Chapter 20

"And, without giving me time to reply, she asked,--

"'Where are my letters?'

"'Here they are,' I said, handing them to her.

"She took them with feverish haste, saying in an undertone,--

"'There ought to be twenty-four.'

"And, without thinking of the insult, she went to work counting them.

"'They are all here,' she said when she had finished.

"Then, drawing a little package from her bosom, she added,--

"'And here are yours.'

"But she did not give them to me.

"'We'll burn them,' she said.

"I started with surprise.

"'You cannot think of it,' I cried, 'here, and at this hour. The fire would certainly be seen.'

"'What? Are you afraid? However, we can go into the wood. Come, give me some matches.'

"I felt in my pockets; but I had none.

"'I have no matches,' I said.

"'Oh, come!--you who smoke all day long,--you who, even in my presence, could never give up your cigars.'

"'I left my match-box, yesterday, at M. de Chandore's.'

"She stamped her foot vehemently.

"'Since that is so, I'll go in and get some.'

"This would have delayed us, and thus would have been an additional imprudence. I saw that I must do what she wanted, and so I said,--

"'That is not necessary. Wait!'

"All sportsmen know that there is a way to replace matches. I employed the usual means. I took a cartridge out of my gun, emptied it and its shot, and put in, instead a piece of paper. Then, resting my gun on the ground, so as to prevent a loud explosion, I made the powder flash up.

"We had fire, and put the letters to the flame.

"A few minutes later, and nothing was left of them but a few blackened fragments, which I crumbled in my hands, and scattered to the winds. Immovable, like a statue, the Countess Claudieuse had watched my operations.

"'And that is all,' she said, 'that remains of five years of our life, of our love, and of your vows,--ashes.'

"I replied by a commonplace remark. I was in a hurry to be gone.

"She felt this, and cried with great vehemence,--

"'Ah! I inspire you with horror.'

"'We have just committed a marvellous imprudence,' I said.

"'Ah! what does it matter?'

"Then, in a hoarse voice, she added,--

"'Happiness awaits you, and a new life full of intoxicating hopes: it is quite natural that you should tremble. I, whose life is ended, and who have nothing to look for,--I, in whom you have killed every hope,--I am not afraid.'

"I saw her anger rising within her, and said very quietly,--

"'I hope you do not repent of your generosity, Genevieve.'

"'Perhaps I do,' she replied, in an accent which made me tremble. 'How you must laugh at me! What a wretched thing a woman is who is abandoned, who resigns, and sheds tears!'

"Then she went on fiercely,--

"'Confess that you have never loved me really!'

"'Ah, you know very well the contrary!'

"'Still you abandon me for another,--for that Dionysia!'

"'You are married: you cannot be mine.'

"'Then if I were free--if I had been a widow'--

"'You would be my wife you know very well.'

"She raised her arms to heaven, like a drowning person; and, in a voice which I thought they could hear at the house, she cried,--

"'His wife! If I were a widow, I would be his wife! O God! Luckily, that thought, that terrible thought, never occurred to me before.'"

All of a sudden, at these words, the eminent advocate of Sauveterre rose from his chair, and, placing himself before Jacques de Boiscoran, he asked, looking at him with one of those glances which seem to pierce our innermost heart,--

"And then?"

Jacques had to summon all the energy that was left him to be able to continue with a semblance of calmness, at least,--

"Then I tried every thing in the world to quiet the countess, to move her, and bring her back to the generous feelings of former days. I was so completely upset that I hardly knew what I was saying. I hated her bitterly, and still I could not help pitying her. I am a man; and there is no man living who would not feel deeply moved at seeing himself the object of such bitter regrets and such terrible despair. Besides, my happiness and Dionysia's honor were at stake. How do I know what I said? I am not a hero of romance. No doubt I was mean. I humbled myself, I besought her, I told falsehoods, I vowed to her that it was my family, mainly, who made me marry. I hoped I should be able, by great kindness and caressing words, to soften the bitterness of the parting. She listened to me, remaining as impassive as a block of ice; and, when I paused, she said with a sinister laugh,--

"'And you tell me all that! Your Dionysia! Ah! if I were a woman like other women, I would say nothing to-day, and, before the year was over, you would again be at my feet.'

"She must have been thinking of our meeting at the cross-roads. Or was this the last outburst of passion at the moment when the last ties were broken off? I was going to speak again; but she interrupted me bruskly, saying,--

"'Oh, that is enough! Spare me, at least, the insult of your pity! I'll see. I promise nothing. Good-by!'

