, and I have never put it into
words yet till now. With your assistance,
M. Magloire, with the aid of Mechinet,
to whom I am already indebted for very
valuable information, with the aid of
all our friends, in fine, I cannot help
hoping that I may be able to improve my
plan by adding some mysterious secret
which may help to explain M. de Boisco-
rau's reticence. I thought, at one time,
of calling in politics, and to pretend,
that, on account of the peculiar views of
which he is suspected, M. de Boiscoran
preferred keeping his relations with the
priest at Brechy a secret."
"Oh, that would have been most
unfortunate I" broke in M. Magloire.
"We are not only religious at Sauveterre,
we are devout, my good colleague,—ex-
cessively devout."
"And I have given up that idea."
Jacques, who had till now kept silent
and motionless, now raised himself sud-
denly to his full height, and cried, in a
voice of concentrated rage, —
"Is it not too bad, is it not atrocious,
that we should be compelled to concoct a
falsehood? And I am innocent I What
more could be done if I were a mur-
derer?"
Jacques was perfectly right: it was
monstrous that he should be absolutely
forced to conceal the truth. But his
counsel took no notice of his indignation:
they were too deeply absorbed in exam-
ining minutely their system of defence.
"Let us go on to the other points of
the accusation," said M. Magloire.
"If my version is accepted," replied
M. Folgat, "the rest follows as a matter
of course. But will they accept it?
On the day on which he was arrested, M.
de Boiscoran, trying to find an excuse for
having been out that night, has said that
he had gone to see his wood-merchant at
Brechy. That was a disastrous impru-
dence. And here is the true danger. As
to the rest, that amounts to nothing.
There is the water in which M. de Bois-
coran washed his hands when he came
home, and in which they have found
traces of burnt paper. We have only to
modify the facts very slightly to explain
that. We have only to state what M. de
Boiscoran really did, with a slight change
in the motive. M. de Boiscoran is a pas-
sionate smoker: that is well known. He
had taken with him a goodly supply of
cigarettes when he set out for Brechy;
but he had taken no matches. And that
is a fact. We can furnish proof, we can
produce witnesses, we had no matches;
for we had forgotten our match-box, the
day before, at M. de Chandore's,— the
box which we always carry about on
our person, which everybody knows,
and which is still lying on the mantle-
piece in Miss Dionysia's little boudoir.
Well, having no matches, we found that
we could go no farther without a smoke.
We had gone quite far already; and the
question was, Shall we go on without
smoking, or return? No need of either I
There was our gun; and we knew very
well what sportsmen do under such cir-
cumstances. We took the shot out of one


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
151
of our cartridges, and, in setting the pow-
der on fire, we lighted a piece of paper.
This i3 an operation in which you cannot
help blackening your fingers. As we had
to repeat it several times, our hands were
very much soiled and very black, and the
nails full of little fragments of burnt
paper."
"Ah! now you are right," exclaimed
M. Magloire. "Well done!"
His young colleague became more and
more animated; and always employing
the professional "we," which his brethren
affect, he went on, —
"This water, which you dwell upon so
much, is the clearest evidence of our inno-
cence. If we had been an incendiary, we
should certainly have poured it out as
hurriedly as the murderer tries to wash
out the blood-stains on his clothes, which
betray him."
"Very well," said M. Magloire again
approvingly.
"And your other charges," continued
M. Folgat, as if he were standing in
court, and addressing the jury,—"your
other charges have all the same weight.
Our letter to Miss Dionysia.— why do you
refer to that? Because, you say, it proves
our premeditation. Ah! there I hold
you. Are we really so stupid and bereft
of common sense? That is not our repu-
tation. What! we premeditate a crime,
and we do not say to ourselves that we
shall certainly be convicted unless we
prepare an alibi! What! we leave home
with the fixed purpose of killing a man,
and we load our gun with small-shot!
Really, you make the defence too easy;
for your charges do not stand being ex-
amined."
It was Jacques's turn, this time, to
testify his approbation.
"That is," he said, "what I have told
Galpin over and over again; and he
never had any thing to say in reply. We
must insist on that point."
M. Folgat was consulting his notes.
"I now come to a very important cir-
cumstance, and one which I should, at
the trial, make a decisive question, if it
should be favorable to our side. Your
valet, my dear client, — your old An-
thony, — told me that he had cleaned and
washed your breech-loader the night
before the crime."
'' Great God!" exclaimed Jacques.
"Well, I see you appreciate the im-
portance of the fact. Between that
cleaning and the time when you set a
cartridge on fire, in order to burn the
letters of the Couutess Claudieuse, did
you fire your gun? If you did, we must
. say nothing more about it. If you did
not, one of the barrels of the breech-
loader must be clean, and then you are
safe."
For more than a minute, Jacques re-
mained silent, trying to recall the facts,
at last he replied, —
"It seems to me, I am sure, I fired at
a rabbit on the morning of the fatal
day."
M. Magloire looked disappointed.
"Fate again! " he said.
"Oh, wait!" cried Jacques. "I am
quite sure, at all events, that I killed that
rabbit at the first shot. Consequently, I
can have fouled only one barrel of the
gun. If I have used the same barrel at
Valpinson, to get a light, I am safe.
With a double gun, one almost instinc-
tively first uses the right-hand barrel."
M. Magloire's face grew darker.
"Never mind," he said, "we cannot
possibly make an argument upon such an
uncertain chance, — a chance which, in
case of error, would almost fatally turn
against us. But at the trial, when they
show you* the gun, examine it, so that
you can tell me how that matter stands."
Thus they had sketched the outlines of
their plan of defence. There remained
nothing now but to perfect the details;
and to this task the two lawyers were
devoting themselves still, when Blangin,
the jailer, called to them through the
wicket, that the doors of the prison were
about to be closed.
"Five minutes more, my good Blangin!"
cried Jacques.
And drawing his two friends aside, as
far from the wicket as he could, he said
to them in a low and distressed voice, —
"A thought has occurred to me, gentle-
men, which I think I ought to mention to
you. It cannot be but that the Countess
Claudieuse must be suffering terribly since
I am in prison. However sure she may be
of having left no trace behind her that
could betray her, she must tremble at the
idea that I may, after all, tell the truth in
self-defence. She would deny, I know,
and she is so sure of her prestige, that
she knows my accusations would not
injure her marvellous reputation. Never-
theless, she cannot but shrink from the
scandal. Who knows if she might not
give us the means to escape from the
trial, to avoid such exposure? Why
might not one of you gentlemen make
the attempt?"
M. Folgat was a man of quick resolu-
tion.
"I will try, if you will give me a line
of introduction."
Jacques immediately sat down, and
wrote, —


152
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
"I have told my counsel, M. Folgat,
every thing. Save me, and I swear to you
eternal silence. Will you let me perish,
Genevieve, when you know I am inno-
cent? Jacques."
"Is that enough?" he asked, handing
the lawyer the note.
"Yes; and I promise you I will see the
Countess Claudieuse within the next forty-
eight hours."
Blangin was becoming impatient; and
the two advocates had to leave the prison.
As they crossed the New-Market Square,
they noticed, not far from them, a wander-
ing musician, who was followed by a num-
ber of boys and girls.
It was a kind of minstrel, dressed in a
sort of garment which was no longer an
overcoat, and had not yet assumed the
shape of a shortcoat. He was strumming
on a wretched fiddle; but his voice was
good, and the ballad he sang had the full
flavor of the local accent: —
'' In the spring, mother Redbreast
Made her nest in the bushes,
The good lady!
Made her nest in the bushes,
The good lady!"
Instinctively M. Folgat was fumbling in
his pocket for a few cents, when the musi-
cian came up to him, held out his hat as
if to ask alms, and said, —
"You do not recognize me?"
The advocate started.
"You here!" he said.
"Yes, I myself. I came this morning.
I was watching for you; for I must see you
this evening at nine o'clock. Come and
open the little garden-gate at M. de Chan-
dore's for me."
And, taking up his fiddle again, he
wandered off listlessly, singing with his
clear voice, —
"And a few, a few weeks later,
She had a wee, a wee bit birdy."
XXIV.
The great lawyer of Sauveterre had
been far more astonished at the unex-
pected and extraordinary meeting than
M. Folgat. As soon as the wandering
minstrel had left them, he asked his
young colleague, —
"You know that individual?"
"That individual," replied M. Folgat,
"is none other than the agent whose ser-
vices I have engaged, and whom I men-
tioned to you."
"Goadar?"
"Yes, Goudar."
"And you did not recognize him?"
The young advocate smiled.
"Not until he spoke," he replied. "The
Goudar whom I know is tall, thin, beard-
less, and wears his hair cut like a brush.
This street-musician is low, bearded, and
has long, smooth hair falling down his
back. How could I recognize my man in
that vagabond costume, with a violin in
his Jiand, and a provincial song set to
music?"
M. Magloire smiled too, as he said, —
"What are, after all, professional actors
in comparison with these menl Here is
one who pretendo having reached Sauve-
terre only this morning, and who knows
the country as well as Trumence himself.
He has not been here twelve hours, and
he speaks already of M. de Chandore's
little garden-gate."
"Oh! I can explain that circumstance
now, although, at first, it surprised. me
very much. When I told Goudar the
whole story, I no doubt mentioned the
little gate in connection with Mechinet."
Whilst they were chatting thus, they
had reached .the upper end of National
Street. Here they stopped ; and M. Ma-
gloire said,—
"One word before we part. Are you
quite resolved to see the Countess Clau-
dieuse?"
"I have promised."
"What do you propose telling her?"
"I do not know. That depends upon
how she receives me."
"As far as I know her, she will, upon
looking at the note, merely order you
out."
"Who knows! At all events, I shall
not have to reproach myself for having
shrunk from a step which in my heart I
thought it my duty to take."
"Whatever may happen, be prudent,
and do not allow yourself to get angry.
Remember that a scene with her would
compel us to change our whole line of
defence, and that that is the only one
which promises any success."
"Oh, do not fear!"
Thereupon, shaking hands once more,
they parted, M. Magloire returning to his
house, and M. Folgat going up the street.
It struck half-past five, and the young ad-
vocate hurried on for fear of being too late.
He found them waiting for him to go to
dinner; but, as he entered the room, he for-
got all his excuses in his painful surprise
at the mournful and dejected appearance
of the prisoner's friends and relatives.
"Have we any bad news?" he asked
with a hesitating voice.
"The worst we had to fear," replied the


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
153
Marquis de Boiscoran. "We had all fore-
seen it; and still, as you see, it has surprised
us all, like a clap of thunder."
The young lawyer beat his forehead,
and cried, —
"The court has ordered the trial!"
The marquis only bent his head, as if
his voice had failed him to answer the
question.
"It is still a great secret," said Dio-
nysia; "and we only know it, thanks to
the indiscretion of our kind, our devoted
Mechinet. Jacques will have to appear
before the Assizes."
She was interrupted by a servant, who
entered to announce that dinner was on
the table.
They went into the dining-room; but
the last event made it well-nigh impos-
sible for them to eat. Dionysia alone,
deriving from feverish excitement an
amazing energy, aided M. Folgat in
keeping up the conversation. From her
the young advocate learned that Count
Claudieuse was decidedly worse, and that
he would have received, in the day, the
last sacrament, but for the decided op-
position of Dr. Seignebos, who had de-
clared that the slightest excitement
might kill his patient.
"And if he dies," said M. de Chandore,
"that is the finishing stroke. Public opin-
ion, already incensed against Jacques, will
become implacable."
However, the meal came to an end; and
M. Folgat went up to Dionysia, saying, —
"I must beg of you, madam, to trust me
with the key to the little garden-gate."
She looked at him quite astonished.
"I have to see a detective secretly, who
has promised me his assistance."
"Is he here?"
"He came this morning."
When Dionysia had handed him the
key, M. Folgat hastened to reach the end
of the garden; and, at the third stroke of
nine o'clock, the minstrel of the New-
Market Square, Goudar, pushed the little
gate, and, his violin under his arm, slipped
into the garden.
"A day lost I" he exclaimed, without
thinking of saluting the young lawyer,
— "a whole day; for I could do nothing
till I had seen you."
He seemed to be so angry, that M. Fol-
gat tried to soothe him.
"Let me first of all compliment you on
your disguise," he said. But Goudar did
not seem to be open to praise.
"What would a detective be worth if he
could not disguise himself! A great merit,
forsooth! And I tell you, I hate it! But
I could not think of coming to Sauveterre
in my own person, a detective. Ugh I
Everybody would have -run away; and
what a pack of lies they would have told
me I So I had to assume that hideous
masquerade. To think that I once took
six months' lessons from a music-teacher
merely to fit myself for that character I
A wandering musician, you see, can go
anywhere, and nobody is surprised; he
goes about the streets, or he travels along
the high-road; he enters into yards, and
slips into houses; he asks alms: and in
so doing, he accosts everybody, speaks to
them, follows them. And as to my pre-
cious dialect, you must know I have been
down here once for half a year, hunting up
counterfeiters; and, if you don't catch a
provincial accent in six months, you don't
deserve belonging to the police. And I
do belong to it, to the great distress of
my wife, and to my own disgust."
"If your pmbition is really what you
say, my dear Goudar," said M. Folgat,
interrupting him, "you may be able to
leave your profession very soon — if you
succeed in saving M. de Boiscoran."
"He would give me his house in Vine
Street?"
"With all his heart!"
The detective looked up, and repeated
slowly, —
"The house in Viae Street, the par-
adise of this world! An immense gar-
den, a soil of marvellous beauty. And
what an exposure I There are walls
there on which I could raise finer peaches
than they have at Montreuil, and richer
Chasselas than those of Fontainebleau!"
"Did you find any thing there ?" asked
M. Folgat.
Goudar, thus recalled to business,
looked angry again.
"Nothing at all," he replied. "Nor
did I learn any thing from the tradesmen.
I am no farther advanced than I was the
first day."
"Let us hope you will have more luck
here."
"I hope so; but I need your assistance
to commence operations. I must see Dr.
Seignebos, and Mechinet the clerk! Ask
them to meet me at the place I shall
assign in a note which I will send them."
"I will tell them."
"Now, if you want my incor/nito to be
respected, you must get me a permit from
the mayor, for Goudar, street-musician.
I keep my name, because here nobody
knows me. But I must have that permit
this evening. Wherever I might present
myself, asking for a bed, they would call
for my papers."
"Vv ait here for a quarter of an hour,
there is a bench," said M. Folgat, "and
I'll go at once to the mayor."


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
155
do all my life with spies and that ilk.
But your man might almost reconcile me
with that department.
"When did you see him?"
"This morning at seven. He was so
prodigiously tired of losing his time in
his garret at the Red Lamb, that it
occurred to him to pretend illness, and to
send for me. I went, and found a kind of
street-minstrel, who seemed to me to be
perfectly well. But, as soon as we were
alone, he told me all about it, asking me
my opinion, and telling me his ideas.
M. Folgat, that man Goudar is very
clever: I tell you so; and we understand
each other perfectly."
"Has he told you what he proposes to
do?"
"Nearly so. But he has not author-
ized me to speak of it. Have patience;
let him go to work, wait, and you will
see if old Seignebos has a keen scent."
Saying this with an air of sublime
conceit, he took off his spectacles, and set
to work wiping them industriously.
"Well, I will wait," said the young
advocate. "And, since that makes an
end to my business here, I beg you will
let me speak to you of another matter.
M. de Boiscoran has charged me with a
message to the Countess Claudieuse."
"The deuse!"
'.' And to try to obtain from her the
means for our discharge."
"Do you expect she will do it?"
M. Folgat could hardly retain an im-
patient gesture.
"I have accepted the mission," he said
dryly, "and I mean to carry it out."
"I understand, my dear sir. But you
will not see the countess. The count is
very ill. She does not leave his bedside,
and does not even receive her most inti-
mate friends."
"And still I must see her. I must at
any hazard place a note which my client
has confided to me, in her own hands.
And look here, doctor, I mean to be frank
with you. It was exactly because I fore-
saw there would be difficulties, that I
came to you to ask your assistance in
overcoming or avoiding them."
"Tome?"
"Are you not the count's physician?"
"Ten thousand devils I" cried Dr.
Seignebos. "You do not mince matters,
you lawyers!"
And then speaking in a lower tone,
and replying apparently to his own ob-
jections rather than to M. Folgat, he
said, —
"Certainly, I attend Count Claudieuse,
whose illness, by the way, upsets all my
theories, and defies all my experience:
but for that very reason I can do nothing.
Our profession has certain rules which
cannot be infringed upon without com-
promising the whole medical profession."
"But it is a question of life and death
with Jacques, sir, with a friend."
"And a fellow Republican, to be sure.
But I cannot help you without abusing
the confidence of the Countess Claudi-
euse."
"Ah, sir I Has not that woman com-
mitted a crime for which M. de Boisco-
ran, though innocent, will be arraigned
in court?"
"I think so; but still" —
He reflected a moment, and then sud-
denly snatched up his broad-brimmed
hat, drew it over his head, and cried,—
"In fact, so much the worse, for her!
There are sacred interests which override
every thing. Come!"
XXV.
■
Count Claudieuse and his wife had
installed themselves, the day after the fire,
in Mautrec Street. The house which the
mayor had taken for them had been for
more than a century in the possession of
the great Julias family, and is still con-
sidered one of the finest and most mag-
nificent mansions in Sauveterre.
In less than ten minutes Dr. Seignebos
and M. Folgat had reached the house.
From the street, nothing was visible but a
tall wall, as old as the castle, according to
the claims of archaeologists, and covered
all over with a mass of wild flowers. In
this wall there is a huge entrance-gate
with folding-doors. During the day one-
half is opened, and a light, low open-work
railing put in, which rings a bell as soon
as it is pushed open.
You then cross a large garden, in which
a dozen statues, covered with green moss,
are falling to pieces on their pedestals,
overshadowed by magnificent old linden-
trees. The house has only two stories.
A large hall extends from end to end of
the lower story; and at the end a wide
staircase with stone steps and a superb
iron railing leads up stairs. When they
entered the hall, Dr. Seignebos opened a
door on the right hand.
"Step in here and wait," he said to M.
Folgat. "I will go up stairs and see the
count, whose room is in the second story,
and I will send you the countess."
The young advocate did as he was bid,
and found himself in a large room, bril-
liantly lighted up by three tall windows
that went down to the ground, and looked
out upon the garden. This room must


156
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
have been superb formerly. The walls | summoned to trial, and that he may be
were wainscoted with beautiful woods, condemned?"
painted white, and relieved with ara- She shook her head with a painful
besques and lines in gold. The ceiling movement, and said very softly, —
was painted, and represented a number of | “I know, sir, that Count Claudieuse
fat little angels sporting in a sky full of has been the victim of a most infamous
golden stars.
| attempt at murder; that he is still in
But time had passed its destroying danger, and that, unless God works a
hand over all this splendor of the past miracle, I shall soon be without a husband,
age, had half effaced the paintings, tar- and my children without a father."
nished the gold of the arabesques, and "But M. de Boiscoran is innocent,
faded the blue of the ceiling and the rosy madam."
little loves. Nor was the furniture cal. The features of the countess assumed
culated to make compensation for this an expression of profound surprise; and,
decay. The windows had no curtains. looking fixedly at M. Folgat, she said, -
On the mantlepiece stood a worn-out “And who, then, is the murderer?”
clock and half-broken candelabras; then, Ah! It cost the young advocate no
here and there, pieces of furniture that small effort to prevent his lips from utter-
would not match, such as had been rescueding the fatal word, “You," prompted by
from the fire at Valpinson, -chairs, sofas, his indignant conscience. But he thought
arm-chairs, and a round table, all bat- of the success of his mission; and, instead
tered and blackened by the flames. of replying, he said, -
But M. Folgat paid little attention to "To a prisoner, madam, to an unfor-
these details. He only thought of the tunate man on the eve of judgment, an
grave step on which he was venturing, advocate is a confessor, to whom he tells
and which he now only looked at in its every thing. I must add that the counsel
full strangeness and extreme boldness. of the accused is like a priest: he must
Perhaps he would have fled at the last forget the secrets which have been con-
moment if he could have done so; and he fided to him.”
was only able by a supreme effort to con- "I do not understand, sir.”
trol his excitement.
"My client, madam, had a very simple
At last he heard a rapid, light step in means to prove his innocence. He had
the hall; and almost immediately the only to tell the truth. He has preferred
Countess Claudieuse appeared. He re- risking his own honor rather than to
cognized her at once, such as Jacques had / betray the honor of another person."
described her to him, calm, serious, and The countess looked impatient, and
serene, as if her soul were soaring high broke in, saying,
above all human passions. Far from “My moments are counted, sir. May
diminishing her exquisite beauty, the I beg you will be more explicit ? "
terrible events of the last months had only! But M. Folgat had gone as far as he
surrounded her, as it were, with a divine well could go.
halo. She had fallen off a little, however. “I am desired by M. de Boiscoran,
And the dark semicircle under her eyes, / madam, to hand you a letter.”
and the disorder of her hair, betrayed the The Countess Claudieuse seemed to be
fatigue and the anxiety of the long nights overwhelmed with surprise.
which she had spent by her husband's "To me?” she said. "On what
bedside.
ground?”
As M. Folgat was bowing, she asked, - Without saying a word, M. Folgat drew
"You are M. de Boiscoran's counsel?" Jacques's letter from his portfolio, and
“Yes, madam,” replied the young ad-handed it to her.
vocate.
" Here it is !” he said.
“ The doctor tells me you wish to speak She took it with a perfectly steady hand,
to me.”
and opened it slowly. But, as soon as she
6. Yes, madam."
had run her eye over it, she rose, turned
With a queenly air, she pointed to a crimson in her face, and said with flaming
chair, and, sitting down herself, she eyes, –
said, -
"Do you know, sir, what this letter
66 I hear, sir."
contains."
M. Folgat began with beating heart, “Yes."
but a firm voice, —
"Do you know that M. de Boiscoran
“I ought, first of all, madam, to state dares call me by my first name, Genevieve,
to you my client's true position.”
as my husband does, and my father?”
1. That is useless, sir. I know."
The decisive moment had come, and M.
“You know, madam, that he has been Folgat had all his self-possession.


