Within an Inch of His Life (Murder Mystery). Emile Gaboriau
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against the doorpost, as if he feared to fall. The clerk was mending his pen in the air, overcome with amazement. M. Daubigeon hung his head.
“This is horrible!” he murmured: “this is horrible!”
He fell heavily into a chair, pressing his hands on his heart, as if to keep down the sobs that threatened to rise. M. Galpin 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 convulsively on his brow, and cried out,—
“But I am mad! I should have committed such a fearful, cowardly crime? Is that possible? Is that likely? I might confess, and you would not believe me. No! I am sure you would not believe my own words.”
He would have moved the marble on his mantelpiece 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 overwhelmed. 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 dignity and icy solemnity, as when he replied,—
“For an hour, at least, poor Cocoleu has been in the full enjoyment of his faculties. The ways of Providence are inscrutable.”
“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 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 undertone: “it is fate.”
“And that is not all,” continued the magistrate, 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 falsehood. 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 circumstance 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 between 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 courtyard. A gendarme 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 pitchforks; but the women are the maddest. My comrade and I have done our best to keep them quiet.”
And just then, as if to confirm what he said, the cries came nearer, growing louder and louder; and one could distinctly hear,—
“Drown Boiscoran! Let us drown the incendiary!”
The attorney rose, and told the gendarme,—
“Go down and tell these people that the authorities are this moment examining 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 overheard the words; “and you would comprehend their rage, for which there is good reason, if you knew all that has happened.”
“What else?”
“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 magistrate, “who is charged with all these calamities. You see how important it is for you to exculpate yourself.”
“Ah! how can I?”
“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 Sauveterre.”
“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 servant, who carried him his clothes. M. Galpin was so busy dictating to the clerk the latter part of the examination, that he seemed to forget his prisoner. Old Anthony 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 openings; 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?”