"And she escaped toward the house, while I remained rooted to the spot, almost stupefied, and asking myself if she was not, perhaps at that moment, telling Count Claudieuse every thing. It was at that moment that I drew from my gun, almost mechanically, the burnt cartridge and put in a fresh one. Then, as nothing stirred, I went off with rapid strides."

"What time was it?" asked M. Magloire.

"I could not tell you precisely. My state of mind was such, that I had lost all idea of time. I went back through the forest of Rochepommier."

"And you saw nothing?"

"No."

"Heard nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Still, from your statement, you could not have been far from Valpinson when the fire broke out."

"That is true, and, in the open country, I should certainly have seen the fire; but I was in a dense wood: the trees cut off all view."

"And these same trees prevented the sound of the two shots fired at Count Claudieuse from reaching your ear?"

"They might have helped to prevent it; but there was no need for that. I was walking against the wind, which was very high; and it is an established fact, that, under such circumstances, the sound of a gun is not heard beyond fifty yards."

M. Magloire once more could hardly restrain his impatience; and, utterly unconscious that he was even harsher than the magistrate, he said,--

"And you think your statement explains every thing?"

"I believe that my statement, which is founded upon the most exact truth, explains the charges brought against me by M. Galpin. It explains how I tried to keep my visit to Valpinson secret; how I was met in going and in coming back, and at hours which correspond with the time of the fire. It explains, finally, how I came at first to deny. It explains how one of my cartridge-cases was found near the ruins, and why I had to wash my hands when I reached home."

Nothing seemed to be able to shake the lawyer's conviction. He asked,--

"And the day after, when they came to arrest you, what was your first impression?"

"I thought at once of Valpinson."

"And when you were told that a crime had been committed?"

"I said to myself, 'The countess wants to be a widow.'"

All of M. Magloire's blood seemed to rise in his face. He cried,--

"Unhappy man! How can you dare accuse the Countess Claudieuse of such a crime?"

Indignation gave Jacques strength to reply,--

"Whom else should I accuse? A crime has been committed, and under such circumstances that it cannot have been committed by any one except by her or by myself. I am innocent: consequently she is guilty."

"Why did you not say so at once?"

Jacques shrugged his shoulders, and replied in a tone of bitter irony,--

"How many times, and in how many ways, do you want me to give you my reasons? I kept silent the first day, because I did not then know the circumstances of the crime, and because I was reluctant to accuse a woman who had given me her love, and who had become criminal from passion; because, in fine, I did not think at that time that I was in danger. After that I kept silent because I hoped justice would be able to discover the truth, or the countess would be unable to bear the idea that I, the innocent one, should be accused. Still later, when I saw my danger, I was afraid."

The advocates' feelings seemed to be revolted. He broke in,--

"You do not tell the truth, Jacques; and I will tell you why you kept silent. It is very difficult to make up a story which is to account for every thing. But you are a clever man: you thought it over, and you made out a story. There is nothing lacking in it, except probability. You might tell me that the Countess Claudieuse has unfairly enjoyed the reputation of a saint, and that she has given you her love; perhaps I might be willing to believe it. But when you say she has set her own house on fire, and taken up a gun to shoot her husband, that I can never, never admit."

"Still it is the truth."

"No; for the evidence of Count Claudieuse is precise. He has seen his murderer; it was a man who fired at him."

"And who tells you that Count Claudieuse does not know all, and wants to save his wife, and ruin me? There would be a vengeance for him."

The objection took the advocate by surprise; but he rejected it at once, and said,--

"Ah! be silent, or prove."

"All the letters are burned."

"When one has been a woman's lover for five years, there are always proofs."

"But you see there are none."

"Do not insist," repeated M. Magloire.

And, in a voice full of pity and emotion, he added,--

"Unhappy man! Do you not feel, that, in order to escape from one crime, you are committing another which is a thousand times worse?"

Jacques stood wringing his hand, and said--

"It is enough to drive me mad."

"And even if I, your friend," continued M. Magloire, "should believe you, how would that help you? Would any one else believe it? Look here I will tell you exactly what I think. Even if I were perfectly sure of all the facts you mention, I should never plead them in my defence, unless I had proofs. To plead them, understand me well, would be to ruin yourself inevitably."

"Still they must be pleaded; for they are the truth."

"Then," said M. Magloire, "you must look for another advocate."

And he went toward the door. He was on the point of leaving, when Jacques cried out, almost in agony,--

"Great God, he forsakes me!"

"No," replied the advocate; "but I cannot discuss matters with you in the state of excitement in which you now are. You will think it over, and I will come again to-morrow."

He left; and Jacques de Boiscoran fell, utterly undone, on one of the prison chairs.

