Within an Inch of His Life (Murder Mystery). Emile Gaboriau
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“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 telegram, and was reading it over once more.
“And yet,” she said, answering her own objections, “who in my place would not have been frightened? This name of Claudieuse especially”—
“Why? It is the name of an excellent and most honorable gentleman,—the best man in the world, in spite of his sea-dog manners.”
“Jacques hates him, my dear.”
“Jacques does not mind him any more than that.”
“They have repeatedly quarrelled.”
“Of course. Claudieuse is a furious legitimist; and as such he always talks with the utmost contempt of all of us who have been attached to the Orleans family.”
“Jacques has been at law with him.”
“And he has done right, only he ought to have carried the matter through. Claudieuse has claims on the Magpie, which divides our lands,—absurd claims. He wants at all seasons, and according as he may desire, to direct the waters of the little stream into his own channels, and thus drown the meadows at Boiscoran, which are lower than his own. Even my brother, who was an angel in patience and gentleness, had his troubles with this tyrant.”
But the marchioness was not convinced yet.
“There was another trouble,” she said.
“What?”
“Ah! I should like to know myself.”
“Has Jacques hinted at any thing?”
“No. I only know this. Last year, at the Duchess of Champdoce’s, I met by chance the Countess Claudieuse and her children. The young woman is perfectly charming; and, as we were going to give a ball the week after, it occurred to me to invite her at once. She refused, and did so in such an icy, formal manner, that I did not insist.”
“She probably does not like dancing,” growled the marquis.
“That same evening I mentioned the matter to Jacques. He seemed to be very angry, and told me, in a manner that was hardly compatible with respect, that I had been very wrong, and that he had his reasons for not desiring to come in contact with those people.”
The marquis felt so secure, that he only listened with partial attention, looking all the time aside at his precious faiences.
“Well,” he said at last, “Jacques detests the Claudieuses. What does that prove? God be thanked, we do not murder all the people we detest!”
His wife did not insist any longer. She only asked,—
“Well, what must we do?”
She was so little in the habit of consulting her husband, that he was quite surprised.
“The first thing is to get Jacques out of jail. We must see—we ought to ask for advice.”
At this moment a light knock was heard at the door.
“Come in!” he said.
A servant came in, bringing a large envelope, marked “Telegraphic Despatch. Private.”
“Upon my word!” cried the marquis. “I thought so. Now we shall be all right again.”
The servant had left the room. He tore open the envelope; but at the first glance at the contents the smile vanished, he turned pale, and just said,—
“Great God!”
Quick as lightning, the marchioness seized the fatal paper. She read at a glance,—
“Come quick. Jacques in prison; close confinement; accused of horrible crime. The whole town says he is guilty, and that he has confessed. Infamous calumny! His judge is his former friend, Galpin, who was to marry his cousin Lavarande. Know nothing except that Jacques is innocent. Abominable intrigue! Grandpa Chandore and I will do what can be done. Your help indispensable. Come, come!
“DIONYSIA CHANDORE.”
“Ah, my son is lost!” cried the marchioness with tears in her eyes. The marquis, however, had recovered already from the shock.
“And I—I say more than ever, with Dionysia, who is a brave girl, Jacques is innocent. But I see he is in danger. A criminal prosecution is always an ugly affair. A man in close confinement may be made to say any thing.”
“We must do something,” said the mother, nearly mad with grief.
“Yes, and without losing a minute. We have friends: let us see who among them can help us.”
“I might write to M. Margeril.”
The marquis, who had turned quite pale, became livid.
“What!” he cried. “You dare utter that name in my presence?”
“He is all powerful; and my son is in danger.”
The marquis stopped her with a threatening gesture, and cried with an accent of bitter hatred,—
“I would a thousand times rather my son should die innocent on the scaffold than owe his safety to that man!”
His wife seemed to be on the point of fainting.
“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 lawyer, Mr. Chapelain. Take a carriage.”
The servant who took the order was so expeditious, that, in less than twenty minutes, 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 control 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 himself so far, although I know he is one of the best jurists at the bar, and an admirable speaker.”
“What is his name?”
“Manuel Folgat. I shall send him to you at once.”
Two hours later, M. Chapelain’s protégé appeared at the house of the Boiscorans. 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