Chapter 14
"Your son tells us, madam, we have only to wait for the end of the preliminary examination."
"I beg your pardon," said M. de Chandore, "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 legitimate sphere, is a court in himself. I do not know if I express myself clearly?"
"Oh, very clearly!" said M. de Chandore. "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. Galpin from carrying on the proceedings? Not at all. He would go on until the decision 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 meantime 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 disadvantage. 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 influential 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 former years, very intimate with M. de Margeril."
M. Folgat's expression was very encouraging.
"Ah!" 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.
"Have Boiscoran and M. de Margeril had any difficulty?" asked M. de Chandore.
"Yes."
"But," cried Dionysia, "it is a matter of life and death for Jacques."
Alas! The poor woman could not speak of the suspicions which had darkened the whole life of the Marquis de Boiscoran, nor of the cruel penalty which the wife was now called upon to pay for a slight imprudence.
"If it is absolutely necessary," she said with a half-stifled voice, "if that is our very last hope, then I will go and see M. de Margeril myself."
M. Folgat was the only one who suspected what painful antecedents there might be in the life of the marchioness, and how she was harassed by their memory now. He interposed, therefore, saying,--
"At all events, my advice is to await the end of the preliminary investigation. I may be mistaken, however, and, before any answer is sent to M. Jacques, I desire that the lawyer to whom he alludes should be consulted."
"That is certainly the wisest plan," said M. de Chandore. And, ringing for a servant, he sent him at once to M. Magloire, to ask him to call after dinner. Jacques de Boiscoran had chosen wisely. M. Magloire was looked upon in Sauveterre as the most eloquent and most skilful lawyer, not only of the district, but of the whole province. And what is rarer still, and far more glorious, he had, besides, the reputation of being unsurpassed in integrity and a high sense of honor. It was well known that he would never have consented to plead a doubtful cause; and they told of him a number of heroic stories, in which he had thrown clients out of the window, who had been so ill-advised to come to him, money in hand, to ask him to undertake an unclean case. He was naturally not a rich man, and preserved, at fifty-four or five, all the habits of a frugal and thrifty young man.
After having married quite young, M. Magloire had lost his wife after a few months, and had never recovered from the loss. Although thirty years old, the wound had never healed; and regularly, on certain days, he was seen wending his way to the cemetery, to place flowers on a modest grave there. Any other man would have been laughed at for such a thing at Sauveterre; but with him they dared not do so, for they all respected him highly. Young and old knew and reverenced the tall man with the calm, serene face, the clear, bright eyes, and the eloquent lips, which, in their well-cut, delicate lines, by turns glowed with scorn, with tenderness, or with disdain.
Like Dr. Seignebos, M. Magloire also was a Republican; and, at the last Imperial elections, the Bonapartists had had the greatest trouble, aided though they were by the whole influence of the government, and shrinking from no unfair means, to keep him out of the Chamber. Nor would they have been successful after all, but for the influence of Count Claudieuse, who had prevailed upon a number of electors to abstain from voting.
This was the man, who, towards nine o'clock, presented himself, upon the invitation of M. de Chandore, at his house, where he was anxiously expected by all the inmates. His greeting was affectionate, but at the same time so sad, that it touched Dionysia's heart most painfully. She thought she saw that M. Magloire was not far from believing Jacques guilty.
And she was not mistaken; for M. Magloire let them see it clearly, in the most delicate manner, to be sure, but still so as to leave no doubt. He had spent the day in court, and there had heard the opinions of the members of the court, which was by no means favorable to the accused. Under such circumstances, it would have evidently been a grave blunder to yield to Jacques's wishes, and to apply for a change of venue from M. Galpin to some other magistrate.
"The investigation will last a year," cried Dionysia, "since M. Galpin is determined to obtain from Jacques the confession of a crime which he has not committed."
M. Magloire shook his head, and replied,--
"I believe, on the contrary, madam, that the investigation will be very soon concluded."
"But if Jacques keeps silent?"
"Neither the silence of an accused, nor any other caprice or obstinacy of his, can interfere with the regular process. Called upon to produce his justification, if he refuses to do so, the law proceeds without him."
"Still, sir, if an accused person has reasons"--
"There are no reasons which can force a man to let himself be accused unjustly. But even that case has been foreseen. The accused is at liberty not to answer a question which may inculpate him. _Nemo tenetur prodere se ipsum_. But you must admit that such a refusal to answer justifies a judge in believing that the charges are true which the accused does not refute."
The great calmness of the distinguished 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 marchioness 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's, say so?"
M. 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 evidence of his guilt on hand. What evidence 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.
"I 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 quite 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 imperceptibly. He said,--
"I should never have advised such imprudence; but, when it was once committed, 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 committed!--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 conceal 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 hastened to her chamber to write the following 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!
"DIONYSIA."
Then having put the note into an envelope, she called the old nurse, who had brought her up, and, with all the recommendations which extreme prudence could suggest, she said to her,--
"You must see to it that M. Mechinet the clerk gets this note to-night. Go! make haste!"
IX.
During the last twenty-four hours, Mechinet had changed so much, that his sisters recognized him no longer. Immediately after Dionysia's departure, they had come to him, hoping to hear at last what was meant by that mysterious interview; but at the first word he had cried out with a tone of voice which frightened his sisters to death,--
"That is none of your business! That is nobody's business!" and he had remained 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 appeal 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 unconquerable 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 Boiscoran, and to bring back an answer. He acquitted 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! 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 advantageous 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 untoward 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."
Mechinet's anxiety vanished instantly. He thought no longer of his strange position. 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 richest 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 replied,--
"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 reassured. The attorney-general has written him a letter, in which he compliments his energy."
"And then."
"Then we must induce M. de Boiscoran 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 Boiscoran: I must speak to him."
She expected the clerk to start, to cry 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 forever.
"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?"--
"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 precautions 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 grandfather's presence. She hesitated, she prepared 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 exclaimed,--
"Never, never, never!"
Perhaps in his whole life the old gentleman had never expressed himself in so positive a manner. His brow had never looked so dark. Usually, when his granddaughter 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?
Without telling him what she was going to do with it, Dionysia had asked him for twenty thousand francs, and he had given them to her, however big the sum might be everywhere, however immense 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 became 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 investigation 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 influence over him than his mother?"
"It is not the same thing, dear papa."
"Never mind!"
This "never mind" of Grandpapa Chandore was as positive as his "impossible;" but he had begun to discuss the question, 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 gentleman was quite overwhelmed for a moment.
"But, if I am not willing," he said.
"You will consent, dear papa, you will certainly not force your little granddaughter, who loves you so dearly, to the painful necessity of disobeying you for the first time in her life."
"Because, for the first time in her life I am not doing what my granddaughter wants me to do?"
"Dear papa, let me tell you."
"Rather listen to me, poor child, and let me show you to what dangers, to what misfortunes, you expose yourself. To go and spend a night at this 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 project."