158
. WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
Thry went out, and had already gone
about a third down the long avenue in
the garden, when they saw the oldest
daughter of the countess coming towards
them, on her way to the house, accompa-
nied by her governess. Dr. Seignebos
stopped, and pressing the arm of the
young advocate, and bending over to
him, he whispered into his ear, —
"Mind !" he said. "You know truth
is in the lips of children."
"What do you expect?" murmured
M. Folgat.
"To settle a doubtful point. Hush!
Let me manage it."
By this time the little girl had come
up to them. It was a very graceful girl
of eight or nine years, light haired, with
large blue eyes, tall for her age, and dis-
playing all the intelligence of a young
girl, without her timidity.
"How are you, little Martha? " said the
doctor to her in his gentlest voice, which
was very soft when he chose.
"Good-morning, gentlemen I" she re-
plied with a nice little courtesy.
Dr. Seignebos bent down to kiss her
rosy cheeks, and then, looking at her, he
said, —
"You look sad, Martha?"
"Yes, because papa and little sister
are sick," she replied with a deep sigh.
"And also because you miss Valpin-
son?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Still it is very pretty here, and you
have a large garden to play in."
She shook her head, and, lowering her
voice, she said, —
"It is certainly very pretty here; but —
I am afraid."
"And of what, little one?"
She pointed at the statues, and all
shuddering, she said,—
"In the evening, when it grows dark,
I fancy they are moving. I think I see
people hiding behind the trees, like the
man who wanted to kill papa."
"You ought to drive away those ugly
notions, Miss Martha," said M. Folgat.
But Dr. Seignebos did not allow him
to go on.
"What, Martha? I did not know you
were so timid. I thought, on the con-
trary, you were very brave. Your papa
told me the night of the fire you were
not afraid of any thing."
"Papa was right."
"And yet, when you were aroused by
the flames, it must have been terrible."
"Oh! it was not the flames which
waked me, doctor."
"Still the fire had broken out."
"I was not asleep at that time, doctor.
I had been roused by the slamming of
the door, which mamma had closed very
noisily when she came in."
One and the same presentiment made
M. Folgat tremble and the doctor.
"You must be mistaken, Martha," the
doctor went on. "Your mamma had not
come back at the time of the fire."
"Oh, yes, sir!"
"No, you are mistaken."
The little girl drew herself up with
that solemn air which children are apt
to assume when their statements are
doubted. She said, —
"I am quite sure of what I say, and I
remember every thing perfectly. I had
been put to bed at the usual hour, and, as
I was very tired with playing, I had
fallen asleep at once. Whilst I 'was
asleep, mamma had gone out; but her
coming back waked me up. As soon as
she came in, she bent over little sister's
bed, and looked at her for a moment so
sadly, that I thought I should cry. Then
she went, and sat down by the window;
and from my bed, where I lay silently
watching her, I saw the tears running
down her cheeks, when all of a sudden a
shot was fired."
M. Folgat and Dr. Seignebos looked
anxiously at each other.
"Then, my little one," insisted Dr.
Seignebos, "you are quite sure your
mamma was in your loom when the first
shot was fired?"
"Certainly, doctor. And mamma,
when she heard it, rose up straight, and
lowered her head, like one who listens,
Almost immediately, the second shot was
fired. Mamma raised her hands to
heaven, and cried out. 'Great God!'
And then she went out, running fast."
Never was a smile more false than
that which Dr. Seignebos forced himself
to retain on his lips while the little girl
was telling her story.
'- You have dreamed all that, Martha,"
he said.
The governess here interposed, say-
ing; —
"The young lady has not dreamed it,
sir. I, also, heard the shots fired; and
I had just opened the door of my room to
hear what was going on, when I saw
madame cross the landing swiftly, and
rush down stairs.
"Oh! I do not doubt it," said the doc-
tor, in the most indifferent tone he could
command: "the circumstance is very
trifling."
But the little girl was bent upon fin-
ishing her story.
"When mamma had left," she went
on, "I became frightened, and raised


1G0
WITHIN AX INCH OF HIS LIFE.
mind, and arranged her plan, before meet-
ing Jacques. The murderer was already at
his post. If she had succeeded in winning
Jacques back, her accomplice would have
put away his gun, and quietly gone to bed.
As she could not induce Jacques to give
up his marriage, she made a sign, and
the fire was lighted, and the count was
shot."
The young advocate did not seem to be
fully convinced.
"In that case, there would have been
premeditation," he objected; "and how,
then, came the gun to be loaded with
small-shot?"
"The accomplice had not sense enough
to know better."
Although he saw very well the doctor's
drift, M. Folgat started :ip, —
"What?" he said, "always Coco-
leu?"
Dr. Seignebos tapped his forehead
with the end of his finger, and re-
plied, —
'' When an idea has once made its way
in there, it remains fixed. Yes, the
countess has an accomplice; and that
accomplice is Cocoleu; and, if he has no
sense, you see the wretched idiot at least
carries his devotion and his discretion
very far."
"If what you say is true, doctor, we
shall never get the key of this affair; for
Cocoleu will never confess."
"Don't swear to that. There is a
way."
He was interrupted by the sudden
entrance of his servant.
"Sir," said the latter, "there is a
gendarme below who brings you a man
who has to be sent to the hospital at
once."
"Show them up," said the doctor.
And, while the servant was gone to do
his bidding, the doctor said,—
"And here is the way. Now mind!"
A heavy stop was heard shaking the
stairs; and almost immediately a gen-
darme appeared, who in one hand held a
violin, and with the other aided a poor
creature, who seemed unable to walk
alone."
''Goudar I" was on M. Folgat's lips.
It was Goudar, really, but in what a
state! His clothes muddy and torn, pale,
with haggard eyes, his beard and his lips
covered with a white foam.
"The story is this," said the gen-
darme. "This individual was playing
the fiddle in the court of the barrack, and
we were looking out of the window, when
all of a sudden he fell on the ground,
rolled about, twisted and writhed, while
he uttered fearful howls, and foamed like
a mad dog. We picked him up; and I
bring him to you."
"Leave us alone with him," said the
physician.
The gendarme went out; and, as soon as
the door was shut, Goudar cried with a
voice full of intense disgust, —
"What a profession! Just look at
me! What a disgrace if my wife should
see me in this state! Phew!"
And, pulling a handkerchief from his
pocket, he wiped his face, and drew from
his mouth a small piece of soap.
"But the point is," said the doctor,
'' that you have played the epileptic so
well, that the gendarmes have been
taken in."
"A fine trick indeed, and very credita-
ble."
"An excellent trick, since you can
now quite safely go to the hospital.
They will put you in the same ward with
Cocoleu, and I shall come and see you
every morning. You are free to act
now."
"Never mind me," said the detective.
"I have my plan."
Then turning to M. Folgat, he added, —
"I am a prisoner now; but I have
taken my precautions. The agent whom
I have sent to England will report to
you. I have, besides, to ask a favor at
your hands. I have written to my wife
to send her letters to you: you can send
them to me by the doctor. And now I
am ready to become Cocoleu's companion,
and I mean to earn the house in Vine
Street."
Dr. Seignebos signed an order of ad-
mission. He recalled the gendarme ; and,
after having praised his kindness, he
asked him to take " that poor devil" to
the hospital. AVhen he was alone once
more with M. Folgat, he said, —
"Now, my dear friend, let us consult.
Shall we speak of what Martha has told
us and of Goudar's plan. I think not;
for M. Galpin is watching us; and, if a
mere suspicion of what is going on
reaches the prosecution, all is lost. Let
us content ourselves, then, with reporting
to Jacques your interview with the count-
ess; and as to the rest, Silence!"
XXVI.
Like all very clever men, Dr. Seigne-
bos made the mistake of thinking other
people as cunning as he was himself. M.
Galpin was, of course, watching him,
but by no means with the energy which
one would have expected from so r.mbi-
tious a man. He had, of course, been the


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
161
first to be notified that the case was to be
tried in open court, and from that mo-
ment he felt relieved of all anxiety.
As to remorse, he had none. He did not
even regret any thing. He did not think
of it, that the prisoner who was thus to
be tried had once been his friend, — a
friend of whom he was proud, whose
hospitality he had enjoyed, and whose
favor he had eagerly sought in his matri-
monial aspirations. No. He only saw
one thing, — that he had engaged in a
dangerous affair, on which his whole
future was depending, and that he was
going to win triumphantly.
Evidently his responsibility was by no
means gone ; but his zeal in preparing the
case for trial was no longer required. He
need not appear at the trial. Whatever
must be the result, he thought he would
escape the blame which he should surely
have incurred if no true bill had been
found. He did not disguise it from him-
self that he should be looked at askance
by all Sauveterre, that his social rela-
tions were well-nigh broken off, and
that no one would henceforth heartily
shake hands with him. But that gave
him no concern. Sauveterre, a miserable
little town of five thousand inhabitants!
He hoped with certainty he would not
remain there long; and a brilliant pre-
ferment would amply repay him for his
courage, and relieve him from all foolish
reproaches.
Besides, once in the large city to which
he would be promoted, he could hope that
distance would aid in attenuating and
even effacing the impression made by his
conduct. All that would be remembered
after a time would be his reputation as
one of those famous judges, who, accord-
ing to the stereotyped phrase, "sacrifice
every thing to the sacred interests of
justice, who put inflexible duty high
above all the considerations that trouble
and disturb the vulgar mind, and whose
heart is like a rock, against which all
human passions are helplessly broken to
pieces."
With such a reputation, with his
knowledge of the world, and his eager-
ness to succeed, opportunities would not
be wanting to put himself forward, to
make himself known, to become useful,
indispensable even. He saw himself al-
ready on the highest rungs of the official
ladder. He was a judge in Bordeaux, in
Lyons, in Paris itself!
With such rose-colored dreams he fell
asleep at night. " The next morning, as
he crossed the streets, his carriage
haughtier and stiffer than ever, his firmly-
closed lips, and the cold and severe look
of his eyes, told the curious observers, that
there must be something new.
"M. de Boiscoran's case must be very
bad indeed,"they said, "or M. Galpin
would not look so very proud."
He went first to the commonwealth
attorney. The truth is, he was still
smarting under the severe reproaches of
M. Daubigeon, and he thought he would
enjoy his revenge now. He found the
old book-worm, as usual, among his be-
loved books, and in worse humor than
ever. He ignored it, handed him a num-
ber of papers to sign; and when his busi-
ness was over, and while he was carefully
replacing the documents in his bag with
his monogram on the outside, he added
with an air of indifference,—
"Well, my dear sir, you have heard
the decision of the court? Which of us
was right?"
M. Daubigeon shrugged his shoulders,
and said angrily, —
"Of course I am nothing but an old
fool, a maniac: I give it up; and I say,
like Horace's man, —
'Stultum me fateor, liceat concedere vires
Atque etiam insamim.'"
'' You are joking. But what would
have happened if I had listened to
you?"
"I don't care to know."
"M. de Boiscoran would none the less
have been sent to a jury."
"Maybe."
"Anybody else would have collected
the proofs of his guilt just as well as I."
"That is a question."
"And I should have injured my repu-
tation very seriously ; for they would have
called me one of those timid magistrates
who are frightened at a nothing."
'' That is as good a reputation as some
others," broke in the commonwealth attor-
ney.
He had vowed he would answer only in
monosyllables; but his anger made him
forget his oath. He added in a very
severe tone, —
'' Another man would not have been
bent exclusively upon proving that M. de
Boiscoran was guilty."
"I certainly have proved it."
'' Another man would have tried to
solve the mystery."
"But I have solved it, I should think."
M. Daubigeon bowed ironically, and
said, —
"I congratulate you. It must be de-
lightful to know the secret of all things,
'Felix qui potuit rerum coguoscere causas,'
11


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
165
M. Folgat gave him a minute account
of his mission, quoting the words of the
countess almost literally.
"That is just like her!" exclaimed the
prisoner. "I think I can hear her! What
a woman! To defy me in this way!"
And in his anger he wrung his hands
till they nearly bled.
"You see," said the young advocate,
"there is no use in trying to get outside
of our circle of defence. Any new effort
would be useless."
"No!" replied Jacques. "No, I shall
not stop there!" ,
And after a few moments' reflection, —
if he can be said to have been able to re-
flect, — he said, —
"I hope you will pardon me, my dear
sir, for having exposed you to such insults.
I ought to have foreseen it, or, rather, 1
did foresee it. I knew that was not the
way to begin the battle. But I was a
coward, I was afraid, I drew back, fool
that I was! As if I had not known that
we shall at any rate have to coma to the
last extremity! Well, I am ready now,
and I shall do it!"
"What do you mean to do?"
"I shall go and see the Countess Clau-
dieuse. I shall tell her " —
"Oh!"
"You do not think she will deny it to
my face? When I once have her under
my eye, I shall make her confess the
crime of which I am accused."
M. Folgat had promised Dr. Seignebos
not to mention what Martha and her
governess had said; but he felt no longer
bound to conceal it.
"And if the countess should not be
guilty?" he asked.
"VVho, then, could be guilty?"
"If she had an accomplice?"
"Well, she will tell me who it is. I
will insist upon it, I will make her tell.
I will not be disgraced. I am innocent, I
will not go to the galleys!"
To try and make Jacques listen to
reason would have been madness just
now.
"Have a care," said the young lawyer.
"Our defence is difficult enough already;
do not make it still more so."
"I shall be careful."
"A scene might ruin us irrevocably."
"Be not afraid!"
M. Folgat said nothing more. He
thought he could guess by what moans
Jacques would try to get out of prison.
But he did not ask him about the details,
because his position as his counsel made
it his duty not to know, or, at least, to
seem not to know, certain things.
"Xow, my dear sir," said the prisoner,
"you will render me a service, will you
not?" »
"What is it?"
"I want to know as accurately as pos-
sibly how the house in which the countess
lives is arranged."
Without saying a word, M. Folgat took
out a sheet of paper, and drew on it a plan
of the house, as far as he knew, — of the
garden, the entrance-hall, and the sitting-
room.
"And the count's room," asked Jacques,
"where is that?"
"In the upper story."
"You are sure he cannot get up?"
"Dr. Seignebos told me so."
The prisoner seemed to be delighted.
"Then all is right," he said, " and I have
only to ask you, my dear counsel, to tell
Miss Dionysia that I must see her to-day,
as soon as possible. I wish her to come
accompanied by one of her aunts only.
And, I beseech you, make haste."
M. Folgat did hasten; so that, twenty
minutes later, he was at the young lady's
house. She was in her chamber. He
sent word to her that he wished to see
her; and, as soon as she heard that Jacques
wanted her, she said simply, —
"I am ready to go."
And, calling one of the Misses Lava-
rande, she told her, —
"Come, Aunt Elizabeth, be quick.
Take your hat and your shawl. I am going
out, and you are going with me.''
The prisoner counted so fully upon the
promptness of his betrothed, that he had
already gone down into the parlor when
she arrived at the prison, quite out of
breath from having walked so fast. He
took her hands, and, pressing them to his
lips, he said, —
"Oh, my darling! how shall I ever
thank you for your sublime fidelity in my
misfortune? If I escape, my whole life
will not suffice to prove my gratitude."
But he tried to master his emotion,
and, turning to Aunt Elizabeth, he
said,—
"Will you pardon me if I beg you to
render me once more the service you have
done me before? It is all important that
no one should hear what I am going to
say to Dionysia. I know I am watched."
Accustomed to passive obedience, the
good lady left the room without daring to
make the slightest remark, and went to
keep watch in the passage. Dionysia
was very much surprised; but Jacques
did not give her time to utter a word. He
said at once, —
"You told me in this very place, that,
if I wished to escape, Hlangin would fur-
nish me the means, did you not?"


1G6
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
The young girl drew back, and stam-
mered with an air of utter bewilder-
ment, —
"You do not want to flee?"
"Never! Under no circumstances!
But you ought to remember, that, while
resisting all your arguments, I told you,
that perhaps, some day or other, I might
require a few hours of liberty.''
-' I remember.''
"I begged you to sound the jailer on
that point.''
"I did so. For money he will always
be ready to do your bidding.''
Jacques seemed to breathe more freely.
"Well, then," he said again, "the
time has come. To-morrow I shall have
to be away all the evening. I should
like to leave about nine-; and I shall be
back at midnight.''
Dionysia stopped him.
"Wait," she said: "I want to call
Blangin's wife."
The household of the jailer of Sauve-
terre was like many others. The hus-
band was brutal, imperious, and tyran-
nical: he talked loud and positively, and
thus made it appear that he was the
master. The wife was humble, submis-
sive, apparently resigned, and always
ready to obey; but in reality she ruled by
intelligence, as he ruled by main force.
When the husband had promised any
thing, the consent of the wife had still to
be obtained; but, when the wife under-
took to do any thing, the husband was
bound through her. Dionysia, therefore,
knew very well that she would have first
to win over the wife. Mrs. Blangin came
up in haste, her mouth full of hypocritical
assurances of good will, vowing that she
was heart and soul at her dear mistress's
command, recalling with delight the
happy days when she was in M. de Chan-
dore's service, and regretting forever-
more.
"1 know," the young girl cut her
short, "you are attached to me. But
listen!"
And then she promptly explained to
her what she wanted; while Jacques,
standing a little aside in the shade,
watched the impression on the woman's
face. Gradually she raised her head;
and, when Dionysia had finished, she said
in a very different tone, —
"I understand perfectly, and, if I were
the master, I should say, 'All right!' But
Blangin is master of the jail. Well, he
is not bad; but he insists upon doing his
duty. We have nothing but our place to
live upon."
"Have I not paid you as much as your
place is worth?"
"Oh, I know you do not mind paying."
"You had promised me to speak to
your husband about this matter.''
"I have done so; but " —
'' I would give as much as I did before."
"In gold?"
"Well, be it so, in gold."
A flash of covetousness broke forth
from under the thick brows of the jailer's
wife; but, quite self-possessed, she went
on,—
"In that case, my man will probably
consent. I will go and put him right, and
then you can talk to him.''
She went out hastily, and, as soon as
she had disappeared, Jacques asked
Dionysia, —
"How much have you paid Blangin so
far?"
"Seventeen thousand francs."
'' These people are robbing you out-
rageously."
"Ah, what does the money matter?
I wish we were both of us ruined, if you
were but free."
But it had not taken the wife long to
persuade the husband. Blangin's heavy
steps were heard in the passage; and al-
most immediately he entered, cap in
hand, looking obsequious and restless.
"My wife has told me every thing," he
said, "and I consent. Only we must
understand each other. This is no trifle
you are asking for."
Jacques interrupted him, and said,—
"Let us not exaggerate the matter. I
do not mean to escape: I only want to
leave for a time. I shall come back, I
give you my word of honor."
'' Upon my life that is not what trou-
bles me. If the question was only to let
you run off altogether, I should open the
doors wide, and say, 'Good-by!' A
prisoner who runs away — that happens
everyday; but a prisoner who leaves for a
few nours, and comes back again — Sup-
pose anybody were to see you in town?
Or if any one came and wanted to see
you while you are gone? Or if they saw
you come back again? AVhat should I
say? I am quite ready to be turned off
for negligence. I have been paid for
that. But to be tried as an accomplice,
and to be put into jail myself. Stop!
That is not what I mean to do."
This was evidently but a preface.
'' Oh! why lose so many words?"
asked Dionysia. '' Explain yourself clear-
ly."
"Well, M. de Boiscoran cannot leave
by the gate. At tattoo, at eight o'clock,
the soldiers on guard at this season of the
year go inside the prison, and until re-
veille in the morning, or, in other words,