"It is all over," he stammered: "I am lost."

XV.

During all this time, they were suffering intense anxiety at M. de Chandore's house. Ever since eight o'clock in the morning the two aunts, the old gentleman, the marchioness, and M. Folgat had been assembled in the dining-room, and were there waiting for the result of the interview. Dionysia had only come down later; and her grandfather could not help noticing that she had dressed more carefully than usual.

"Are we not going to see Jacques again?" she replied with a smile full of confidence and joy.

She had actually persuaded herself that one word from Jacques would suffice to convince the celebrated lawyer, and that he would reappear triumphant on M. Magloire's arm. The others did not share these expectations. The two aunts, looking as yellow as their old laces, sat immovable in a corner. The marchioness was trying to hide her tears; and M. Folgat endeavored to look absorbed in a volume of engravings. M. de Chandore, who possessed less self-control, walked up and down in the room, repeating every ten minutes,--

"It is wonderful how long time seems when you are waiting!"

At ten o'clock no news had come.

"Could M. Magloire have forgotten his promise?" said Dionysia, becoming anxious.

"No, he has not forgotten it," replied a newcomer, M. Seneschal. It was really the excellent mayor, who had met M. Magloire about an hour before, and who now came to hear the news, for his own sake, as he said, but especially for his wife's sake, who was actually ill with anxiety.

Eleven o'clock, and no news. The marchioness got up, and said,--

"I cannot stand this uncertainty a minute longer. I am going to the prison."

"And I will go with you, dear mother," declared Dionysia.

But such a proceeding was hardly suitable. M. de Chandore opposed it, and was supported by M. Folgat, as well as by M. Seneschal.

"We might at least send somebody," suggested the two aunts timidly.

"That is a good idea," replied M. de Chandore.

He rang the bell; and old Anthony came in. He had established himself the evening before in Sauveterre, having heard that the preliminary investigation was finished.

As soon as he had been told what they wanted him to do, he said,--

"I shall be back in half an hour."

He nearly ran down the steep street, hastened along National Street, and then climbed up more slowly Castle Street. When M. Blangin, the keeper, saw him appear, he turned very pale; for M. Blangin had not slept since Dionysia had given him the seventeen thousand francs. He, once upon a time the special friend of all gendarmes, now trembled when one of them entered the jail. Not that he felt any remorse about having betrayed his duty; oh, no! but he feared discovery.

More than ten times he had changed the hiding-place of his precious stocking; but, wherever he put it, he always fancied that the eyes of his visitors were riveted upon that very spot. He recovered, however, from his fright when Anthony told him his errand, and replied in the most civil manner,--

"M. Magloire came here at nine o'clock precisely. I took him immediately to M. de Boiscoran's cell; and ever since they have been talking, talking."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Of course I am. Must I not know every thing that happens in my jail? I went and listened. You can hear nothing from the passage: they have shut the wicket, and the door is massive."

"That is strange," murmured the old servant.

"Yes, and a bad sign," declared the keeper with a knowing air. "I have noticed that the prisoners who take so long to state their case to their advocate always catch the maximum of punishment."

Anthony, of course, did not report to his masters the jailer's mournful anticipations; but what he told them about the length of the interview did not tend to relieve their anxiety.

Gradually the color had faded from Dionysia's cheeks; and the clear ring of her voice was half drowned in tears, when she said, that it would have been better, perhaps, if she had put on mourning, and that seeing the whole family assembled thus reminded her of a funeral.

The sudden arrival of Dr. Seignebos cut short her remarks. He was in a great passion, as usual; and as soon as he entered, he cried,--

"What a stupid town Sauveterre is! Nothing but gossip and idle reports! The people are all of them old women. I feel like running away, and hiding myself. On my way here, twenty curious people have stopped me to ask me what M. de Boiscoran is going to do now. For the town is full of rumors. They know that Magloire is at the jail now; and everybody wants to be the first to hear Jacques's story."

He had put his immense broad brimmed hat on the table, and, looking around the room at all the sad faces he asked,--

"And you have no news yet?"

"Nothing," replied M. Seneschal and M. Folgat at the same breath.

"And we are frightened by this delay," added Dionysia.

"And why?" asked the physician.

Then taking down his spectacles, and wiping them diligently, he said,--

"Did you think, my dear young lady, that Jacques de Boiscoran's affair could be settled in five minutes? If they let you believe that, they did wrong. I, who despise all concealment, I will tell you the truth. At the bottom of all these occurrences at Valpinson, there lies, I am perfectly sure, some dark intrigue. Most assuredly we shall put Jacques out of his trouble; but I fear it will be hard work."

