Caught in the Net. Emile Gaboriau
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the Count roused himself from his prostration, as a man awakes from a hideous dream. “This is sheer folly,” cried he.
“It is folly,” answered Mascarin, “that would carry much weight with it.”
“And suppose I were to show you,” returned the Count, “that all these entries are the offspring of a diseased mind?”
Mascarin shook his head with an air of affected grief. “There is no use, my lord, in indulging in vain hopes. We,” he continued, wishing to associate himself with the Count, “we might of course admit that the Baron de Clinchain had made this entry in his diary in a moment of temporary insanity, were it not for the painful fact that there were others. Le me read them.”
“Go on; I am all attention.”
“We find the following, three days later: ‘Oct. 29th, 1842. I am most uneasy about my health. I feel shooting pains in all my joints. The derangement of my system arises entirely from this business of Octave’s. I had to run the gauntlet of a second court, and the judge’s eyes seemed to look me through and through. I also saw with much alarm that my second statement differs somewhat from the first one, so I have now learned it by heart. Ludovic is a sharp fellow, and quite self-possessed. I would like to have him in my household. I keep myself shut up in my house for fear of meeting friends who want to hear all the details of the accident. I believe I may say that I have repeated the story more than a couple of dozen times.’ Now, my lord,” added Mascarin, “what do you say to this?”
“Continue the reading of the extracts.”
“The third allusion, though it is short, is still very important: ‘November 3rd, 1842. Thank Heaven! all is over. I have just returned from the court. Octave has been acquitted. Ludovic had behaved wonderfully. He explained the reason of the misadventure in a way that was really surprising in an uneducated man, and there was not an atom of suspicion among judge, jury, or spectators. I have changed my mind; I would not have a fellow like Ludovic in my service; he is much too sharp. When I had been duly sworn, I gave my evidence. Though I was much agitated, I went through it all right; but when I got home I felt very ill, and discovered that my pulse was down to fifty. Ah, me! what terrible misfortunes are wrought by a momentary burst of anger. I now write this sentence in my diary: “Never give way to first impulses.”’ These words,” continued Mascarin, “were inscribed on every one of the pages following—at least so those who examined the entries informed me.”
Mascarin persisted in representing himself as the agent of others, but still the Count made no allusion to the persons in the background.
After a few moments the Count rose and limped up and down, as though he hoped by this means to collect his ideas, or perhaps in order to prevent his visitor from scanning his face too closely.
“Have you done?” asked he, all at once.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Have you thought what an impartial judge would say?”
“I think I have.”
“He would say,” broke in the Count, “that no sane man would have written such things down, for there are certain secrets which we do not whisper even to ourselves, and it is hardly likely that any man would make such compromising entries in a diary which might be lost or stolen, and which would certainly be read by his heir. Do you think that a man of high position would record his perjury, which is a crime that would send him to penal servitude?”
Mascarin gazed upon the Count with an air of pity.
“You are not going the right way, my lord, to get out of your trouble. No lawyer would adopt your theory. If the remaining volumes of M. de Clinchain’s diaries were produced in court, I imagine that other equally startling entries would be found in them.”
The Count now appeared to have arrived at some decision, and to continue the conversation simply for the purpose of gaining time.
“Well,” said he, “I will give up this idea; but how do I know that these documents are not forgeries? Nowadays, handwritings are easily facsimilied, when even bankers find it hard to distinguish between their own notes and counterfeit ones.”
“That can be settled by seeing if certain leaves are missing from the Baron’s diary.”
“That does not prove much.”
“Pardon me, it proves a great deal. This new line of argument, I assure you, will avail you as little as the other. I am perfectly aware that the Baron de Clinchain will utter whatever words you may place in his mouth. Let us suppose that the leaves which have been torn out should fit into the book exactly. Would not that be a strong point?”
The Count smiled ironically, as though he had a crushing reply in reserve.
“And so this is your opinion, is it?” said he.
“It is indeed.”
“Then all I have to do is to plead guilty. I did kill Montlouis, just as Clinchain describes, but——” and as he spoke he took a heavy volume from a shelf, and opening it at a certain place laid it before Mascarin, remarking—“this is the criminal code; read. ‘All proceedings in criminal law shall be cancelled after a lapse of ten years.’ ”
The Count de Mussidan evidently thought that he had crushed his adversary by this shattering blow; but it was not so, for instead of exhibiting any surprise, Mascarin’s smile was as bland as ever.
“I, too, know a little of the law,” said he. “The very first day this matter was brought to me, I turned to this page and read what you have just shown me to my employers.”
“And what did they say?”
“That they knew all this, but that you would be glad to compromise the affair, even at the expense of half your fortune.”
The agent’s manner was so confident that the Count felt they had discovered some means of turning this crime of his early days to advantage; but he was still sufficiently master of himself to show no emotion.
“No,” replied he, “it is not such an easy matter as you think to get hold of half my fortune. I fancy that your friends’ demands will assume a more modest tone, the more so when I repeat that these morsels of paper, stolen from my friend’s diary, are absolutely worthless.”
“Do you think so?”
“Certainly, for the law on this matter speaks plainly enough.”
Mascarin readjusted his glasses, a sure indication that he was going to make an important reply.
“You are quite right, my lord,” said he, slowly. “There is no intention of taking you before any court, for there is no penalty now for a crime committed twenty-three years ago; but the miserable wretches whom I blush to act for have arranged a plan which will be disagreeable in the highest degree both for you and the Baron.”
“Pray tell me what this clever plan is.”
“Most certainly. I came here to-day for this very purpose. Let us first conclude that you have rejected the request with which I approached you.”
“Do you call this style of thing a request?”
“What is the use of quarrelling over words. Well, to-morrow, my clients—though I am ashamed to speak of them as such—will send to a well known morning paper a tale, with the title, ‘Story of a Day’s Shooting.’ Of course only initials will be used for the names, but no doubt will exist as to the identity of the actors in the tragedy.”
“You forget that in actions for libel proofs are not admitted.”
Mascarin shrugged his shoulders.
“My employers forget nothing,” remarked he; “and it is upon this very point that they have based their plans For this reason they introduce into the matter a fifth party, of course an accomplice, whose name is introduced into the story in the paper. Upon the