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
167
till five o'clock, I can neither open nor
shut the gates without calling the ser-
geant in command of the post."
Did he want to extort more money?
Did he make the difficulties out greater
than they really were?
"After all," said Jacques, "if you
consent, there must be a way."
The jailer could dissemble no longer:
he came out with it bluntly.
'' If the thing is to be done, you must
get out as if you were/ escaping in good
earnest. The wall between the two
towers is, to my knowledge, at one place
not over two feet thick; and on the other
side, where there are nothing but bare
grounds and the old ramparts, they never
put a sentinel. I will get you a crowbar
and a pickaxe, and you make a hole in
the wall."
Jacques shrugged his shoulders.
"And next day," he said, "when I
am back, how will you explain that
hole?"
Blangin smiled.
"Be sure," he replied, "I won't say
the rats did it. I have thought of that
too. At the same time with you, an-
other prisoner will run off, who will not
come back."
"What prisoner?"
"Trumence, to be sure. He will be
delighted to get away, and he will help
you in making the hole in the wall.
You must make your bargain with him,
but, of course', without letting him know
that I know any thing. In this way,
happen what may, I shall not be in dan-
ger."
The plan was really a good one; only
Blangin ought not to have claimed the
honor of inventing it: the idea came from
his wife.
"Well," replied Jacques, "that is
settled. Get me the pickaxe and the crow-
bar, show me the place where we must
make the hole, and I will take charge of
Trumence. To-morrow you shall have
the money."
He was on the point of following the
jailer, when Dionysia held him back; and,
lifting up her beautiful eyes to him, she
said in a tremor, —
"You see, Jacques, I have not hesitated
to dare every thing in order to procure
you a few hours of liberty. May I not
know what you are going to do in that
time?"
And, as he made no reply, she repeat-
ed,—
"Where are you going?"
A rush of blood colored the face of the
unfortunate man; and he said in an em-
barrassed voice, —
"I beseech you, Dionysia, do not in-
sist upon my telling you. Permit me
to keep this secret, the only one I have
ever kept from you."
Two tears trembled for a moment in
the long lashes of the young girl, and
then silently rolled down her cheeks.
"I understand you," she stammered.
"I understand but too well. Although
I know so little of life, I had a presenti-
ment, as soon as I saw that they were
hiding something from me. Now I can-
not doubt any longer. You will go to
see a woman to-morrow " —
"Dionysia," Jacques said with folded
hands, — " Dionysia, I beseech you!"
She did not hear him. Gently shaking
her-head, she went on, —
"A woman whom you have loved, or
whom you love still, at whose feet you
have probably murmured the same words
which you whispered at my feet. How
could you think of her in the midst of all
your anxieties? She cannot love you, I
am sure. Why did she not come to you
when she found that you were in prison,
and falsely accused of an abominable
crime?"
Jacques could bear it no longer.
"Great God!"he cried, "I would a
thousand times rather tell you every thing
than allow such a suspicion to remain in
your heart! Listen, and forgive me."
But she stopped him, putting her hand
on his lips, and saying, all in a tremor, —
"No, I do not wish to know any thing,
— nothing at all. I believe in you. Only
you must remember that you are every
thing to me, — hope, life, happiness. If
you should have deceived me, I know but
too well — poor me! — that I would not
cease loving you; but I should not have
long to suffer."
Overcome with grief and affection,
Jacques repeated, —
"Dionysia, Dionysia, my darling, let
me confess to you who this woman is, and
why I must see her."
"No," she interrupted him, "no! Do
what your conscience bids you do. I be-
lieve in you."
And instead of offering to let him kiss
her forehead, as usual, she hurried off
with her Aunt Elizabeth, and that so
quickly, that, when he rushed after her,
he only saw, as it were, a shadow at the
end of the long passage.
Never until this moment had Jacques
found it in his heart really to hate the
Countess Claudieuse with that blind and
furious hatred which dreams of nothing
but vengeance. Many a time, no doubt,
he had cursed her in the solitude of his
prison; but even when he was most furi-


168
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
ous against her, a feeling of pity had
risen in his heart for her whom he had
once loved so dearly; for he did not dis-
guise it to himself, he had once loved her
to distraction. Even in his prison he trem-
bled as he thought cf some of his first
meetings with her, as he saw before his
mind's eye her features swimming in vo-
luptuous languor, as he heard the silvery
ring of her voice, or inhaled the perfume
she loved ever to have about her. She had
exposed him to the danger of losing his
position, his future, his honor even; and
he still felt inclined to forgive her. But
now she threatened him with the loss of
his betrothed, the loss of that pure and
chaste love which burnt in Dionysia's
heart, and he could not endure that.
"I will spare her no longer," he cried,
mad with wrath. "I will hesitate no
longer. I have not the right to do so; for
I am bound to defend Dionysia!"
He was more than ever determined to
risk that adventure on the next day, feel-
ing quite sure now that his courage would
not fail him.
It was Trumence to-night — perhaps
by the jailer's skilful management — who
was ordered to take the prisoner back to
his cell, and, according to the jail-diction-
ary, to "curl him up " there. He called
him in, and at once plainly told Mm what
he expected him to do. Upon Blangin's
assurance, he expected the vagabond
would jump at the mere idea of escaping
from jail. But by no means. Trumence's
smiling features grew dark; and, scratch-
ing himself behind the ear furiously, he
replied, —-
'' You see — excuse me, I don't want to
run away at all."
Jacques was amazed. If Trumence
refused his co-operatiou he could not go
out, or, at least, he would have to wait.
'' Are you in earnest, Trumence?" he
asked.
"Certainly I am, my dear sir. Here,
you see, I am not so badly off: I have a
good bed, I have two meals a day, I have
nothing to do, and I pick up now and
then, from one man or another, a few
cents to buy me a pinch of tobacco or a
glass of wine."
"But your liberty?"
"Well, I shall get that too. I have
committed no crime. I may have gotten
over a wall into an orchard; but people
are not hanged for that. I have consulted
M. Magloire, and he told me precisely how
I stand. They will try me in a police-
court, and they will give me three or four
months. Well, that is not so very bad.
But, if I run away, they put the gen-
darmes on my track; they bring me back
here; and then I know how they will
treat me. Besides, to break jail is a
grave offence."
How could he overcome such wise con-
clusions and such excellent reasons?
Jacques was very much troubled.
"Why should the gendarmes take you
again?" he asked.
"Because they are gendarmes, my dear
sir. And then, that is not all. If it were
spring, I should say at once, 'I am your
man.' But we have autumn now; we are
going to have bad weather; work will be
scarce."
Although an incurable idler, Trumence
had always a good deal to say about
work.
"You won't help them in the vintage?"
asked Jacques.
The vagabond looked almost repent-
ing.
"To be sure, the vintage must have
commenced," he said.
"Well?"
"But that only lasts a fortnight, and
then comes winter. And winter is no
man's friend: it's my enemy. I know I
have been without a place to lie down
when it has been freezing to split stones,
and the snow was a foot deep. Oh! here
they have stoves, and the Board gives
very warm clothes."
"Yes; but there are no merry evenings
here, Trumence, eh? None of those
merry evenings, when the hot wine goes
round, and you tell the girls all sorts of
stories, while you are shelling peas, or
shucking corn?"
'' Oh! I know. I do enjoy those even-
ings. But the cold! Where should I go
when I have not a cent?"
That was exactly where Jacques wanted
to lead him.
"I have money," he said.
"I know you have."
"You do not think I would let you go
off with empty pockets? I would give
you any thing you may ask."
"Really? " cried the vagrant.
And looking at Jacques with a mingled
expression of hope, surprise, and delight,
he added,—
You see I should want a good deal.
Winter is long. I should want — let me
see, I should want fifty Napoleons!"
"You shall have a hundred," said
Jacques.
Trumence's eyes began to dance. He
probably had a vision of those irresistible
taverns at Rochefort, where he had led
such a merry life. But he could not be-
lieve such happiness to be real.
'' You are not making fun of me?" he
asked timidly.


170 WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
through the garden, showed him into the
vestibule, and then opened the parlor-
door, saying, —
"Will you please go in here and sit
down, while I go to tell the countess?"
After lighting one of the candles on
the mantlepiece, she went out. So far,
every thing had gone well for Jacques,
and even better than he could have ex-
pected. Nothing remained now to be
done, except to prevent the countess from
going back and escaping, as soon as she
should have recognized Jacques. For-
tunately the parlor-door opened into the
room. He went and put himself behind
the open half, and waited there.
For twenty-four hours he had prepared
himself for this interview, and arranged
in his head the very words he would use.
But now, at the last moment, all his
ideas flew away, like dry leaves under the
breath of a tempest. His heart was
beating with such violence, that he
thought it filled the whole room with the
noise. He imagined he was cool, and, in
fact, he possessed that lucidity which
gives to certain acts of madmen an ap-
pearance of sense.
He was surprised at being kept waiting
so long, when, at last, light steps, and
the rustling of a dress, warned him that
the countess was coming.
She came in, dressed in a long, dark,
undress robe, and took a few steps into
the room, astonished at not seeing the
person who was waiting for her.
It was exactly as Jacques had foreseen.
He pushed to, violently, the open half
of the door; and, placing himself before
'her, he said, —
"We are alone!"
She turned round at the noise, and
cried, —
"Jacques!"
And terrified, as if she had seen a
ghost, she looked all around, hoping to
see a way out. One of the tall windows
of the room, which went down to the
ground, was half open, and she rushed
towards it; but Jacques anticipated her,
and said, —
"Do not attempt to escape; for I
swear I should pursue you into your
husband's room, to the foot of his bed."
She looked at him as if she did not
comprehend.
'' You,'' she stammered,—" you here!''
"Yes," he replied, "I am here. You
are astonished, are you? You said to
yourself, 'He is in prison, well kept
under lock and key: I can sleep in peace.
No evidence can be found. He will not
speak. I have committed the crime, and
he will be punished for it. I am guilty;
but I shall escape. He is innocent, and he
is lost.' You thought it was all settled?
Well, no, it is not. I am here!"
An expression of unspeakable horror
contracted the beautiful features of the
countess. She said, —
'' This is monstrous!"
'' Monstrous indeed!"
"Murderer! Incendiary!"
He burst out laughing, a strident, con-
vulsive, terrible laughter.
"And you," he said, "you call me
so?"
By one great effort the Countess Clau-
dieuse recovered her energy.
"Yes," she replied, "yes, I do! You
cannot deny your crime to me. I know,
I know the motives which the judges do
not even guess. You thought I would
carry out my threats, and you were fright-
ened. WTien I left you in such haste,
you said to yourself, 'It is all over: she
will tell her husband.' And then you
kindled that fire in order to draw my
husband out of the house, you incendiary!
And then you fired at my husband, you
murderer!"
He was still laughing.
"And that is your plan?" he broke in.
"Who do you think will believe such an
absurd story? Our letters were burnt;
and, if you deny having been my mistress,
I can just as well deny having been your
lover. And, besides, would the exposure
do me any harm? You know very well
it would not. You are perfectly aware,
that, as society is with us, the same thing
which disgraces a woman rather raises a
man in the estimate of the world. And
as to my being afraid of Count Clau-
dieuse, it is well known that I am afraid
of nobody. At the time when we were
concealing our love in the house in Vine
Street, yes, at that time, I might have
been afraid of your husband; for he
might have surprised us there, the code
in one hand, a revolver in the other, and
have availed himself of that stupid and
savage law which makes the husband the
judge of his own case, and the executor
of the sentence which he himself pro-
nounces. But setting aside such a case,
the case of being taken in the act, which
allows a man to kill like a dog another
man, who can not or will not defend him-
self, what did I care for Count Claudieuse?
What did I care for your threats or for
his hatred?" He said these words with
perfect calmness, but with that cold, cut-
ting tone which is as sharp as a sword,
and with that positiveness which enters
irresistibly into the mind. The countess
was tottering, and stammered almost in-
audibly, —


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
171
"Who could imagine such a thing? Is
it possible?"
Then, suddenly raising her head, she
said,—
"But I am losing my senses. If you
are innocent, who, then, could be the
guilty man?"
Jacques seized her hands almost madly,
and pressing them painfully, and bending
over her so closely that she felt his hot
breath like a flame touching her face, he
hissed into her ear, —
"You, wretched creature, you!"
And then pushing her from him with
such violence that she fell into a chair,
he continued,—
"You, who wanted to be a widow in
order to prevent me from breaking the
chains in which you held me. At our
last meeting, when I thought you were
crushed by grief, and felt overcome by
your hypocritical tears, I was weak
enough, I was stupid enough, to say that
I married Dionysia only because you
were not free. Then you cried, 'O God,
how happy I am that that idea did not
occur to me before!' What idea was
that, Genevieve? Come, answer me and
confess, that it occurred to you too soon
after all, since you have carried it
out?"
And repeating with crushing irony
the words just uttered by the countess, he
said,—
"If you are innocent, who, then, could
be the guilty man ? "..
Quite beside herself, she sprang up
from her chair, and casting at Jacques
one of those glances which seem to enter
through our eyes into the very heart of
our hearts, she asked, —
"Is it really possible that you have not
committed this abominable crime?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"But then," she repeated, almost pant-
ing, "is it true, can it really be true, that
you think I have committed it?"
"Perhaps you have only ordered it to
be committed."
With a wild gesture she raised her arms
to heaven, and cried in a heart-rending
voice, —
"O God, O God! He believes it! he
really believes it!"
There followed great silence, dismal,
formidable silence, such as in nature fol-
lows the crash of the thunderbolt.
Standing face to face, Jacques and the
Countess Claudieuse looked at each other
madly, feeling that the fatal hour in their
lives had come at last.
Each felt a growing, a sure conviction
of the other. There was no need of ex-
planations. They had been misled by
appearances: they acknowledged it; they
were sure of it.
And this discovery was so fearful, so
overwhelming, that neither thought of
who the real guilty one might be.
"What is to be done?" asked the
countess.
"The truth must be told," replied
Jacques.
"Which?"
"That I have been your lover; that I
went to Valpinson by appointment with
you; that the cartridge-case which was
found there was used by me to get fire;
that my blackened hands were soiled by
the half-burnt fragment of our letters,
which I had tried to scatter."
"Never! " cried the countess.
Jacques's face turned crimson, as he
said with an accent of merciless severi-
ty,-
"It shall be told! I will have it so,
and it must be done!"
The countess seemed to be furious. -
"Never!" she cried again, "never!"
And with convulsive haste she added,—
"Do you not see that the truth cannot
possibly be told. They would never be-
lieve in our innocence. They would only
look upon us as accomplices."
"Never mind. I am not willing to
die."
"Say that you will not die alone."
"Be it so."
"To confess every thing would never
save you, but would most assuredly ruin
me. Is that what you want? AVould
your fate appear less cruel to you, if there
were two victims instead of one?"
He stopped her by a threatening ges-
ture, and cried,—
'' Are you always the same? I am
sinking, I am drowning; and she calcu-
lates, she bargains! And she said she
loved me!"
"Jacques!" broke in the countess.
And, drawing close up to him, she
said,—
"Ah! I calculate, I bargain? Well,
listen. Yes, it is true. I did value my
reputation as an honest woman more
highly, a thousand times mow, than my
life; but, above my life and my reputa-
tion, I valued you. You are drowning,
you say. Well, then, leff us flee. One
word from you, and I leave all, —honor,
country, family, husband, children. Say
one word, and I follow you without turn-
ing my head, without a regret, without a
remorse."
Her whole body was shivering from
head to foot; her bosom rose and fell; her
eyes shone with unbearable brilliancy.
Thanks to the violence of her action,


172
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
her dress, put on in great haste, had
opened, and her dishevelled hair flowed
in golden masses over her bosom and her
shoulders, which matched the purest mar-
ble in their dazzling whiteness.
And in a voice trembling with pent-
up passion, now sweet and soft like a ten-
der caress, and now deep and sonorous
like a bell, she went on, —
'' What keeps us? Since you have es-
caped from prison, the greatest difficulty
is overcome. I thought at first of taking
our girl, your girl, Jacques; but she is
very ill; and besides a child might betray
us. If we go alone, they will never over-
take us. We will have money enough, I
am sure, Jacques. We will flee to those
distant countries which appear in books of
travels in such fairy-like beauty. There,
unknown, forgotten, unnoticed, our life
will be one unbroken enjoyment. You
will never again say that I bargain. I
will be yours, entirely and solely yours,
body and soul, your wife, your
slave."
She threw her head back, and with
half-closed eyes, bending with her whole
person toward him, she said in melting
tones, —
"Say, Jacques, will you? Jacques!"
He pushed her aside with a fierce ges-
ture. It seemed to him almost a sacrilege
that she also, like Dionysia, should pro-
pose to him to flee.
"Rather the galleys! " he cried.
She turned deadly pale; a spasm of
rage convulsed her features; and draw-
ing back, stiff and stern, she said, —
"What else do you want?"
"Your help to save me," he replied.
'' At the risk of ruining myself?"
He made no reply.
Then she, who had just now been all
humility, raised herself to her full height,
and in a tone of bitterest sarcasm said
slowly, —
"In other words, you want me to sac-
rifice myself, and at the same time all my
family. For your sake? Yes, but even
more for Miss Chandore's sake. And
you think that is quite a simple thing.
I am the past'to you, satiety, disgust:
she is the future to you, desire, happi-
ness. And you think it quite natural
that the old lovff should make a footstool
of her love and her honor for the new
love? You think little of my being dis-
graced, provided she be honored; of my
weeping bitterly, if she but smile? Well,
no, no! It is madness in you to come
and ask me to save you, so that you may
throw ytafrself into the arms of another.
It is madness, when, in order to tear you
from Dionysia, I am ready to ruin my-
self, provided only that you be lost to her
forever."
"Wretch! " cried Jacques.
She looked at him with a mocking air;
and her eyes beamed with infernal au-
dacity.
"You do not know me yet," she cried.
"Go, speak, denounce me! M. Folgat no
doubt has told you how I can deny and
defend myself."
Maddened by indignation, and excited
to a point where reason loses its power
over us, Jacques de Boiscoran moved with
uplifted hand towards the countess, when
suddenly a voice said,—
"Do not strike that woman!"
Jacques and the countess turned round,
and uttered, both at the same instant,
the same kind of sharp, terrible cry,
which must have been heard a great dis-
tance.
In the frame of the door stood Count
Claudieuse, a revolver in his hand, and
ready to fire.
He looked as pale as a ghost; and the
white flannel dressing-gown which he had
hastily thrown around him hung like a
pall around his lean limbs. The first
cry uttered by the countess had been
heard by him on the bed on which he
lay apparently dying. A terrible pre-
sentiment had seized him. He had risen
from his bed, and, dragging himself slow-
ly along, holding painfully to the balus-
ters, he had come down.
"I have heard all," he said, casting
crushing looks at both the guilty ones.
The countess uttered a deep, hoarse
sigh, and sank into a chair. But Jacques
drew himself up, and said,—
"I have insulted you terribly, sir.
Avenge yourself."
The count shrugged his shoulders.
"The court will avenge me," he
said.
'' Great God! You would allow me to be
condemned for a crime which I have not
committed. Ah, that would be the
meanest cowardice."
The count was so feeble that he had to
lean against the door-post.
"Would it be cowardly?" he asked.
"Then, what do you call the act of that
miserable man who meanly, disgracefully
robs another man of his wife, and palms
off his own children upon him? It is
true you are neither an incendiary nor an
assassin. But what is fire in my house in
comparison with the ruin of all my faith?
What are the wounds in my body in com-
parison with that wound in my heart,
which never can heal? I leave you to the
court, sir."
Jacques was terrified: he saw the abyss


