Within an Inch of His Life (Murder Mystery). Emile Gaboriau
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for him, as I would answer for myself. Cocoleu, the wretched idiot! Ah, Genevieve, my darling wife! Why did you induce him to talk? If you had not insisted, he would have kept silent forever.”
The countess succumbed at last to the anxieties of this terrible night. At first she had been supported by that exaltation which is apt to accompany a great crisis; but latterly she had felt exhausted. 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,” replied the countess mercilessly.
The doctor smacked his lips in the most impertinent manner.
“There is a woman’s logic for you,” he murmured.
“Certainly,” said M. Seneschal, “M. de Boiscoran’s innocence will be promptly established. Nevertheless, the suspicion will remain. And our people are so constituted, that this suspicion will overshadow his whole life. Twenty years hence, they will meet him, and they will say, ‘Oh, yes! the man who set Valpinson 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 guilty, but that he was not held responsible 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 innocence 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 impertinent 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 murdering 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 knocking furiously at the door.
“Come in!” cried M. Seneschal.
The door opened and three peasants appeared, looking bewildered, but evidently 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 cartridge.”
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 singular 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 sickened, and whispered to him,—
“Then Cocoleu was right, after all!”
Not one feature of this dramatic scene had escaped M. Galpin’s eye. He had seen on every face signs of a kind of terror; still he made no remark. He took the metal case from the count’s hands, knowing that it might become an important 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 growing all over the old castle.”
M. Seneschal had in the meantime succeeded 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 necessarily 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. Seignebos had nothing to say.
“Now, my friends,” said M. Galpin, “which of you has found the 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 formalities 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 binding 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.”
VI.
There was nothing more to be done for the magistrate, the commonwealth attorney, or the mayor. The doctor might assuredly have used more polite language; 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, therefore, left the room, after having bid farewell 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