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
175
stand him. It was but prudent that he
should appear ignorant of what had hap-
pened the night before, and thus avoid
all suspicion of a complicity which sub-
stantially did not exist.
"And still," Blangin went on, "thisis
not the end of it yet. The gendarmes
are all out. If they should catch my poor
Trumonce! That man is such a fool, the
most stupid judge would worm his secret
oat of him in five minutes. And then,
who would be in a bad box?"
M. Folgat still made no reply; but the
other did not seem to mind that much.
He continued, —
"I only want to do one thing, and that
is to give up my keys as soon as possible.
I am tired of this profession of jailer.
Besides, I shall not be able to stay here
much longer. This escape has put a flea
into the ear of the authorities, and they
are going to give me an assistant, a for-
mer police sergeant, who is as bad as a
watchdog. Ah ! the good days of M. de
Boiscoran are over: no more stolen visits,
no more promenades. He is to be
watched day and night."
Blangin had stopped at the foot of the
staircase to give all these explanations.
"Let us go up," he said now, as M.
Folgat showed signs of growing im-
patience.
He found Jacques lying on his bed, all
dressed; and at the first glance he saw
that a great misfortune had happened.
"One more hope gone?" he asked.
The prisoner raised himself up with
difficulty, and sat up on the side of his
bed ; then he replied in a voice of utter
despair, —
"I am lost, and this time hopelessly."
"Oh!"
"Just listen!"
The young advocate could not help
shuddering as he heard the account given
by Jacques of what had happened the
night before. And when it was finished,
he said,—
"You are right. If Count Claudieuse
carries out his threat, it may be a con-
demnation."
"It must be a condemnation; you
mean. Well, you need not doubt. He
will carry out his threat."
And shaking his head with an air of
desolation, he added, —
"And the most formidable part of it is
this: I cannot blame him for doing it.
The jealousy of husbands is often noth-
ing more than self-love. When they find
they have been deceived, their vanity is
offended; but their heart remains whole.
But in this case it is very different. He
not only loved his wife, he worshipped
her. She was his happiness, life itself.
When I took her from him, I robbed him
of all he had,—yes, of all! I never
knew what adultery meant till I saw him
overcome with shame and rage. He was
left without any thing in a moment. His
wife had a lover: his favorite daughter
was not his own! I suffer terribly; but
it is nothing, I am sure, in comparison
with what he suffers. And you expect,
that, holding a weapon in his hand, he
should not use it'? It is a treacherous,
dishonest weapon, to be sure; but have I
been frank and honest? It would be a
mean, ignoble vengeance, you will say;
but what was the offence? In his place,
I dare say, I should do as he does."
M. Folgat was thunderstruck.
"But after that," he asked, "when
you left the house?"
Jacques passed his hand mechanically
over his forehead, as if to gather his
thoughts, and then went on, —
"After that I fled precipitately, like a
man who has committed a crime. The
garden-door was open, and I rushed out.
I could not tell you with certainty in
what direction I ran, through what
streets I passed. I had but one fixed
idea, — to get away from that house as
quickly and as far as possible. I did not
know what I was doing. I went, I went.
When I came to myself, I was many miles
away from Sauveterre, on the road to
Boiscoran. The instinct of the animal
within me had guided me on the familiar
way to my house. At the first moment I
could not comprehend how I had gotten
there. I felt like a drunkard whose head
is filled with the vapors of alcohol, and
who, when he is roused, tries to remem-
ber what has happened during his intoxi-
cation. Alas! I recalled the fearful
reality but too soon. I knew that I
ought to go back to prison, that it was an
absolute necessity; and yet I felt at
times so weary, so exhausted, that I was
afraid I should not be able to get back.
Still I did reach the prison. Blangin
was waiting for me, all anxiety ; for it
was nearly two o'clock. He helped me to
get up here. I threw myself, all dressed
as I was, on my bed, and I fell fast asleep
in an instant. But my sleep was a miser-
able sleep, broken by terrible dreams, in
which I sawmyself chained to the galleys,
or mounting the scaffold with a priest
by my side; and even at this moment I
hardly know whether I am awake or
asleep, and whether I am not still suffer-
ing under a fearful nightmare."
M. Folgat could hardly conceal a tear.
He murmured, —
"Poor man!"


176
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
"Oh, yes, poor man indeed !" repeated
Jacques. "Why did I not follow my
first inspiration last night when I found
myself on the high-road V I should have
gone, on to Boiscoran, I should have gone
up stairs to my room, and there I should
have blown out my brains. I should
then suffer no more."
Was he once more giving himself up to
that fatal idea of suicide?
"And your parents," said M. Folgat.
"My parents! And do you think they
will survive my condemnation?"
"And Miss Chandore?"
lie shuddered, and said fiercely, —
"Ah! it is for her sake first of all
that I ought to make an end of it.
Toor Dionysia! Certainly she would
grieve terribly when she heard of my
suicide. But she is not twenty yet. My
memory would soon fade in her heart;
and weeks growing into months, and
months into years, she would find com-
fort. To live means to forget."
"No! You cannot really think what
you are saying!" broke in M. Folgat.
"You know very well that she — she
would never forget you!"
A tear appeared in the eyes of the
unfortunate man, and he said in a half-
smothered voice, —
"You are right. I believe to strike
me down means to strike her down also.
But do you think what life would be
after a condemnation? Can you imagine
what her sensations would be, if day
after day she had to say to herself, 'He
whom alone I love upon earth is at the
galleys, mixed up with the lowest of
criminals, disgraced for life, dishonored.'
Ah! death is a thousand times prefer-
able."
"Jacques, M. de Boiscoran, do you
forget that ypu have given me your word
of honor?"
"The proof that I have not forgotten
it is that you see me here. But, never
mind, the day is not very far off when
you will see me so wretched that you
yourself will be the first to put a weapon
into my hands."
But the young advocate was one of
those men whom difficulties only excite
and stimulate, instead of discouraging.
He had already recovered somewhat from
the first great shock, and he said, —
"Before you throw down your hand,
wait, at least, till the game is lost. You
are not sentenced yet. Far from it!
You are innocent, and there is a divine
justice which corrects the blunders of
earthly justice. Who tells us that Count
Claudieuse will really give evidence?
We do not even know whether he has
[ not, at this moment, drawn his last
breath upon earth!"
Jacques leaped up as if in a spasm, and
turning deadly pale, exclaimed, — .
"Ah, don't say that! That fatal
thought has already occurred to me, that
perhaps he did not rise again last night.
Would to God that that be not so! for
then I should but too surely be an
assassin. He was my first thought when
I awoke. I thought of sending out to
make inquiries. But I did not dare do
it."
M. Folgat felt his heart oppressed with
most painful anxiety, like the prisoner
himself. Hence he said at once, —
"We cannot remain in this uncertainty.
We can do nothing as long as the count's
fate is unknown to us; for on his fate
depends ours. Allow me to leave you
now. I will let you know as soon as I
hear any thing positive. And, above all,
keep up your courage, whatever may hap-
pen."
The young advocate was sure of find-
ing reliable information at Dr. Seignebos'
house. He hastened there; and, as soon
as he entered, the1 physician cried, —
"Ah, there you are coming at last! I
give up twenty of my worst patients to
see you, and you keep me waiting for-
ever. I was sure you would come. What
happened last night at Count Clau-
dieuse's house?"
"Then you know " —
"I know nothing. I have seen the
results; but I do not know the cause.
The result was this: last night, about
eleven o'clock, I had just gone to bed,
tired to death, when, all of a sudden,
somebody rings my bell as if he were de-
termined to break it. I do not like people
to perform so violently at my door; and I
was getting up to let the man know my
mind, when Count Claudieuse's servant
rushed in, pushing my own servant un-
ceremoniously aside, and cried out to me
to come instantly, as his master had just
died."
"Great God!"
'' That is what I said, because, although
I knew the count was very ill, I did not
think he was so near death."
"Then, he is really dead?"
"Not at all. But, if you interrupt me
continually, I shall never be able to tell
you."
And taking off his spectacles, wiping
them, and putting them on again, he
went on, —
'' I was dressed in an instant, and in a
few minutes I was at the house. They
asked me to go into the sitting-room
down stairs. There I found, to my great


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
177
amazement, Count Claudieuse, lying on a
sofa. He was pale and stiff, his features
fearfully distorted, and on his forehead a
slight wound, from which a slender
thread of blood was trickling down.
Upon my word I thought it was all over."
"And the countess?"
"The countess was kneeling by her
husband; and, with the help of her wo-
men, she was trying to resuscitate him by
rubbing him, and putting hot napkins on
his chest. But for these wise precautions
she would be a widow at this moment;
whilst, as it is, he may live a long time
yet. This precious count has a wonderful
tenacity of life. We, four of us, then took
him, and carried him up stairs, and put
him to bed, after having carefully warmed
it first. He soon began to move; he
opened his eyes; and a quarter of an
hour later he had recovered his conscious-
ness, and spoke readily, though with a
somewhat feeble voice. Then, of course,
I asked what had happened, and for the
first time in my life I saw the marvel-
lous self-possession of the countess for-
sake her. She stammered pitifully,
looking at her husband with a most
frightened air, as if she wished to read
in his eyes what she should say. He un-
dertook to answer me; but he, also, was
evidently very much embarrassed. He
said, that being left alone, and feeling
better than usual, he had taken it into
his head to try his strength. He had
risen, put on his dressing-gown, and gone
down stairs; but, in the act of entering
the room, he had become dizzy, and had
fallen so unfortunately as to hurt his
forehead against the sharp corner of a
table. I affected to believe it, and said,
'You have done a very imprudent thing,
and you must not do it again.' Then he
looked at his wife in a very singular way,
and replied, 'Oh! you can be sure I shall
not commit another imprudence. I want
too much to get well. I have never
wished it so much as now.'"
M. Folgat was on the point of replying;
but the doctor closed his lips with his
hand, and said, —
"Wait, I have not done yet."
And, manipulating his spectacles most
assiduously, he added, —
"I was just going home, when sud-
denly a chambermaid came in with a
frightened air to tell the countess that
her older daughter, little Martha, whom
you know, had just been seized with ter-
rible convulsions. Of course I went to
see her, and found her suffering from a
truly fearful nervous attack. It was only
with great difficulty I could quiet her;
and when I thought she had recovered,
suspecting that there might be some con-
nection between her attack and the ac-
cident that had befallen her father, I said
in the most paternal tone I could assume,
'Now, my child, you must tell me what
was the matter.' She hesitated a while,
and then she said, 'I was frightened.' —
'Frightened at what, my darling?' She
raised herself on her bed, trying to con-
sult her mother's eyes; but I had placed
myself between them, so that she could
not see them. When I repeated my ques-
tion, she said, 'Well, you see, I had just
gone to bed, when I heard the bell ring.
I got up, and went to the window to see
who could be coming so late. I saw the
servant go and open the door, a candle-
stick in her hand, and come back to the
house, followed by a gentleman whom I
did not know.' The countess interrupted
her here, saying, 'It was a messenger from
the court, who had been sent to me with
an urgent letter.' But I pretended not
to hear her; and, turning still to Martha, I
asked again, 'And it was this gentleman
who frightened you so?' — 'Oh, no!' —
'What, then?' Out of the corner of my
eye I was watching the countess. She
seemed to be terribly embarrassed. Still
she did not dare to stop her daughter.
'Well, doctor,' said the little girl, 'no
sooner had the gentleman gone into the
house than I saw one of the statues under
the trees there come down from its ped-
estal, move on, and glide very quietly
along the avenue of lime-trees.'"
M. Folgat trembled.
"Do you remember, doctor," he said,
'' the day we were questioning little Mar-
tha, she said she was terribly frightened
by the statues in the garden?"
"Yes, indeed!" replied the doctor.
'' But wait a while. The countess promptly
interrupted her daughter, saying to me,
'But, dear doctor, you ought to forbid
the child to have such notions in her head.
At Valpinson she never was afraid, and
even went at night, quite alone, and with-
out a light, all over the house. But here
she is frightened at every thing; and, as
soon as night comes, she fancies the garden
is full of ghosts. You are too big now,
Martha, to think that statues, which are
made of stone, can come to life, and walk
about.' The child was shuddering.
"' The other times, mamma,' she said,
'I was not quite sure; but this time I am
sure. I wanted to go away from the
window, and I could not do it. It was
too strong for me: so that I saw it all,
saw it perfectly. I saw the statue, the
ghost, come up the avenue slowly and
cautiously, and then place itself behind
the last tree, the one that is nearest to


180
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
"Yes, I know: he had broken down a
gate near Brechy and " —
"Well, he has escaped."
"Ah the scamp!"
"And we must find him again. They
have put the gendarmes on his track; but
will they catch him?"
Michael burst out laughing.
"Never in his life!" he said. "Tru-
mence will make his way to Ole'ron,
where he has friends: the gendarmes
will be after him in vain."
M. Folgat slapped Michael amicably
on the shoulder, and said, —
"But you, if you choose? Oh! do not
look angry at me. We do not want to
have him arrested. All I want you to do
is to hand him a letter from me, and to
bring me back his answer."
"If that is all, then I am your man.
Just give me time to change my clothes,
and to let father know, and I am off."
Thus M. Folgat began, as far as in him
lay, to prepare for future action, trying to
counteract all the cunning measures of
the prosecution by such combinations as
were suggested to him by his experience
and his genius.
Did it follow from this, that his faith
in ultimate success was strong enough to
make him speak of it to his most reliable
friends, even, say, to Dr. Seignebos, to M.
Magloire, or to good M. Me'chinet?
No; for, bearing all the responsibility
on his own shoulders, he had carefully
weighed the contrary chances of the
terrible game in which he proposed to
engage, and in which the stakes were the
honor and the life of a man. He knew,
better than anybody else, that a mere
nothing might destroy all his plans, and
that Jacques's fate was dependent on the
most trivial accident.
Like a great general on the eve of a
battle, he managed to control his feel-
ings, affecting, for the benefit of others, a
confidence which he did not really feel,
and allowing no feature of his face to
betray the great anxiety which generally
kept him awake more than half the
night.
And certainly it required a character of
marvellous strength to remain impassive
and resolute under such circumstances.
Everybody around him was in despair,
and gave up all hope.
The house of M. de Chandore', once so
full of life and merriment, had become as
silent and sombre as a tomb.
The last two months had made of M.
de Chandore an old man in good earnest.
His tall figure had begun to stoop, and he
looked bent and broken. He walked with
difficulty, and his hands began to tremble.
The Marquis de Boiscoran had been hit
even harder. He, who a few weeks before
looked robust and hearty, now appeared
almost decrepit. He did not eat, so to
say, and did not sleep. He became fright-
fully thin. It gave him pain to utter a
word.
As to the marchioness, the very sources
of life seemed to have been sapped within
her. She had had to hear M. Magloire say
that Jacques's safety would have been put
beyond all doubt if they had succeeded in
obtaining a change of venue, or an adjourn-
ment of the trial. And it was her fault that
such a change had not been applied for.
That thought was death to her. She had
hardly strength enough left to drag herself
every day as far as the jail to see her
son.
The two Misses Lavarande had to bear
all the practical difficulties arising from
this sore trial: they went and came, look-
ing as pale as ghosts, whispering in a low
voice, and walking on tiptoe, as if there
had been a death in the house.
Dionysia alone showed greater energy
as the troubles increased. She did not
indulge in much hope.
"I know Jacques will be condemned,"
she said to M. Folgat. But she said,
also, that despair belonged to criminals
only, and that the fatal mistake for
which Jacques was likely to suffer
ought to inspire his friends with nothing
but indignation and thirst for vengeance.
And, while her grandfather and the Mar-
quis de Boiscoran went out as little as pos-
sible, she took pains to show herself in
town, astonishing the ladies "in good
society" by the way in which she re-
ceived their false expressions of sym-
pathy. But it was evident that she was
only held up by a kind of feverish excite-
ment, which gave to her cheeks their
bright color, to her eyes their brilliancy,
and to her voice its clear, silvery ring.
Ah! for her sake mainly, M. Folgat
longed to end this uncertainty which is
so much more painful than the greatest
misfortune.
The time was drawing near.
As Dr. Seignebos had announced, the
president of the tribunal, M. Domini, had
already arrived in Sauveterre.
He was one of those men whose charac-
ter is an honor to the bench, full of the
dignity of his profession, but not think-
ing himself infallible, firm without use-
less rigor, cold and still kind-hearted,
having no other mistress but Justice,
and knowing no other ambition but that
of establishing the truth.
He had examined Jacques, as he was
bound to do; but the examination had


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
181
been, as it always is, a mere formality,
and had led to no result.
The next step was the selection of a
jury.
The jurymen had already begun to ar-
rive from all parts of the department.
They lodged at the H6tel de France,
where they took their meals in common
in the large back dining-room, which is
always specially reserved for their use.
In the afternoon one might see them,
looking grave and thoughtful, take a walk
on the New-Market Square, or on the old
ramparts.
M. Gransiere, also, had arrived. But
he kept strictly in retirement in his room
at the Hotel de la Poste, where M. Galpin
every day spent several hours in close con-
ference with him.
"It seems," said Mechinet in confidence
to M. Folgat, —" it seems they are prepar-
ing an overwhelming charge."
The day after, Dionysia opened " The
Sauveterre Independent," and found in
it an announcement of the cases set down
for each day, —
Monday. — Fraudulent bankruptcy,
defalcation, forgery.
Tuesday. — Murder, theft.
Wednesday. — Infanticide, domestic
theft.
Thursday. — Incendiarism, and at-
tempted assassination (case of M. de
Boiscoran).
This was, therefore, the great day on
which the good people of Sauveterre ex-
pected to enjoy the most delightful emo-
tions. Hence there was an immense pres-
sure brought to bear upon all the principal
members of the court to obtain tickets of
admission. People who, the night before,
had refused to speak to M. Galpin, would
stop him the next day in the street, and
beg him to give them a ticket, not for
themselves, but for "their lady." Finally,
the unheard-of fact became known, that
tickets were openly sold for money! One
family had actually the incomprehensible
courage to write to the Marquis de Bois-
coran for three tickets, promising, in
return, "by their attitude in court" to
contribute to the acquittal of the accused.
In the midst of all these rumors, the
city was suddenly startled by a list of
subscriptions in behalf of the families of
the unfortunate firemen who had perished
in the fire at Valpinson.
Who had started this paper? M. Senes-
chal tried in vain to discover the hand that
had struck this blow. The secret of this
treacherous trick was well kept. But it
was a most atrocious trick to revive thus,
on the eve of the trial, such mournful
memories and such bitter hatred.
"That man Galpin had a hand in it,"
said Dr. Seignebos, grinding his teeth.
"And to think that he may, after all, be
triumphant! Ah, why did not Goudar
commence his experiment a little sooner?"
For Goudar, while assuring everybody
of certain success, asked for time. To dis-
arm the mistrust of an idiot like Cocoleu
was not the work of a day or a week. He
declared, that, if he should be overhasty,
he would most assuredly ruin every
thing.
Otherwise, nothing new occurred.
Count Claudieuse was getting rather
better.
The agent in Jersey had telegraphed
that he was on Suky's track; that he
would certainly catch her, but that he
could not say when.
Michael, finally, had in vain searched
the whole district, and been over all
Oleron: no one had been able to give
him any news of Trumence.
Thus, on the day when the session
began, a council was held, in which all
of Jacques's friends tookpart; and here it
was resolved that his counsel would not
mention the name of the Countess Clau-
dieuse, and would, even if the count
should offer to give evidence, adhere to
the/ plan of defence suggested by M.
Folgat.
Alas! the chances of success seemed
hourly to diminish; for the jury, very
much against the usual experience, ap-
peared to be excessively severe. The
bankrupt was sentenced to twenty years'
hard labor. The man accused of murder
could not even obtain the plea of "ex-
tenuating circumstances," and was sen-
tenced to death.
This was on Wednesday,
It was decided that M. de Chandore
and the Marquis and the Marchioness de
Boiscoran should attend the trial. They
wanted to spare Dionysia the terrible
excitement; but she declared, that, in that
case, she would go alone to the court-
house; and thus they were forced to sub-
mit to her will.
Thanks to an order from M. Domini,
M. Folgat and M. Magloire could spend
the evening with Jacques in order to
determine all the details, and to agree
upon certain replies to be given.
Jacques looked excessively pale, but
was quite composed. And when his
counsel left him, saying,—
"Keep up your courage and hope," he
replied, —
"Hope I have none; but courage — 1
I assure you, I have courage!"


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE
183
Then a small door opens on the left,
and the counsel for the defence en-
ter.
Our readers know who they are. One
is M. Magloire, the ornament of our bar;
the other, an advocate from the capital,
M. Folgat, quite young, but already fa-
mous.
M. Magloire looks as he does on his
best days, and smilingly converses with
the mayor of Sauveterre; while M. Fol-
gat opens his blue bag, and consults his
papers.
Half-past eleven!
An usher announces, —
The court.
M. Domini takes the chair. M. Gran-
siere occupies the seat of the prosecuting
attorney.
Behind them the jurymen sit down,
looking grave and solemn.
All of a sudden a great tumult.
Everybody rises, everybody strains his
eyes to see, and stands on tiptoe. Some
persons in the back rows even get upon
their chairs.
The president has ordered the prisoner
to be brought in.
He appears.
He is dressed in black, and with great
elegance. It is noticed that he wears in
his buttonhole the ribbon of the Legion
of Honor.
He looks pale ; but his eye is clear and
open, full of confidence, yet not defiant.
His carriage is proud, though melan-
choly.
He has hardly taken his seat when a
gentleman passes over three rows of
chairs, and, in spite of the officers of the
court, succeeds in shaking hands with
him. It is Dr. Seignebos.
The president orders the sheriff to
proclaim silence; and, after having re-
minded the audience that all expressions
of approbation or disapprobation are
strictly prohibited, he turns to the ac-
cused, and asks him, —
"Tell me your first names, your family
name, your age, your profession, and
your domicile."
The accused replies, —
"Louis Trivulce Jacques de Boiscoran,
twenty-seven years, land-owner, residing
at Boiscoran, district of Sauveterre."
"Sit down, and listen to the charges
which are brought against you."
The clerk, M. Mechinet, thereupon
reads the charges, which, in their terrible
simplicity, cause a shudder to pass
through the whole audience.
We shall not repeat them here, as all
the incidents which they relate are well
known to our readers. i
[Examination of the Accused.]
President.—Accused, rise and answer
clearly. During the preliminary investi-
gation, you have refused to answer several
questions. Now the matter must be
cleared up. And I am bound to tell you
it is to your interest to answer frankly.
Accused. — No one desires more than
I do that the truth be known. I am
ready to answer.
P. — Why were you so reticent in
your first examination?
A. — I thought it important for my
interests to answer only in court.
P. — You have heard of what crimes
you are accused?
A. — I am innocent. And, first of all,
I beg you will allow me to say one thing.
The crime committed at Valpinson is
an atrocious, cowardly crime; but it is
at the same time an absurdly stupid
crime, more like the unconscious act of
a madman. Now, I have always been
looked upon as not lacking exactly in
intelligence.
P. — That is a discussion.
A. —Still, Mr. President —
P. — Hereafter you shall have full
liberty to state your argument. For the
present, you must be content to answer
the questions which I shall ask you.
A. — I submit.
P. — Were you not soon to be mar-
ried?
At this question all eyes are turned
towards Miss Chandore, who blushes till
she is as red as a poppy, but does not
cast down her eyes.
A. — (In a low voice.) Yes.
P. — Did you not write to your be-
trothed a few hours before the crime was
committed?
A. — Yes, sir; and I sent her my
letter by the son of one of my tenants,
Michael.
P. — What did you write to her?
A. — That important business would
prevent me from spending the evening
with her.
P. —What was that business?
At the moment when the accused
opened his lips to reply, the president
stopped him by a gesture, and said, —
P. — Take care I You were asked
this question during the preliminary in-
vestigation, and you replied that you
had to go to Brechy to see your wood-
merchant.
A. — I did indeed make that reply
on the spur of the moment. It was not
exact.
P. — Why did you tell a falsehood?
A. — (After an expression of indignar


184
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
tion, which was noticed by all.) I could
not believe that I was in danger. It
seemed to me impossible that I should bje
reached by an accusation, which, never-
theless, has brought me into this court.
Hence I did not deem it necessary to
make my private affairs public.
P. — But you very soon found out that
you were in danger?
A. —Yes, I did.
P. — Why did you not tell the truth
then?
A.— Because the magistrate who car-
ried on the investigation had been too
intimate a friend of mine to inspire me
with confidence.
P. — Explain yourself more fully.
A. — I must ask leave to say no more.
I might, in speaking of M. Galpin, be
found to be wanting in moderation.
A low murmur accompanies this reply
made by the accused.
P.— Such murmurs are improper, and
I remind the audience of the respect due
to the court.
M. Gransiere, the prosecuting attorney,
rises, —
"We cannot tolerate such recrimina-
tions against a magistrate who has done
his duty nobly, and in spite of the pain it
caused him. If the accused had well-
founded objections 'to the magistrate, why
did he not make them known? He can-
not plead ignorance: he knows the law,
he is a lawyer himself. His counsel,
moreover, are men of experience."
M. Magloire replies, in his seat, —
"We were of opinion that the accused
ought to ask for a change of venue. He
declined to follow our advice, being con-
fident, as he said, that his cause was a
good one."
M. Gransiere, resuming his seat, —
"The jury will judge of this
plea."
P. — (To the accused.) And now are
you ready to tell the truth with regard
to that business which prevented you
from spending the evening with your
betrothed?
A. — Yes, sir. My wedding was to
take place at the church in Brechy, and
I had to make my arrangements with the
priest about the ceremony. I had, be-
sides, to fulfil certain religious duties.
The priest at Brechy, who is a friend of
mine, will tell you, that, although no day
had been fixed, it had been agreed upon
between us that I should come to con-
fession on one of the evenings of that
week, since he insisted upon it.
The audience, which had been expect-
ing some very exciting revelations,
seemed to be much disappointed; and
ironical laughter was heard in various
directions.
P. — (In a severe tone of voice.) This
laughter is indecent and objectionable.
Sheriff, take out the persons who pre-
sume to laugh. And once more I give
notice, that, at the first disturbance, I
shall order the room to be cleared.
Then, turning again to the accused, he
said,—
P. — G« on!
A.—I went therefore to the priest at
Brechy, that evening: unluckily there
was no one at home at the parsonage
when I got there. I was ringing the
third or fourth time in vain, when a little
peasant-girl came by, who told me that
she had just met the priest at the Mar-
shalls' Cross-roads. I thought at once I
would go and meet him, and went in that
direction. But I walked more than four
miles without meeting him. I thought
the girl must have been mistaken, and
went home again.
P. — Is that your explanation?
A. —Yes.
P. — And you think it a plausible one?
A. — I have promised to say not what
is plausible, but what is true. I may
confess, however, that, precisely because
the explanation is so simple, I did not
venture at first to give it. And yet if no
crime had been committed, and I had
said the day after, "Yesterday I went to
see the priest at Brechy, and did not find
him," who would have seen any thing un-
natural in my statement 1
P. — And, in order to fulfil so simple
a duty, you chose a roundabout way, which.
is not only troublesome, but actually
dangerous, right across the swamps?
A. — I chose the shortest way.
P. — Then, why were you so fright-
ened upon meeting young Ribot at the
Seille Canal?
A. — I was not frightened, but simply
surprised, as one is apt to be when sud-
denly meeting a man where no one is ex-
pected. And, if I was surprised, young
Ribot was not less so.
P. — You see that you hoped to meet
no one?
A. — Pardon me, I did not say so. To
expect is not the same as to hope.
P. — Why, then, did you take such
pains to explain your being there?
A. — I gave no explanations. Young
Ribot first told me, laughingly, where he
was going, and then I told him that I was
going to Brechy.
P. — You told him, also, that you
were going through the marshes to shoot
birds, and at the same time you showed
him your gun?


'WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
185
A. — That may be. But is that any-
proof against me? I think just the con-
trary. If I had had such criminal inten-
tions as the prosecution suggests, I should
certainly have gone back after meeting
people, knowing that I was exposed to
great danger. But I was only going to
see my friend, the priest.
P. — And for such a visit you took
your gun?
A. — My land lies in the woods and
marshes, and there was not a day when I
did not bag a rabbit or a waterfowl.
Everybody in the neighborhood will tell
you that I never went out without a
gun.
P. — And on your return, why did
you go through the forest of Rochepom-
mier?
A. — Because, from the place where
I was on the road, it was probably the
shortest way to Boiscoran. I say prob-
ably, because just then I did not think
much about that. A man who is taking
a walk would be very much embarrassed,
in the majority of cases, if he had to
give a precise account why he took one
road rather than another.
P. — You were seen in the forest by
a woodcutter, called Gaudry?
A. — So I was told by the magistrate.
P. — That witness deposes that you
were in a state of great excitement. You
were tearing the leaves from the branches,
you were talking loud.
A. — I certainly was very much
vexed at having lost my evening, and par-
ticularly vexed at having relied on the
little peasant-girl. It is quite likely that
I might have exclaimed, as I walked
along, "Plague upon my friend, the
priest, who goes and dines in town I " or
some such words.
There was a smile in the assembly, but
not such as to attract the president's at-
tention.
P. — You know that the priest of
Brechy was dining out that day?
M. Magloire rose, and said, —
"It is through us, sir, that the accused
has found out this fact. When he told
us how he had spent the evening, we
went to see the priest at Brechy, who
told us how it came about that neither
he nor his old servant was at the parson-
age. At our request the priest has been
summoned. We shall also produce
another priest, who at that time passed
the Marshalls' Cross-roads, and was the
one whom the little girl had seen."
Having made a sign to counsel to sit
down again, the president once more
turns to the accused.
P. — The woman Courtois who met
you deposes that you looked very curious.
You did not speak to her: you were in
great haste to escape from her.
A. — The night was much too dark
for the woman to see my face. She
asked me to render her a slight service,
and I did so. I did not speak to her, be-
cause I had nothing to say to her. I did
not leave her suddenly, but only got
ahead of her, because her ass walked very
slowly.
At a sign from the president, the ushers
raise the red cloth which cover the ob-
jects on the table.
Great curiosity is manifested by the
whole audience; and all rise, and stretch
their necks to see better. On the table
are displayed clothes, a pair of velveteen
trousers, a shooting-jacket of maroon-
colored velveteen, an old straw hat, and
a pair of dun-colored leather boots. By
their side lie a double-barrelled gun,
packages of cartridges, two bowls filled
with small-shot, and, finally, a large china
basin, with a dark sediment at the bot-
tom.
P. — (Showing these objects to the ac-
cused.) Are those the clothes which you
wore the evening of the crime?
A. — Yes, sir.
P. — A curious costume in which to
visit a venerable ecclesiastic, and to per-
form religious duties.
A. — The priest at Brechy was my
friend. Our intimacy will explain, even
if it does not justify, the liberty I took.
P. — Do you also recognize this
basin? The water has been allowed to
evaporate, and the residue alone remains
there on the bottom.
A. — It is true, that, when the magis-
trate appeared at my house, he found
there this basin full of dark water, which
was thick with half-burnt debris. He
asked me about this water, and I did
not hesitate a moment to tell him that
I had washed my hands in it the evening
before, after my return home.
Is it not evident, that, if I had been
guilty, my first effort would have been
to put every evidence of my crime out
of the way? And yet this circumstance
is looked upon as the strongest evidence
of my guilt, and the prosecution pro-
duces it as the most serious charge against
me.
P. — It is very strong and serious in-
deed.
A.—Well, nothing can be moia
easily explained than that. I am a great
smoker. When I left home the evening
of the crime, I took cigars in abundance;
but, when I was about to light one, I
found that I had no matches.


186
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
M. Magloire rises, and says, —
"And I wish to point out that this is
not one of those explanations which are
invented, after the fact, to meet the neces-
sities of a doubtful cause. We have
absolute and overwhelming proof of it.
M. de Boiscoran did not have the little
match-box which he usually carries about
him, at that time, because he had left it
at M. de Chandor^'s house, on the mantle-
piece, where I have seen it, and where it
still is."
P.—That is sufficient, M. Magloire.
Let the defendant go on.
A.—I wanted to smoke; and so I
resorted to the usual expedient, which all
sportsmen know. I tore open one of my
cartridges, put, instead of the lead, a piece
of paper inside, and set it on fire.
P. — And thus you get a light?
A. — Not always, but certainly in one
case out of three.
P. — And that operation blackens the
hands?
A. — Not the operation itself. But,
when I had lit my cigar, I could not throw
away the burning paper as it was: I might
have kindled a regular fire.
P. — In the marshes?
A. — But, sir, I smoked five or six
cigars during the evening, which means
that I had to repeat the operation a dozen
times at least, and in different places, —
in the woods and on the high-road. Each
time I quenched the fire with my fingers;
and, as the powder is always greasy, my
hands naturally became soon as black as
those of a charcoal-burner.
The accused gives this explanation in a
perfectly natural but still rather excited
manner, which seems to make a great im-
pression.
P. — Let us go on to your gun. Do
you recognize it?
A. — Yes, sir. May I look at it?
P.—Yes.
The accused takes up the gun with fe-
verish eagerness, snaps the two cocks, and
puts one of his fingers inside the barrels.
He turns crimson, and, bending down to
his counsel, says a few words to them so
quickly and so low, that they do not reach
us.
P. — What is the matter?
M. Magloire. — (Rising.) A fact has
become patent which at once establishes
the innocence of M. de Boiscoran. By
providential intercession, his servant An-
thony had cleaned the gun two days
before the day of the crime. It appears
now that one of the barrels is still clean,
and in good condition. Hence it cannot
be M. de Boiscoran who has fired twice at
Count Claudieuse.
During this time the accused has gone
up to the table on which the objects are
lying. He wraps his handkerchief around
the ramrod, slips it into one of the bar-
rels, draws it out again, and shows that
it is hardly soiled.
The whole audience is in a state of
great excitement.
P. — Do the same thing with the other
barrel.
The accused does it. His handkerchief
remains clean.
P. — You see, and still you have told
us that you had burnt, perhaps, a dozen
cartridges to light your cigars. But the
prosecution had foreseen this objection,
and they are prepared to meet it. Sheriff,
bring iu the witness, Maucroy.
Our readers all know this gentleman,
whose beautiful collection of weapons,
sporting-articles, and fishing-tackle, is one
of the ornaments of our great Square.
He is dressed up, and without hesitation
takes the required oath.
P. — Repeat your deposition with re-
gard to this gun.
Witness. — It is an excellent gun, and
very costly: such guns are not made in
France, where people are too economical.
At this answer the whole audience
laughs. M. Maucroy is not exactly fa-
mous for cheap bargains. Even some of
the jurymen can hardly control their
laughter.
P. — Never mind your reflections on
that subject. Tell us only what you
know about the peculiarities of this gun.
Witness. —Well, thanks to a peculiar
arrangement of the cartridges, and thanks,
also, to the special nature of the fulminat-
ing material, the barrels hardly ever be-
come foul.
A. — (Eagerly.) You are mistaken, sir.
I have myself cleaned my gun frequently;
and I have, just on the contrary, found
the barrels extremely foul.
Witness. —Because you had fired too
often. But I mean to say that you can
use up two or three cartridges without a
trace being left in the barrels.
A. — I deny that positively.
P. — (To witness.) And if a dozen
cartridges were burnt?
Witness.— Oh, then, the barrels would
be very foul.
P. — Examine the barrels, and tell us
what you see.
Witness. — (After a minute examina-
tion.) I declare that two cartridges can-
not have been used since the gun was
cleaned.
P. —(To the accused.) Well, what
becomes of that dozen cartridges which
you have used up to light your cigars,


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
187
and which had blackened your hands so
badly?
M. Magloire. — The question is too
serious to be left entirely in the hands of
a single witness.
The Prosecuting Attorney. — We
only desire the truth. It is easy to make
an experiment.
Witness. — Oh, certainly!
P. — Let it be done.
.Witness puts a cartridge into each bar-
rel, and goes to the window to explode
them. The sudden explosion is followed
by the screams of several ladies.
Witness. — (Returning, and showing
that the barrels are no more foul than
they were before.) Well, you see I was
right.
P. — (To the accused.) You see this
circumstance on which you relied so
securely, so far from helping you, only
proves that your explanation of the
blackened state of your hands was a
falsehood.
Upon the president's order, witness is
taken out, and the examination of the
accused is continued.
P. — What were your relations with
Count Claudieuse?
A. — We had no intercourse with each
other.
P. — But it was known all over the
country that you hated him?
A. — That is a mistake. I declare,
upon my honor, that I always looked
upon him as the best and most honorable
of men.
P. — There, at least, you agree with
all who knew him. Still you are at law
with him?
A. — I have inherited that suit from
my uncle, together with his fortune. I
carried it on, but very quietly. I asked
for nothing better than a compromise.
P. — And, when Count Claudieuse re-
fused, you were incensed?
A. — No.
P. — You were so irritated against
him, that you once actually aimed your
gun at him. At another time you said,
"He will not leave me alone till I put a
ball into him." Do not deny! You will
hear what the witnesses say.
Thereupon, the accused resumes his
place. He looks as confident as ever,
and carries his head high. He has en-
tirely overcome-any feeling of discourage-
ment, and converses with his counsel in
the most composed manner.
There can be no doubt, that, at this
stage of the proceedings, public opinion is
on his side. He has won the good-will
even of those who came there strongly pre-
judiced. No one can help being impressed
by his proud but mournful expression of
face; and all are touched by the extreme
simplicity of his answers.
Although the discussion about the gun
has not turned out to his advantage, it
docs not seem to have injured him. Peo-
ple are eagerly discussing the question of
the fouling of guns. A number of in-
credulous persons, whom the experiment
has not convinced, maintain that M.
Maucroy has been too rash in his state-
ments. Others express surprise at the
reserve shown by counsel, — less by that
of M. Folgat, who is unknown here, than
by that of M. Magloire, who usually
allows no opportunity to escape, but is
sure to profit by the smallest incident.
The proceedings are not exactly sus-
pended; but there is a pause, whilst the
ushers cover the articles on the table once
more with red cloth, and, after several
comings and goings, roll a large arm-chair
in front of the judge's seat.
At last one of the ushers comes up to
the president, and whispers something
into his ear.
The president only nods his head.
When the usher has left the room, M.
Domini says, —
"We shall now proceed to hear the
witnesses, and we propose to begin with
Count Claudieuse. Although seriously
indisposed, he has preferred to appear in
court."
At these words Dr. Seignebos is seen
to start up, as if he wished to address the
court; but one of his friends, sitting by
him, pulls him down by his coat. M. Fol-
gat makes a sign to him, and he sits down
again.
P. — Sheriff, bring in Count Clau-
dieuse.
[Examination of Witnesses.]
The small door through which the ar-
morer Maucroy had been admitted opens
once more, and Count Claudieuse enters,
supported and almost carried by his man-
servant.
He is greeted by a murmur of sym-
pathetic pity. He is frightfully thin; and
his features look as haggard as if he were
about to give up the ghost. The whole
vitality of his system seems to have
centred in his eyes, which shine with ex-
traordinary brilliancy.
He takes the oath in an almost inaudible
voice.
But the silence is so deep, that when the
president asks him the usual question,
"Do you swear to tell the whole truth?"
and he answers, "I swear," the words
are distinctly heard all over the court-
room.


188
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
P. — (Very kindly.^ We are very much
obliged to you, sir, for the effort which
you have made. That chair has been
Drought in for you: please sit down.
Count Claudieuse.— I thank you,
sir; but I am strong enough to stand.
P. — Please tell us, then, what you
know of the attempt made on your
life.
C. C. — It might have been eleven
o'clock: I had gone to bed a little while
before, and blown out my light. I was
in that half state which is neither waking
nor sleeping, when I saw my room lighted
up by a dazzling glare. I saw it was fire.
I jumped out of bed, and, only lightly
dressed, rushed down the stairs. I found
some difficulty in opening the outer door,
which I had locked myself. At last I
succeeded. But I had no sooner put my
foot outside than I felt a terrible pain in
my right side, and at the same time I
heard an explosion of fire-arms. Instinc-
tively, I rushed towards the place from
which the shot seemed to have been fired;
but, before I had taken three steps, I was
struck once more in my shoulder, and fell
down unconscious.
P. — How long a time was there be-
tween the first and the second shot?
C. C. — Almost three or four seconds.
P. — Was that time enough to dis-
tinguish the murderer?
C. C. — Yes; and I saw him run
from behind a woodpile, where he had
been lying in ambush, and escape into
the country.
P. — You can tell us, no doubt, how
he was dressed?
C. C. — Certainly. He had on a pair
of light gray trousers, a dark coat, and a
large straw hat.
At a sign from the president, and in
the midst of the most profound silence,
the ushers remove the red cloth from the
table.
P. — (Pointing at the clothes of the
accused.) Does the costume which you
describe correspond with those clothes?
C. C. — Of course; for they are the
same.
P. — Then you must have recognized
the murderer.
C. C. — The fire was so large at that
time, that it was as bright as daylight. I
recognized M. Jacques de Boiscoran.
There was, probably, in the whole vast
audience assembled under that roof, not
a heart that was not seized with unspeak-
able anguish when these crushing words
were uttered.
We were so fully prepared for them,
that we could watch the accused closely.
Kot a muscle in his face seemed to
move. His counsel showed as little any
signs of surprise or emotion.
Like ourselves, the president also, and
the prosecuting attorney, had been watch-
ing the accused and his counsel. Did
they expect a protest, an answer, any
thing at all? Perhaps they did.
But, as nothing came, the president
continued, turning to witness, —
P. — Your declaration is a very seri-
ous one, sir.
C. C. — I know its weight.
P. — It is entirely different from your
first deposition made before the investi-
gating magistrate.
C. C. — It is.
P. — When you were examined a few
hours after the crime, you declared that
you had not recognized the murderer.
More than that, when M. de Boiscoran's
name was mentioned, you seemed to be
indignant at such a suspicion, and almost
became surety yourself for his innocence.
C. C. — That was contrary to truth.
I felt a very natural sense of commisera-
tion, and tried to save a man who be-
longed to a highly esteemed family from
disgraceful punishment.
P. — But now?
C. C. — Now I see that I was wrong, and
that the law ought to have its course. And
this is my reason for coming here, — al-
though afflicted by a disease which never
spares, and on the point of appearing be-
fore God, — in order to tell you M. de
Boiscoran is guilty. I recognized him.
P. — (To the accused.) Do you hear?
The accused rises, and says, —
A. — By all that is dear and sacred to
me in the world, I swear that I am inno-
cent. Count Claudieuse says he is about
to appear before God: I appeal to the
justice of God.
Sobs well-nigh drown the voice of the
accused. The Marchioness de Boiscoran
is overcome by a nervous attack. She is
carried oukstiff and inanimate; and Dr.
Seignebos and Miss Chandore hasten
after her.
A. — (To Count Claudieuse.) You have
killed my mother!
Certainly, all who had hoped for scenes
of thrilling interest were not disappointed.
Everybody looks overcome with excite-
ment. Tears appear in the eyes of al-
most all the ladies.
And yet those who watch the glances
which are exchanged between M. de Bois-
coran and Count Claudieuse cannot help
asking themselves, if there is not some-
thing else between these two men, besides
what the trial has made known. We
cannot explain to ourselves these singular
answers given to the president's ques-


130
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
A scamp, who he thinks was no one else
but the witness on the stand, came every
night and stole his tenants' fruit and vege-
tables. One night he kept, watch, and
gave him a load of salt. He does not
know whether he hit him. At all events,
the thief riever complained, and thus was
never found out.
The next witness is a constable from
Brechy. He deposes that once Count
Claudieuse, by stopping up the waters of
the little stream, the Seille, had caused M.
de Boiscoran a loss of twenty thousand
weight of first-rate hay. He confesses
that such a bad neighbor would certainly
have exasperated him.
The prosecuting attorney does not deny
the fact, but adds, that Count Claudieuse
offered to pay damages. M. de Boisco-
ran had refused with insulting haughti-
ness.
The accused replies, that he had refused
upon the advice of his lawyer, but that
he had not used insulting words.
Next appeared the witnesses summoned
by the defence.
The first is the excellent priest from
Brechy. He confirms the statement of
the accused. He was dining, the evening
of the crime, at the house of M. de Bes-
son; his servant had come for him; and
the parsonage was deserted. He states
that he had really arranged with M. de
Boiscoran that the latter should come
some evening of that week to fulfil the
religious duties which the church re-
quires before it allows a marriage to be
consecrated. He has known Jacques de
Boiscoran from a child, and knows no
better and no more honorable man. In
his opinion, that hatred, of which so
much has been said, never had any exist-
ence. He cannot believe, and does not
believe, that the accused-is guilty.
The second witness is the priest of an
adjoining parish. He states, that, between
nine and ten o'clock, he was on the road,
near the Marshalls' Cross-roads. The
night was quite dark. He is of the same.,
size as the priest at Brechy; and the,
little girl might very well have taken him.
for the latter, thus misleading M. de Bois-
coran.
Three other witnesses are introduced;
and then, as neither the accused nor his
counsel have any thing to add, the prose-
cuting attorney begins his speech.
[The Charge.]
M. Gransiere's eloquence is so widely
known, and so justly appreciated, that
we need not refer to it here. We will
only say that he surpassed himself in this
charge, which, for more than an hour,
held the large assembly in anxious and
breathless suspense, and caused all hearts
to vibrate with the most intense excite-
ment.
He commences with a description of
Valpinson, "this poetic and charming
residence, where the noble old trees of
Rochepommier are mirrored in the crys-
tal waves of the Seille.
"There," he went on to say, — " there
lived the Count and the Countess Clau-
dieuse, — he one of those noblemen of a
past age who worshipped honor, and were
devoted to duty; she one of those women
who are the glory of their sex, and the
perfect model of all domestic virtues.
"Heaven had blessed their union, and
given them two children, to whom they
were tenderly attached. Fortune smiled
upon their wise efforts. Esteemed by all,
cherished, and revered, they lived happy,
and might have counted upon long years
of prosperity.
"But no. Hate was hovering over
them.
"One evening, a fatal glare arouses
the count. He rushes out; he hears the
report of a gun. He hears it a second
time, and he sinks down, b .thed in his
blood. The countess also is alarmed by
the explosion, and hastens to the spot:
she stumbles; she sees the lifeless body
of her husband, and sinks unconscious
to the ground.
"Are the children also to perish? No.
Providence watches. A flash of intelli-
gences pierces the night of an insane
man, who rushes through the flames, and
snatches the children from the fire that
was already threatening their couch.
"The lives are saved; but the fire con-
tinues its destructive march.
"At the sound of the terrible fire-bell,
all the inhabitants of the neighboring
villages hurry to the spot. But there is
no one to direct their efforts; there are no
engines; and they can do nothing.
"But all of a sudden a distant rum-
bling sound revives hope in their hearts.
They know the fire-engines are coming.
They come; they reach the spot; and
whatever men can do is done at once.
"But great God! What mean those
cries of horror which suddenly rise on all
sides? The roof of the house is falling,
and buries under its ruins two men, the
most zealous and most courageous of all
the zealous and courageous men, —- Bol-
ton the drummer, who but just now sum-
moned his neighbors to come to the res-
cue, and Guillebault, a father with five
children.
"High above the crash and the hiss-


192
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
that he points his gun at Count Claudi-
euse.
The attorney-general next passes on
to examine the charges, which, he de-
clares, are overwhelming and irrefutable.
Then he goes on, —
"But what need is there of such ques-
tions after the crushing evidence of
Count Claudieuse? You have heard it,
— on the point of appearing before God!
"His first impulse was to follow the
generous nature of his heart, and to par-
don the man who had attempted his life.
He desired to save him; but, as he felt
death come nearer and nearer, he saw
that he had no right to shield a criminal
from the sword of justice: he remem-
bered that there were other victims be-
side himself.
"And then, rising from his bed of ago-
ny, he dragged himself here into court,
in order to tell you, ' That is the man!
By the light of the fire which he had
kindled, I saw him and recognized him.
He is the man I'
"And could you hesitate after such evi-
dence? No I I can not and will not
believe it. After such crimes, society
expects that justice should be done,—
justice in the name of Count Claudieuse
on hisdeathbed, —justice in the name of
the dead, — justice in the name of Bolton's
mother, and of Guillebault's widow and
her five children."
A murmur of approbation accompanied
the last words of M. Gransiere, and con-
tinued for some time after he had con-
cluded. There is not a woman in the
whole assembly who does not shed tears.
P. — The counsel for the defence.
[Pleading.]
As M. Magloire had so far alone taken
an active part in the defence, it was gen-
erally believed that he would speak.
But it was not so. M. Folgat rises.
Our court-house here in Sauveterre
has at various times re-echoed the words
of almost all our great masters of foren-
sic eloquence. We have heard Berryer,
Dufaure, Jules Favre, and others; but,
even after these illustrious orators, M.
Folgat still succeeds in astonishing and
moving us deeply.
We can, of course, report here only a
few of his phrases; and we must utterly
abandon all hope of giving an idea of his
proud and disdainful attitude, his admir-
able manner, full of authority, and es-
pecially of his full, rich voice, which
found its way into every heart.
"To defend certain men against cer-
tain charges," he began, "would be to
insult them. They cannot be touched.
To the portrait drawn by the prosecut-
ing attorney, I shall simply oppose the
answer given by the venerable priest of
Brechy. What did he tell you? M. de
Boiscoran is the best and most honorable
of men. There is the truth; they wish
to make him out a political intriguant.
He had, it is true, a desire to be useful
to his country. But, while others debat-
ed, he acted. The Sauveterre Volunteers
will tell you to what. passions he ap-
pealed before the enemy, and by what
intrigues he won the cross which Chausy
himself fastened to his breast. He
wanted power, you say. No: he wished
for happiuess. You speak of a letter
written by him, the evening of the crime,
to his betrothed. I challenge you to
read it. It covers four pages: before you
have read two, you will be forced to
abandon the case."
Then the young advocate repeats
the evidence given Dy the accused; and
really, under the influence of his elo-
quence, the charges seem to fall to the
ground, and to be utterly annihilated.
"And now," he went on, "what other
evidence remains there? The evidence
given by Count Claudieuse. It is crush-
ing, you say. I say it is singular.
What! here is a witness who sees his
last hour drawing nigh, and who yet
waits for the last minute of his life be-
fore he speaks. And you think that.is
natural i You pretend that it was gen-
erosity which made him keep silent. I,
I ask you how the most cruel enemy
could have acted more atrociously?
"' Never was a case clearer,' says the
prosecution. On the contrary, I main-
tain that never was a case more obscure;
and that, so far from fathoming the secret
of the whole affair, the prosecution has
not found out the first word of it."
M. Folgat takes his seat, and the sher-
iff's officers have to interfere to prevent
applause from breaking out. If the vote
had been taken at that moment, M. de
Boiscoran would have been acquitted.
But the proceedings are suspended for
fifteen minutes; and in the mean time
the lamps are lit, for night begins to fall.
When the president resumes his chair,
the attorney-general claims his right to
speak.
"I shall not reply as I had at first pro-
posed. Count Claudieuse is about to pay
with his life for the effort which he has
made to place his evidence before you.
He could not even be carried home. He
is perhaps at this very moment drawing
his last breath upon earth in the adjoin-
ing room."


/
THIRD PART.
COCOLEU.
L
Thus M. Galpin triumphed, and M.
Gransiere had reason to be proud of his
eloquence. Jacques de Boiscoran had
been found guilty.
But he looked calm, and even haughty,
as the president, M. Domini, pronounced
the terrible sentence, a thousand times
braver at that moment than the man
who, facing the squad of soldiers from
whom he is to receive death, refuses to
have his eyes bandaged, and himself
gives the word of command with a firm
voice.
That very morning, a few moments be-
fore the beginning of the trial, he had
said to Dionysia, —
"I know what is in store for me; but
I am innocent. They shall not see me
turn pale, nor hear me ask for mercy."
And, gathering up all the energy of
which the human heart is capable, he
had made a supreme effort at the decisive
moment, and kept his word.
Turning quietly to his counsel at the
moment when the last words of the pres-
ident were lost among the din of the
crowd, he said,—
"Did I not tell you that the day would
come when you yourself would be the
first to put a weapon into my hands?"
M. Folgat rose promptly.
He showed neither the anger nor the
disappointment of an advocate who has
just lost a cause which he knew to be
just.
"That day has not come yet," he re-
plied. "Remember your promise. As
long as there remains a ray of hope, we
shall fight. Now we have much more
than mere hope at this moment. In less
than a month, in a week, perhaps to-mor-
row, we shall have our revenge."
The unfortunate man shook his head.
"I shall nevertheless have undergone
the disgrace of a condemnation," he
murmured.
Then taking the ribbon of the Legion
184
of Honor from his buttonhole, he handed
it to M. Folgat, saying, —
"Keep this in memory of me, and if I
never regain the right to wear it "—
In the mean time, however, the gen-
darmes, whose duty it was to guard the
prisoner, had risen; and the sergeant
said to Jacques, —
"We must go, sir. Come, come!
You need not despair. You need not
lose courage. All is not over yet. There
is still the appeal for you, and then the
petition for pardon, not to speak of what
may happen, and cannot be foreseen."
M. Folgat was allowed to accompany
the prisoner, and was getting ready to do
so; but the latter said, with a pained
voice,—
"No, my friend, please leave me
alone. Others have more need of your
presence than I have. Dionysia, my
poor father, my mother. Go to them.
Tell them that the horror of my condem-
nation lies in the thought of them. May
they forgive me for the afliiction which I
cause them, and for the disgrace of hav-
ing me for their son, for her betrothed!"
Then, pressing the hands of his counsel,
he added, —
"And you, my friends, how shall I
ever express to you my gratitude? Ah!
if incomparable talents, and matchless
zeal and ability, had sufficed, I know I
should be free. But instead of that " —
he pointed at the little door through
which he was to pass, and said in a heart-
rending tone, —
"Instead of that, there is the door to
the galleys. Henceforth" —
A sob cut short his words. His strength
was exhausted; for if there are, so to say,
no limits to the power of endurance of the
spirit, the energy of the body has its
bounds. Refusing the arm which the
sergeant offered him, he rushed out of
the room.
M. Magloire was well-nigh beside him-
self with grief.
"Ah! why could we not save him?"


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
197
"Never mind! Go back and tell the
countess, that, if she does not come out, I
shall go in this moment; that, if it must
be, I shall force my way in; that I shall
call for help; that nothing will keep me.
I must absolutely see her."
"But, madam " —
"Go! Don't you see that it is a ques-
tion of life and death?"
There was such authority in her voice,
that the watchman no longer hesitated.
He went in once more, and re-appeared a
moment after.
"Go in," he said to the young girl.
She went in, and found herself in a
little anteroom which preceded the office
of the commonwealth attorney. A large
lamp illuminated the room. The door
leading to the room in which the count
was lying was closed.
In the centre of the room stood the
Countess Claudieuse. All these succes-
sive blows had not broken her indomita-
ble energy. She looked pale, but calm.
"Since you insist upon it, madam," she
began, "I come to tell you myself that I
cannot listen to you. Are you not aware
that I am standing between two open
graves, — that of my poor girl, who is
dying at my house, and that of my hus-
band, who is breathing his last in
there?"
She made a motion as if she were about
to retire; but Dionysia stopped her by a
threatening look, and said with a trem-
bling voice, —
"If you go back into that room where
your husband is, I shall go back with
you, and I shall speak before him. I
shall ask you right before him, how you
dare order a priest away from from his
bedside at the moment of death, and
whether, after having robbed him of all
his happiness in life, you mean to make
him unhappy in all eternity."
Instinctively the countess drew back.
"I do not understand you," she said.
"Yes, you do understand me, madam.
Why will you deny it? Do you not see
that I know every thing, and that I have
guessed what they have not told me?
Jacques was your lover; and your hus-
band has had his revenge."
"Ah!" cried the countess, "that is
too much; that is too much!"
"And you have permitted it," Dio-
nysia went on with breathless haste;
"and you did not come, and cry out in
open court that your husband was a false
witness I What a woman you must be!
You do not mind it, that your love car-
ries a poor unfortunate man to the gal-
leys. You mean to live on with this
thought in your heart, that the man whom
you love is innocent, and, nevertheless,
disgraced forever, and cut off from human
society. A priest might induce the
count to retract his statement, you know
very well; and hence you refuse to let
the priest from Brechy come to his bed-
side. And what is the end and aim of all
your crimes? To save your false repu-
tation as an honest woman. Ah! that
is miserable; that is mean; that is infa-
mous I"
The countess was roused at last. What
all M. Folgat's skill and ability had not
been able to accomplish, Dionysia ob-
tained in an instant by the force of her
passion. Throwing aside her mask, the
countess exclaimed with a perfect burst
of rage,—
"Well, then, no, no! I have not acted
so, and permitted all this to happen, be-
cause I care for my reputation. My re-
putation ! — what does it matter? It is
only a week ago, when Jacques had suc-
ceeded in escaping from prison, I offered
to flee with him. He had only to say a
word, and I should have given up my
family, my children, my country, every
thing, for him. He answered, 'Rather
the galleys I'"
In the midst of all her fearful suffer-
ings, Dionysia's heart filled with un-
speakable happiness as she heard these
words. Ah I now she could no longer
doubt Jacques.
"He has condemned himself, you see,"
continued the countess. "I was quite
willing to ruin myself for him, but cer-
tainly not for another woman."
"And that other woman — no doubt, you
mean me I"
"Yes !—you for whose sake he aban-
doned me,—you whom he was going to
marry, — you with whom he hoped to
enjoy long happy years, and a happiness
not furtive and sinful like ours, but a
legitimate, honorable happiness."
Tears were trembling in Dionysia's
eyes. She was beloved: she thought of
what she must suffer who was not be-
loved.
"And yet I should have been more
generous," she murmured. The countess
broke out into a fierce, savage laugh.
"And the proof of it is," said the
young girl, "that I came to offer you a
bargain."
"A bargain?"
"Yes. Save Jacques, and, by all that
is sacred to me in the world, I promise I
will enter a convent: I will disappear, and
you shall never hear my name any more."
Intense astonishment seized the count-
ess, and she looked at Dionysia with a
glance full of doubt and mistrust. Such


198
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
devotion seemed to her too sublime not
to conceal some snare.
"You would really do that?" she
asked.
"Unhesitatingly."
"You would make a great sacrifice for
my benefit 1"
"For yours? No, madam, for
Jacques's."
"You love him very dearly, do you?"
"I love him dearly enough to prefer
his happiness to my own a thousand
times over. Even if I were buried in the
depths of a convent, I should still have
the consolation of knowing that he owed
his rehabilitation to me; and I should
suffer less in knowing that he belonged to
another than that he was innocent, and
yet condemned."
But, in proportion as the young girl
thus confirmed her sincerity, the brow of
the countess grew darker and sterner, and
passing blushes mantled her cheek. At
last she said with haughty irony, —
"Admirable!"
"Madam I"
"You condescend to give up M. de
Boiscoran. Will that make him love
me? You know very well he will not.
You know that he loves you alone. Hero-
ism with such conditions is easy enough.
What have you to fear? Buried in a
convent, he will love you only all the
more ardently, and he will execrate me
all the more fervently."
"He shall never know anything of our
bargain I"
"Ah! What does that matter? He will
guess it, if you do not tell him. No: I
know what awaits me. I have felt it now
for two years, — this agony of seeing him
becoming daily more detached from me.
What have I not done to keep him near
me! How I have stooped to meanness,
to falsehood, to keep him a single day
longer, perhaps a single hour I But all
was useless. I was a burden to him. He
loved me no longer; and my love became
to him a heavier load than the cannon-
ball which they will fasten to his chains
at the galleys."
Dionysia shuddered.
"That is horrible!" she murmured.
"Horrible? yes, but true. You look
amazed. That is because you have as
yet only seen the morning dawn of your
love: wait for the dark evening, and you
will understand me. Is not the story of
all of us women the same? I have seen
Jacques at my feet as you see him at
yours: the vows he swears to you, he
once swore to me; and he swore them
to me with the same voice, tremulous
with passion, and with the same burning
glances. But you think you will be his
wife, and I never was. What does that
matter? What does he tell you? That
he will love you forever, because his love
is under the protection of God and of
men. He told me, precisely because our
love was not thus protected, that we
should be united by indissoluble bonds,—
bonds stronger than all others. You have
his promise: so had I. And the proof
of it is that I gave him every thing, — my
honor and the honor of my family, and
that I would have given him still more, if
there had been any more to give. And
now to be betrayed, forsaken, despised,
to sink lower and lower, until at last I
must become the object of your pity I To
have fallen so low, that you should dare
come and offer me to give up Jacques for
my benefit! Ah, that is maddening!
And I should let the vengeance I hold in
my hands slip from me at your hidding!
I should be stupid enough, blind enough,
to allow myself to be touched by your
hypocritical tears! I should secure your
happiness by the sacrifice of my reputa-
tationl No, madam, cherish no such
hope I"
Her voice expired in her throat in a
kind of toneless rattle. She walked up
and down a few times in the room. Then
she placed herself straight before Diony-
sia, and, looking fixedly into her eyes,
she asked,—
"Who suggested to you this plan of
coming here, this supreme insult which
you tried to inflict upon me Y"
Dionysia was seized with unspeakable
horror, and hardly found heart to reply.
"No one," she murmured.
"M. Folgat?"
"Knows nothing of it."
"And Jacques?"
"I have not seen him. The thought
occurred to me quite suddenly, like an
inspiration on high. When Dr. Seignebos
told me that you had refused to admit
the priest from Brechy, I said to myself,
'This is the last misfortune, and the
greatest of them all! If Count Clau-
dieuse dies without retracting, Jacques
can never be fully restored, whatever may
happen hereafter, not even if his inno-
cence should be established.' Then I
made up my mind to come to you. Ah I
it was a hard task. But I was in hopes
I might touch your heart, or that you
might be moved by the greatness of my
sacrifice."
The countess was really moved. There
is no heart absolutely bad, as there is
none altogether good. As she listened to
Dionysia's passionate entreaty, her reso-
lution began to grow weaker.


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
199
"Would it be such a very great sacri-
fice?" she asked.
Tears sprang to the eyes of the poor
young girl.
"Alas!" she said, "I offer you my
life. I know very well you will not be
long jealous of me."
She was interrupted by groans, which
seemed to come from the room in which
the count was lying.
The countess half-opened the door;
and immediately a feeble, and yet impe-
rious voice was heard calling out, —
"Genevieve, I say, Genevieve I"
"I am coming, my dear, in a moment,"
replied the countess.
"What security can you give me,"
she said in a hard and stern voice, after
having closed the door again, — " what
security do you give me, that if Jacques's
innocence were established, and he re-in-
stated, you would not forget your prom-
ises?"
"Ah, madam! how or upon what do
you want me to swear that I am ready
to disappear? Choose your own securi-
ties, and I will do whatever you require."
Then, sinking down on her knees be-
fore the countess, she went on, —
"Here I am at your feet, madam,
humble and suppliant, — I whom you ac-
cuse of a desire to insult you. Have
pity on Jacques! Ah! if you loved him
as much as I do, you would not hesi-
tate."
The countess raised her suddenly and
quickly, and, holding her hands in her
own, looked at her for more than a min-
ute without saying a word, but with
heaving bosom and trembling lips. At
last she asked in a voice which was so
deeply affected, that it was hardly intel-
ligible.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Induce Count Claudieuse to re-
tract."
The countess shook her head.
"It would be useless to try. You do
not know the count. He is a man of
iron. You might tear his flesh inch by
inch with hot iron pincers, and he would
not take back one of his words. You
cannot conceive what he has suffered,
nor the depth of the hatred, the rage,
and the thirst of vengeance, which have
accumulated in his heart. It was to
torture me that he brought me here to
his bedside. Only five minutes ago he
told me that he died content, since
Jacques was declared guilty, and con-
demned through his evidence."
She was conquered; her energy was
exhausted, and tears came to her eyes.
"He has been so cruelly tried!" she
went on. "He loved me to distraction:
he loved nothing in the world but me.
And I — Ah, if we could know, if we
could foresee I No, I shall never be able
to induce him to retract."
Dionysia almost forgot her own great
grief.
"Nor do I expect you to obtain that
favor," she said very gently.
"Who, then?"
"The priest from Brechy. He will
surely find words to shake even the
firmest resolution. He can speak in the
name of that God, who, even on the cross,
forgave those who crucified him."
One moment longer the countess hesi-
tated; and then, overcoming finally the
last rebellious impulses of her pride, she
said,—
"Well, I will call the priest."
"And I, madam, I swear I will keep
my promise."
But the countess stopped her, and
said, making a supreme effort over her-
self,—
"No: I shall try to save Jacques with-
out making conditions. Let him be
yours. He loves you, and you were
ready to sacrifice your life for his sake.
He forsakes me; but I sacrifice my honor
to him. Farewell I"
And hastening to the door, while Dio-
nysia returned to her friends, she sum-
moned the priest from Brechy.
n.
M. Daubigeon, the commonwealth
attorney, learned next morning from his
chief clerk what had happened, and how
the proceedings in the Boiscoran case
were necessarily null and void on ac-
count of a fatal error in form. The
counsel of the defence had lost no time,
and, after spending the whole night in
consultation, had early that morning pre-
sented their application for a new trial to
the court.
The commonwealth attorney took no
pains to conceal his satisfaction.
"Now," he cried, "this will worry my
friend Galpin, and clip his wings con-
siderably ; and yet I had called his atten-
tion to the lines of Horace, in which he
speaks of Phaeton's sad fate, and says, —
'Terret ambustus Phaeton avaras
Spes.'
But he would not listen to me, forgetting,
that, without prudence, force is a dan-
ger.
'Vis consilii enfers mole ruit sua.'


200
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
And there he is now, in great difficulty, I
am sure."
And at once he made haste to dress,
and to go and see M. Galpin in order to
hear all the details accurately, as he told
his clerk, but, in reality, in order to enjoy
to his heart's content the discomfiture of
the ambitious magistrate.
He found him furious, and ready to
tear his hair.
"I am disgraced," he repeated; "I am
ruined; I am lost. All my prospects, all
my hopes, are gone. I shall never be for-
given for such an oversight."
To look at M. Daubigeon, you would
have thought he was sincerely distressed.
"Is it really true," he said with an air
of assumed pity, — " is it really true, what
they tell me, that this unlucky mistake
was made by you?"
"By me? Yes, indeed! I forgot those
wretched details which a scholar knows
by heart. Can you understand that?
And to say that no one noticed my incon-
ceivable blindness I Neither the first
court of inquiry, nor the attorney-general
himself, nor the presiding judge, ever
said a word about it. It is my fate.
And that is to be the result of all my
labors. Everybody, no doubt, said,'Oh!
M. Galpjn has the case in hand; he
knows all about it: no need to look after
tiie matter when such a man has taken
hold of it.' And here I am. Oh! I
might kill myself."
"It is all the more fortunate," replied
M. Daubigeon, " that yesterday the case
was hanging on a thread."
The magistrate gnashed his teeth, and
replied, —
"Yes, on a thread, thanks to M. Dom-
■ ini! whose weakness I cannot compre-
hend, and who did not know at all, or
who was not willing to know, how to
make the most of the evidence. But it
was M. Gransiere's fault quite as much.
What had he to do with politics to drag
them into the affair? And whom did he
want to hit? No one else but M. Ma-
gloire, the man whom everybody respects
in the whole district, and who had three
warm personal friends among the
jurymen. I foresaw it, and I told him
where he would get into trouble. But
there are people who will not listen. M.
Gransiere wants to be elected himself. It
is a fancy, a monomania of our day:
everybody wants to be a deputy. I wish
Heaven would confound all ambitious
men I"
For the first time in his life, and no
doubt for the last time also, the common-
wealth attorney rejoiced at the misfor-
tune of others. Taking savage pleasure
in turning the dagger in his poor friend's
wounds, he said, —
"No doubt M. Folgat's speech had
something to do with it."
"Nothing at all."
"He was brilliantly successful."
"He took them by surprise. It was
nothing but a big voice, and grand, roll-
ing sentences."
"But still " —
"And what did he say, after all?
That the prosecution did not know the
real secret of the case. That is absurd!"
"The new judges may not think so,
however."
"We shall see."
"This time M. de Boiscoran's defence
will be very different. He will spare
nobody. He is down now, and cannot
fall any lower.
'Qui jacet in terra non habet imde cadat.'"
"That maybe. But he also risks hav-
ing a less indulgent jury, and not getting
off with twenty years."
"What do his counsel say?"
"I do not know. But I have just sent
my clerk to find out; and, if you choose
to wait" —
M. Daubigeon did wait, and he did
well; for M. Mechinet came in very
soon after, with a long faoe for the
world, but inwardly delighted,
"Well?" asked M. Galpin eagerly.
He shook his head, and said in a mel-
ancholy tone of voice,—
"I have never seen any thing like this.
How fickle public opinion is, after all!
Day before yesterday M. de Boiscoran
could not have passed through the town
without being mobbed. If he should
show himself to-day, they would carry
him in triumph. He has been con-
demned, and now he is a martyr. It is
known already that the sentence is void,
and they are delighted. My sisters have
just told me that the ladies in good soci-
ety propose to give to the Marchioness
de Boiscoran and to Miss Chandore s'ome
public evidence of their sympathy. The
members of the bar will give M. Folgat a
public dinner."
"Why, that is monstrous!" cried M.
Galpin.
"Well," said M. Daubigeon,"' the opin-
ions of men are more fickle and change-
able than the waves of the sea.'"
But, interrupting the quotation, M.
Galpin asked his clerk, —
"Well, what else?"
"I went to hand M. Gransiere the let-
ler which you gave me for him " —
"What did he say?"


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
201
"I found him in consultation -with the
president, M. Domini. He took the let-
ter, glanced at it rapidly, and told me in
his most icy tone. 'Very well!' To tell
the truth, I thought, that, in spite of his
stiff and grand air, he was in reality
furious."
The magistrate looked utterly in de-
spair.
"I can't stand it," he said, sighing;
"These men whose veins have no blood
in them, but poison, never forgive."
"Day before yesterday you thought
very highly of him."
"Day before yesterday he did not look
upon me as the cause 01 a great misfor-
tune for him."
M. Mechinet went on quite eagerly, —
"After leaving M. Gransiere, I went to
the court-house, and there I heard the
great piece of news which has set all the
town agog. Count Claudieuse is dead."
M. Daubigeon and M. Galpin looked at
each other, and exclaimed in the same
breath, —-
"Great God! Is that so?"
"He breathed his last this morning, at
two or three minutes before six o'clock.
I saw his body in the private room of
the attorney-general. The priest from
Brechy was there, a'nd two other priests
from his parish. They were waiting for
a bier to have him carried to his house."
"Poor man!" murmured M. Daubi-
geon.
"But I heard a great deal more,"
Mechinet said, "from the watchman who
was on guard last night. He told me,
that when the trial was over, and it be-
came known that Count Claudieuse was
likely to die, the priest from Brechy
came there, and asked, to be allowed to
offer him the last consolations of his
church. The countess refused to let him
come to the bedside of her husband. The
watchman was amazed at this; and just
then Miss Chandore suddenly appeared,
and sent word to the countess that she
wanted to speak to-her."
"Is it possible?"
"Quite certain. They remained to-
gether for more than a quarter of an hour.
What did they say? The watchman
told mo he was dying with curiosity to
know; but he could hear nothing, be-
cause there was the priest from Brechy,
all the while,- kneeling before the door,
and praying. When they parted, they
looked terribly excited. Then the
countess immediately called in the priest,
and he staid with the count till he
died."
M. Daubigeon and M. Galpin had not
yet recovered from their amazement at
this account, when somebody knocked
timidly at the door.
"Come in !" cried Me'chinet.
The door opened, and the sergeant of
gendarmes appeared.
"I have been sent here by the attorney-
general," he said; "and the servant told
me you were up here. We have just
caught Trumence."
"That man who had escaped from
jail?"
"Yes. We were about to carry him
back there, when he told us that he had
a secret to reveal, a very important, ur-
gent secret, concerning the condemned
prisoner, Boiscoran."
"Trumence?"
"Yes. Then we carried him to the
court-house, and I came for orders."
"Run and say I am coming to see him!"
cried M. Daubigeon. "Make haste I I am
coming after you."
But the gendarme, a model of obedi-
ence, had not waited so long: he was
already down stairs.
"I must leave you, Galpin," said M.
Daubigeon, very much excited. "You
heard what the man said. We must
know what that means at once."
But the magistrate was not less excited.
"You permit me to accompany you, I
hope ?" he asked.
lie had a right to do so.
"Certainly," replied the commonwealth
attorney. "But make haste!"
The recommendation was not needed.
M. Galpin had already put on his boots.
He now slipped his overcoat over his
home dress, as he was; and off they
went.
Mechinet followed the two gentlemen
as they hastened down the street; and the
good people of Sauveterre, always on the
lookout, were not a little scandalized at
seeing their well-known magistrate, M.
Galpin, in his home costume, — he who
generally was most scrupulously precise
in his dress.
Standing on their door-steps, they said
to each other, —
"Something very important must have
happened. Just look at these gentle-
men!"
The fact was, they were walking so fast,
that people might well wonder; and they
did not say a word all the way.
But, ere they reached the court-house,
they were forced to stop; for some four or
live hundred people were filling the court,
crowding on the steps, and actually press-
ing against the doors.
Immediately all became silent; hats
were raised; the crowd parted; and a
passage was opened.


202
-WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
On the porch appeared the priest from
Brechy, and two other priests.
Behind them came attendants from
the hospital, who bore a bier covered with
black cloth; and beneath the cloth the out-
lines of a human body could be seen.
The women began to cry; and those who
had room enough knelt down.
'-Poor countess!" murmured one of
them. "Here is her husband dead, and
they say one of her daughters is dying at
home."
But M. Daubigeon, the magistrate, and
Mechinet were too pre-occupied with their
own interests to think of stopping formore
reliable news. The way was open: they
went in, and hastened to the clerk's
office, where the gendarmes had taken
Trumence, and now were guarding him.
He rose as soon he recognized the gentle-
men, and respectfully took off his cap. It
was really Trumence; but the good-for-
nothing vagrant did not present his usual
careless appearance. He looked pale,
and was evidently very much excited.
"Well." said M. Daubigeon, "so you
have allowed yourself to be retaken."
"Beg pardon, judge," replied the poor
fellow, "I was not retaken. I came of
my own accord."
-' Involuntarily, you mean?"
"Quite by my own free will! Just ask
the sergeant."
The sergeant stepped forward, touched
his cap, and reported, —
"That is the naked truth. Trumence
came himself to our barrack, and said, ' I
surrender as a prisoner. I wish to speak
to the commonwealth attorney, and give
important evidence.'"
The vagabond drew himself up proud-
ly.—
"You see, sir, that I did not lie. While
these gentlemen were galloping all over
the country in search of me, I was snugly
ensconced in a garret at the Red Lamb,
and did not think of coming out from
there till I should be entirely forgot-
ten."
"Yes; but people who lodge at the Red
Lamb have to pay, and you had no money."
Trumence very quietly drew from his
pocket a handful of Napoleons, and of
five-and-twenty-franc notes, and showed
them.
"You see that I had the wherewithal
to pay for my room," he said. "But I
surrendered, because, after all, I am an
honest man, and I would rather suffer
some trouble myself than see an inno-
cent gentleman go to the galleys."
"M. de Boiscoran?"
"Yes. He is innocent! I know it; I
am sure of it; and I can prove it. And, if
he will not tell, I will tell, — tell every
thing I"
M. Daubigeon and M. Galpin were ut-
terly astounded.
"Explain yourself," they both said in
the same breath.
But the vagrant shook his head, point-
ing at the gendarmes; and, as a man who
is quite cognizant of all the formalities
of the law, he replied, —
"But it is a great secret; and, when one
confesses, one does not like anybody else
to hear it but the priest. Besides, I should
like my deposition to be taken down in
writing."
Upon a sign made by M. Galpin, the
gendarmes withdrew; and Mechinet took
his seat at a table, with a blank sheet of
paper before him.
"Now we can talk," said Trumence:
"that's the way I like it. I was not
thinking myself of running away. I was
pretty well off in jail; winter is coming,
I had not a cent; and I knew, that, if I were
retaken, I should fare rather badly. But
M. Jacques de Boiscoran had a notion to
spend a night outside."
-' Mind what you are saying," M. Galpin
broke in severely. "You cannot play with
the law, and go off unpunished."
"May I die if I do hot tell the truth!"
cried Trumence. "M. Jacques has spent
a whole night out of jail."
The magistrate trembled.
"What a story that is!" he said again.
"I have my proof," replied Trumence
coldly, "and you shall hear. Well, as he
wanted to leave, M. Jacques came to me,
and we agreed, that in consideration of a
certain sum of money which he has paid
me, and of which you have seen just now
all that is left, I should make a hole in
the wall, and that I should run off alto-
gether, while he was to come back when
he had done his business."
"And the jailer," asked M. Daubigeon.
Like a true peasant of his promise,
Trumence was far too cunning to expose
Blangin unnecessarily. Assuming, there-
fore, the whole responsibility of the
evasion, he replied, —
"The jailer saw nothing. We had no
use for him. Was not I, so to say, under-
jailer? Had not I been charged by you
yourself, M. Galpin, with keeping watch
over M. Jacques? Was it not I who
opened and locked his door, who took
him to the parlor, and brought him back
again?"
That was the exact truth.
"Go on!" said M. Galpih harshly.
"Well," said Trumence, "every thing
was done as agreed upon. One evening,
about nine o'clock, I make my hole in the


204
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
you were afraid of him!' And he said,
'You wanted to kill him, so as to be free,
and to prevent my marriage!"
M. Galpin had sunk into a chair: he
stammered, —
"Did anybody ever hear such a
thing?"
"However, they explained; and at last
they found out that they were both of
them innocent. Then M. Jacques en-
treated the countess to save him; and she
replied, that she would certainly not
save him at the expense of her reputa-
tion, and so enable him, as soon as he
was free once more, to marry Miss Chan-
dore'. Then he said to her, 'Well,
then I must tell all;' and she, 'You will
not be believed. I shall deny it«all, and
you have no proof!' In his despair he
reproached her bitterly, and said she had
never loved him at all. Then she swore
she loved him more than ever; and that,
as he was free now, she was ready to
abandon every thing, and to escape with
him to some foreign country. And she
conjured him to flee, in a voice which
moved my heart, with loving words such
as I have never heard before in my life,
and with looks which seemed to be burn-
ing fire. What a woman! I did not
think he could possibly resist. And yet
he did resist; and, perfectly beside him-
self with anger, he cried, 'Rather the
galleys!' Then she laughed, mocking
him, and saying, 'Very well, you shall go
to the galleys !'"
Athough Trumence entered into many
details, it was quite evident that he kept
back many things.
Still M. DaubigeVm did not dare ques-
tion him, for fear of breaking the thread
of his account.
"But that was nothing at all," said the
vagrant. "While M. Jacques and the
countess were quarrelling in this way, I
saw the door of the parlor suddenly open
as if by itself, and a phantom appear in
it, dressed in a funeral pall. It was
Count Claudieuse himself. His face
looked terrible; and he had a revolver in
his hand. He was leaning against the
side of the door; and he listened while
his wife and M. Jacques were talking of
their former love-affairs. At certain
words, he would raise his pistol as if to
fire; then he would lower it again, and
go on listening. It was so awful, I had
not a dry thread on my body. It was
very hard not to cry out to M. Jacques
and the countess, 'You poor people, don't
you see that the count is there?' But
they saw nothing; for they were both
beside themselves with rage and despair:
and at last M. Jacques actually raised his
hand to strike the countess. 'Do not
strike that woman!' suddenly said the
count. They turn round; they see him,
and utter a fearful cry. The countesa
fell on a chair as if she were dead. I was
thunderstruck. I never in my life saw a
man behave so beautifully as M. Jacques
did at that moment. Instead of trying
to escape, he opened his coat, and, baring
his breast, he said to the husband, 'Fire!
You are in your right!' The count, how-
ever, laughed contemptuously, and said,
'The court will avenge me!' —' You know
very well that I am innocent.' — " All the
better.' — 'It would be infamous to let me
be condemned.' — ' I shall do more than
that. To make your condemnation sure,
I shall say that I recognized you.' The
count was going to step forward, as he
said this; but he was dying. Great God,
what a man! He fell forward, lying at
full-length on the floor. Then I got
frightened, and ran away."
By a very great effort only could the
commonwealth attorney control his in-
tense excitement. His voice, however,
betrayed him as he asked Trumence,
after a solemn pause, —
"Why did you not come and tell us
all that at once?"
The vagabond shook his head, and
said, —
"I meant to do so; but I was afraid.
You ought to understand what I mean.
I was afraid I might be punished very
severely for having run off."
"Your silence has led the court to
commit a grievous mistake."
"I had no idea M. Jacques would be
found guilty. Big people like him, who
can pay great lawyers, always get out of
trouble. Besides, I did not think Count
Claudieuse would carry out his threat.
To be betrayed by one's wife is hard;
but to send an innocent man to the gal-
leys " —
"Still you see "—
"Ah, if I could have foreseen! My
intentions were good; and I assure you,
although I did not come at once to de-
nounce the whole thing, I was firmly re-
solved to make a clean breast of it if
M. Jacques should get into trouble.
And the proof of it is, that instead of
running off, and going far away, I very
quietly lay concealed at the Red Lamb,
waiting for the sentence to be published.
As soon as I heard what was done last
night, I did not lose an hour, and sur-
rendered at once to the gendarmes."
In the mean time M. Galpin had over-
come his first amazement, and now broke
out furiously, =—
"This man is an impostor. The money


206
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
my ear to the door, and I heard distinctly
the count's voice, as he was quarrelling
with another gentleman. But I could
not catch a single word, and only made
out that they were angry about a very
serious matter.
"All of a sudden, a great but dull noise,
like that of the fall of a heavy body, then
another awful cry. I had not a drop of
blood left in my veins at that moment.
"Fortunately the other servants, who
had gone to bed, had heard something.
They had gotten up, and'were now com-
ing down the passage.
"I left the room at all hazards, and
went down stairs with the others, and
there we found my mistress fainting in an
armchair, and my master stretched out at
full-length, lying on the floor like a dead
man."
"What did I say?" cried Trumence.
But the commonwealth attorney made
him a sign to keep quiet; and, turning
again to the girl, he asked, —
"And the visitor?"
"He was gone, sir. He had van-
ished."
"What did you do then?"
"We raised up the count: we carried
him up stairs and laid him on his bed.
Then we brought mistress round again;
and the valet went in haste to fetch Dr.
Seignebos."
"What said the countess when she
recovered her consciousness?"
'' Nothing. Mistress looked like a per-
son who has been knocked in the head."
"Was there any thing else?"
"Oh, yes, sir!"
"What?"
"The oldest of the young ladies, Miss
Martha, was seized with terrible convul-
sions."
"How was that?"
"Why, I only know what miss told us
herself."
"Let us hear what she said."
"Ah! It is a very singular story.
When this gentleman whom I have just
seen here rang the bell at our gate, Miss
Martha, who had already gone to bed,
got up again, and went to the window to
see who it was. She saw me go and open,
with a candle in my hand, and come back
again with that gentleman behind me.
She was just going to bed again, when she
thought she saw one of the statues in the
garden move, and walk right off. We
told her it could not be so; but she did
not mind us. She told us over and over
again that she was quite sure that she
saw that statue come up the avenue, and
take a place behind the tree which is
nearest to the parlor-window."
Trumence looked triumphant.
"That was I!" he cried.
The girl looked at him, and said, only
moderately surprised, —
"That may very well be."
"What do you know about it?" asked
M. Daubigeon.
"I know it must have been a man who
had stolen into the garden, and who had
frightened Miss Martha so terribly, be-
cause Dr. Seignebos dropped, in going
out, a five-franc piece just at the foot of
that tree, where miss said she had seen
the man standing. The valet who showed
the doctor out helped him look for his
money; and, as they sought with the can-
dle, they saw the footprints of a man who
wore iron-shod shoes."
"The marks of my shoes!" broke in
Trumence again; and sitting down, and
raising his legs, he said to the magis-
trate, —
"Just look at my soles, and you will
see there is no lack of iron nails!"
But there was no need for such evi-
dence; and he was told,—
"Never mind that! We believe you."
"And you, my good girl," said M.
Daubigeon again, "can you tell us, if,
after these occurrences, Count Claudieuse
had any explanation with your mis-
tress?"
"No, I do not know. Only I saw that
the count and the countess were no longer
as they used to be with each other."
That was all she knew. She was asked
to sign her deposition; and thenM. Dau-
bigeon told her she might go.
Then, turning to Trumence, he said, —
"You will be taken to jail now. But
you are an honest man, and you need not
give yourself any trouble. Go now.''
The magistrate and the commonwealth
attorney remained alone now, since, of
course, a clerk counts for nothing.
"Well," said M. Daubigeon, "what
do you think of that?"
M. Galpin was dumfounded.
"It is enough to make one mad," he
murmured.
"Do you begin to see now that M.
Folgat was right when he said the case
was far from being so clear as you pre-
tended?"
'' Ah! who would not have been de-
ceived as I was? You yourself, at one
time at least, were of my opinion. And
yet, if the Countess Claudieuse and M.
de Boiscoran are both innocent, who is
the guilty one?"
"That is what we shall know very
soon; for I am determined I will not al-
low myself a moment's rest till I have
found out the truth of the whole matter.


WITHIX AN INCH OF HIS LIFE. 207
How fortunate it was that this fatal error
in form should have made the sentence
null and void!"
He was so much excited, that he forgot
his never-failing quotations. Turning to
the clerk, he said, —
'' But we must not lose a minute. Put
your legs into active motion, my dear
Meehinet, and run and ask M. Folgat to
come here. I will wait for him here.''
m.
When Dionysia, after leaving the
Countess Claudieuse, came back to
Jacques's parents and his friends, she
said, radiant with hope, —
"Now victory is on our side!"
Her grandfather and the Marquis de
Boiscoran urged her to explain; but she
refused to say any thing, and only later,
towards evening, she confessed to M.
Folgat what she had done with the
countess, and that it was more than
probable that the count would, before he
died, retract his evidence.
"That alone would save Jacques," said
the young advocate.
But this hope only encouraged him to
make still greater efforts; and, all over-
come as he was by his labors and the
emotions of the trial, he spent the night
in Grandpapa Chandore's study, preparing
with M. Magloire the application they
proposed to make for a new trial.
They finished only when it was already
broad daylight: so he did not care to go
to bed, and installed himself in a large
easy-chair for the purpose of getting a
few hours' rest.
He had, however, not slept more than
an hour, when old Anthony roused him
to tell him that there was an unknown
man down stairs who asked to see him
instantly.
M. Folgat rubbed his eyes, and at once
went down: in the passage he found him-
self face to face with a man of some fifty
years, of rather suspicious appearance,
who wore his mustache and his chin-
beard, and was dressed in a tight coat
and large trousers, such as old soldiers
affect.
"You are M. Folgat?" asked this
man.
"Yes."
"Well, I — I am the agentwhom friend
Goudar sent to England."
The young lawyer started, and asked,—
"Since when are you here?"
"Since this morning, by express.
Twenty-four hours too late, I know; for I
bought a newspaper at the station. M.
de Boiscoran has been found guilty. And
yet, I swear I did not lose a minute; and
I have well earned the gratuity which I
was promised in case of success."
"You have been successful, have
you?"
'' Of course. Did I not tell you in my
letter from Jersey that I was sure of suc-
cess ?''
"You have found Suky?"
"Twenty-four hours after I wrote to
you, — in a public-house at Bonly Bay.
She would not come, the wretch!"
"You brought her, however?"
'' Of course. She is at the Hotel de
France, where I have left her till I could
come and see you."
"Does she know any thing?"
"Every thing."
"Make haste and bring her here."
From the time when M. Folgat first
hoped for this recovery of the servant-girl,
he had make up his mind- to make the
most of her evidence.
He had slipped a portrait of the Count-
ess Claudieuse into an album of Dio-
nysia's, amidst some thirty photographs.
He now went for this album, and had just
put it upon the centre-table in the parlor,
when the agent came back with his cap-
tive.
She was a tall, stout woman of some
forty years, with hard features, mascu-
line manners, and dressed, as all common
English-women are, with great preten-
sions to fashion.
When M. Folgat questioned her, she
answered in very fair, intelligible French,
which was only marred by her strong
English accent, —
"I staid four years at the house in
Vine Street; and I should be there still,
but for the war. As soon as I entered
upon my duties, I became aware that I
was put in charge of a house in which
two lovers had their meetings. I was not
exactly pleased, because, you know, we
have our self-respect; but it was a good
place. I had very little to do, and so I
staid. However, my masters mistrusted
me: I saw that very clearly. When a
meeting was to take place, my master
sent me on some errand to Versailles, to
Saint Germain, or even to Orleans. This
hurt me so much, that I determined I
would find out what they tried so hard to
conceal from me. It was not very diffi-
cult; and the very next week I knew that
my master was no more Sir Francis Bur-
nett than I was; and that he had bor-
rowed the name from a friend of his.''
"How did you go about to find it
out?"
"Oh! very simply. One day, when my


208
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
master went away on foot, I followed him,
and saw him go into a house in Univer-
sity Street. Before the house opposite,
some servants were standing and talking.
I asked them who that gentleman was;
and they told me it was the son of the
Marquis de Boiscoran."
"So much for your master; but the
lady."
Suky Wood smiled.
"As for the lady," she replied, "I did
the same thing to find her out. It cost
me, however, a great deal more time and
a great deal more patience, because she
took the very greatest precautions; and I
lost more than one afternoon in watching
her. But, the more she tried to hide, the
more I was curious to know, as a matter
of course. At last, one evening when she
left the house in her carriage, I took a
cab and followed her. I traced her thus
to her house; and next morning I talked
to the servants there, and they told me
that she was a lady who lived in the
province, but came every year to Paris to
spend a month with her parents, and that
her name was Countess Claudieuse."
And Jacques had imagined and strongly
maintained that Suky would not know
any thing, in fact, could not know any
thing!
"But did you ever see this lady?"
asked M. Folgat.
"As well as I see you."
"Would you recognize her?"
"Among thousands."
"And if you saw her portrait?"
'' I should know it at once.''
M. Folgat handed her the album.
"Well, look for her," he said.
She had found the likeness in a mo-
ment.
"Here she is!" cried Suky, putting
her finger on the photograph.
There was no doubt any longer.
"But now, Miss Suky," said the young
advocate, "you will have to repeat all
that before a magistrate."
'' I will do so with pleasure. It is the
truth."
"If that is so, they will send for you
at your lodgings, and you will please stay
there till you are called. You need not
trouble yourself about any thing. You
shall have whatever you want, and they
will pay you your wages as if you were in
service."
M. Folgat had not time to say any
more; for Dr. Seignebos rushed in like a
tempest, and cried out at the top of his
voice, —
"Victory! We are victorious now!
Great victory!"
But he could not speak before Suky
and the agent. They were sent off; and,
as soon as they had left the room, he said
to M. Folgat, —
"I am just from the hospital. I have
seen Goudar. He has done it. He has
made Cocoleu talk."
"And what does he say?"
"Well, exactly what I knew he would
say, as soon as they could loose his tongue.
But you will hear it all; for it is not
enough that Cocoleu should confess it to
Goudar: there must be witnesses present
tocertify to the confessions of the wretch."
"He will not talk before witnesses."
"He must not see them: they can be
concealed. The place is admirably adapted
for such a purpose."
"But how, if Cocoleu refuses to talk
after the witnesses have been intro-
duced?"
"He will not. Goudar has found out
a way to make him talk whenever he
wants it. Ah! that man is a clever man,
and understands his business thoroughly.
Have you full confidence in him?"
"Oh, entire!"
"Well, he says he is sure he will suc-
ceed. 'Come to-day,' he said tome, 'be-
tween one and two, with M. Folgat, the
commonwealth attorney, and M. Galpin:
put yourself where I will show you, and
then let me go to work.' Then he showed
me the place where he wants us to re-
main, and told me how we should let him
know when we are all ready."
M. Folgat did not hesitate.
"We have not a moment to lose. Let
us go at once to the court-house."
But they were hardly in the passage
when they were met by Mechinet, who
came running up out of breath, and half
mad with delight.
"M. Daubigeon sends me to say you
must come to him at once. Great news!
Great news!"
And immediately he told them in a few
words what had. happened in the morn-
ing, — Trumence's statement, and the
deposition of the maid of Countess Clau-
dieuse.
"Ah, now we are safe!" cried Dr.
Seignebos.
M. Folgat was pale with excitement.
Still he proposed, —
"Let us tell the marquis and Miss
Dionysia what is going on before we
leave the house."
"No," said the doctor, "no! Let us
wait till every thing is quite safe. Let
us go quick; let vis go at once."
They were right to make haste. The
magistrate and the commonwealth at-
torney were waiting for them with the
greatest impatience. As soon as they


210
WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
"Yes. Quite — enough."
And, laughing with some difficulty, he
stammered, and stuttered out,—
"I got — got into the cellar through
one of the windows; and I drank — drank
through — through a — a straw."
"You must be sorry you are no longer
there?"
"Oh, yes!"
"But, if you were so well off at Val-
pinson, why did you set it on fire?"
The witnesses of this strange scene
crowded to the little window of the cell,
and held their breath with eager expec-
tation.
"I wanted to burn some fagots only, to
make the count come out. It was not
my fault, if the whole house got on fire."
"And why did you want to kill the
count?"
"Because I wanted the great lady to
marry M. de Boiscoran."
"Ah! She told you to do it, did
she?"
"Oh, no! But she cried so much; and
then she told me she would be so happy
if her husband were dead. And she was
always good to Cocoleu; and the count
was always bad; and so I shot him."
"Well! But why, then, did you say it
was M. de Boiseoran who shot the
count?"
"They said at first it was me. I did
not like that. I would rather they
should cut off his head than mine."
He shuddered as he said this, so that
Goudar, afraid of having gone rather too
fast, took up his violin, and gave him a
verse of his song to quiet him. Then
accompanying his words still now and
then with a few notes, and after having
allowed Cocoleu to caress his bottle once
more, he asked again, —
"Where did you get a gun?"
"I — I had taken it from the count to
shoot birds; and I — I have it still — still.
It is hid in the hole where Michael found
me."
Boor Dr. Seignebos could not stand it
any longer. He suddenly pushed open
the door, and, rushing into the court, he
cried, —
"Bravo, Goudar! well done!"
At the noise, Cocoleu had started up.
He evidently understood it all; for terror
drove the fumes of the wine out of his
mind in an instant, and he looked fright-
ened to death.
"Ah, you scoundrel!" he howled.
And, throwing himself upon Goudar,
he plunged his knife twice into him.
The movement was so rapid and so
sudden, that it had been impossible to
prevent it. Pushing M. Folgat violently
back as he tried to disarm him, Cocoleu
leaped into a comer of the court, and
there, looking like a wild beast driven to
bay, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth foam-
ing, he threatened with his formidable
knife to kill any one who should come
near him."
At the cries of M. Daubigeon and M.
Galpin, the assistants in the hospital came
rushing in. The struggle, however, would
probably have been a long one, notwith-
standing their numbers, if one of the
keepers had not, with great presence of
mind, climbed up to the top of the wall,
and caught the arm of the wretch in a
noose. By these means he was thrown
down in a moment, disarmed, and ren-
dered harmless.
"You — you may — may do — do what
you — you choose; I — I won't say — say
another w-w-word I"
In the mean time, poor Dr. Seignebos,
who had unwillingly caused the catas-
trophe, was distressed beyond measure;
still he hastened to the assistance of
Goudar, who lay insensible on the sand
of the court. The two wounds which the
detective had received were quite serious,
but not fatal, nor even very dangerous, as
the knife had been turned aside by the
ribs. He was at once carried into one
of the private rooms of the hospital, and
soon recovered his consciousness.
When he saw all four of the gentlemen
bending anxiously over his bed, he mur-
mured with a mournful smile, —
"Well, was I not right when I said that
my profession is a rascally profession?"
"But you are at liberty now to give it
up," replied M. Folgat, "provided always
a certain house in Vine Street should not
prove too small for your ambition."
The pale face of the detective recov-
ered its color for a moment.
"Will they really give it to me?" he
asked.
"Since you have discovered the real
criminal, and handed him over to j ustice."
"Well, then, I will bless these wounds:
I feel that I shall be up again in a fort-
night. Give me quick pen and ink,
that I may write my resignation imme-
diately, and tell my wife the good news."
He was interrupted by the entrance of
one of the officers of the court, who, walk-
ing up to the commonwealth attorney,
said to him respectfully, —
"Sir, the priest from Brechy is waiting
for you at your office."
"I am coming directly," replied M.
Daubigeon.
And, turning to his companions, he
said,—
"Let us go, gentlemen."


WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
211
The priest was waiting, and rose quickly
from his chair when he saw M. Dau-
bigeon enter, accompanied by M. Galpin,
M. Folgat, and Dr. Seignebos.
"Perhaps you wish to speak io me
alone, sir?" asked M. Daubigeon.
"No, sir," replied the old priest, "no!
The words of reparation which have been
intrusted to me must be uttered publicly."
And. handing him a letter, he added,—
"Read this. Please read it aloud."
The commonwealth attorney tore the
envelope with a tremulous hand, and then
read, —
"Being about to die as a Christian, as
I have lived as a Christian, I owe it to
myself, I owe it to God whom I have
offended, and I owe it to those men whom
I have deceived, to declare the truth.
"Actuated by hatred, I have been guilty
of giving false evidence in court, and of
stating wrongfully that M. de Boiscoran
is the man who shot at me, and that I
recognized him in the act.
"1 did not only not recognize him, but
I know that he is innocent. I am sure of
it; and I swear it by all I hold sacred in
this world which I am about to leave,
and in that world in which I must appear
before my sovereign Judge.
"May M. de Boiscoran pardon me as I
pardon myself I
"Tiuvulce Count Claudieuse."
"Poor man !" murmured M. Folgat.
The priest at once went on, —
"You see, gentlemen, Count Claudieuse
withdraws his charge unconditionally.
He asks for nothing in return: he only
wants the truth to be established. And
yet 1 beg leave to express the last wishes
of a dying man. I beseech you, in the
new trial, to make no mention of the
name of the countess."
Tears were seen in all eyes.
"You may rest assured, reverend
father," said M. Daubigeon, "that Count
Claudieuse's last wishes shall be attended
to. The name of the countess shall not
appear. There will be no need for it.
The secret of her wrongs shall be reli-
giously kept by those who know it."
It was four o'clock now.
An hour later there arrived at the
court-house a gendarme and Michael, the
son of the Boiscoran tenant, who had
been sent out to ascertain if Cocoleu's
statement was true. They brought back
the gun which the wretch had used, and
which he had concealed in that den which
he had dug out for himself in the forest
of Kochepommier, and where Michael
had discovered him the day after the
crime.
Henceforth Jacques's innocence was as
clear as daylight; and although he had to
bear the burden of his sentence till the
judgment was declared void, it was de-
cided, with the consent of the president
of the court, M. Domini, and the active
co-operation of M. Gransiere, that he
should be set free that same evening.
M.- Folgat and M. Magloire were
charged with the pleasant duty of inform-
ing the prisoner of this happy news. They
found him walking up and down in his
cell like a madman, devoured by unspeak-
able anguish, and not knowing what to
make of the words of hope which M.
Daubigeon had spoken to him in the
morning.
He was hopeful, it is true; and yet
when he was told that he was safe, that
he was free, he sank, an inert mass, into a
chair, being less able to bear joy than
sorrow.
But such emotions are not apt to last
long. A few moments later, and Jacques
de Boiscoran, arm in arm with his coun-
sel, left this prison, in which he had for
several months suffered all that an honest
man can suffer. He had paid a fearful
penalty for what, in the eyes of so many
men, is but a trifling wrong.
When they reached the street in which
the Chandore's lived, M. Folgat said to
his client, —
"They do not expect you, I am sure.
Go slowly, while I go ahead to prepare
them."
He found Jacques's parents and friends
assembled in the parlor, suffering great
anxiety; for they had not been able to
ascertain if there were any truth in the
vague rumors which had reached them.
The young advocate employed the ut-
most caution in preparing them for the
truth; but at the first words Dionysia
asked, —
"Where is Jacques?"
Jacques was kneeling at her feet, over-
come with gratitude and love.
V.
ThE next day the funeral of Count
Claudieuse took place. His youngest
daughter was buried at the same time;
and in the evening the Countess left
Sauveterre, to make her home henceforth
with her father in Paris.
In the proper course of the law, the
sentence which condemned Jacques was
declared null and void; and Cocoleu, found
guilty of having committed the crime at


212
"WITHIN AN INCH OF HIS LIFE.
Valpinson, was sentenced to hard labor
for life.
A month later Jacques de Boiscoran
was married at the church in Brechy to
Dionysia de Chandore. The witnesses
for the bridegroom were M. Magloire and
Dr. Seignebos; the witnesses for the
bride, M. Folgat and M. Daubigeon.
Even the excellent commonwealth at-
torney laid aside on that day some of his
usual gravity. He continually repeat-
ed,—
"Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero
Belsandum tellus."
And he really did drink his glass of
wine, and opened the ball with the bride.
M. Galpin, who was sent to Algiers,
was not present at the wedding. But M.
Mechinet was there, quite brilliant, and,
thanks to Jacques, free from all pecuniary
troubles.
The two Blangine, husband and wife,
have well-nigh spent the whole of the
large sums of money which they extort-
ed from Dionysia. Trumence, private
bailiff at Boiscoran, is the terror of all
vagrants.
And Goudar, in his garden and nursery,
sells the finest peaches in Paris.


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