"M. Magloire!" announced old Anthony.

The eminent advocate of Sauveterre entered. He looked so undone, and bore so evidently the traces of his excitement, that all had the same terrible thought which Dionysia expressed.

"Jacques is lost!"

M. Magloire did not say no.

"I believe he is in danger."

"Jacques," murmured the old marchioness,--"my son!"

"I said in danger," repeated the advocate; "but I ought to have said, he is in a strange, almost incredible, unnatural position."

"Let us hear," said the marchioness.

The lawyer was evidently very much embarrassed; and he looked with unmistakable distress, first at Dionysia, and then at the two old aunts. But nobody noticed this, and so he said,--

"I must ask to be left alone with these gentlemen."

In the most docile manner the Misses Lavarande rose, and took their niece and Jacques's mother with them: the latter was evidently near fainting. As soon as the door was shut, Grandpapa Chandore, half mad with grief, exclaimed,--

"Thanks, M. Magloire, thanks for having given me time to prepare my poor child for the terrible blow. I see but too well what you are going to say. Jacques is guilty."

"Stop," said the advocate: "I have said nothing of the kind. M. de Boiscoran still protests energetically that he is innocent; but he states in his defence a fact which is so entirely improbable, so utterly inadmissible"--

"But what does he say?" asked M. Seneschal.

"He says that the Countess Claudieuse has been his mistress."

Dr. Seignebos started, and, readjusting his spectacles, he cried triumphantly,--

"I said so! I have guessed it!"

M. Folgat had, on this occasion, very naturally, no deliberative voice. He came from Paris, with Paris ideas; and, whatever he might have been told, the name of the Countess Claudieuse revealed to him nothing. But, from the effect which it produced upon the others, he could judge what Jacques's accusation meant. Far from being of the doctor's opinion M. de Chandore and M. Seneschal both seemed to be as much shocked as M. Magloire.

"That is incredible," said one.

"That is impossible," added the other.

M. Magloire shook his head, and said,--

"That is exactly what I told Jacques."

But the doctor was not the man to be surprised at what public opinion said, much less to fear it. He exclaimed,--

"Don't you hear what I say? Don't you understand me? The proof that the thing is neither so incredible nor so impossible is, that I had suspected it. And there were signs of it, I should think. Why on earth should a man like Jacques, young, rich, well made, in love with a charming girl, and beloved by her, why should he amuse himself with setting houses on fire, and killing people? You tell me he did not like Count Claudieuse. Upon my word! If everybody who does not like Dr. Seignebos were to come and fire at him forthwith, do you know my body would look like a sieve! Among you all, M. Folgat is the only one who has not been struck with blindness."

The young lawyer tried modestly to protest.

"Sir"--

But the other cut him short, and went on,--

"Yes, sir, you saw it all; and the proof of it is, that you at once went to work in search of the real motive, the heart,--in fine, the woman at the bottom of the riddle. The proof of it is, that you went and asked everybody,--Anthony, M. de Chandore, M. Seneschal, and myself,--if M. de Boiscoran had not now, or had not had, some love-affair in the country. They all said No, being far from suspecting the truth. I alone, without giving you a positive answer, told you that I thought as you did, and told you so in M. de Chandore's presence."

"That is so!" replied the old gentleman and M. Folgat.

Dr. Seignebos was triumphant. Gesticulating, and continually handling his spectacles, he added,--

"You see I have learnt to mistrust appearances; and hence I had my misgivings from the beginning. I watched the Countess Claudieuse the night of the fire; and I saw that she looked embarrassed, troubled, suspicious. I wondered at her readiness to yield to M. Galpin's whim, and to allow Cocoleu to be examined; for I knew that she was the only one who could ever make that so-called idiot talk. You see I have good eyes, gentlemen, in spite of my spectacles. Well, I swear by all I hold most sacred, on my Republican faith, I am ready to affirm upon oath, that, when Cocoleu uttered Jacques de Boiscoran's name, the countess exhibited no sign of surprise."

Never before, in their life, had the mayor of Sauveterre and Dr. Seignebos been able to agree on any subject. This question was not likely to produce such an effect all of a sudden: hence M. Seneschal said,--

"I was present at Cocoleu's examination, and I noticed, on the contrary, the amazement of the countess."

The doctor raised his shoulders, and said,--

"Certainly she said, 'Ah!' But that is no proof. I, also, could very easily say, 'Ah!' if anybody should come and tell me that the mayor of Sauveterre was in the wrong; and still I should not be surprised."

"Doctor!" said M. de Chandore, anxious to conciliate,--"doctor!"

But Dr. Seignebos had already turned to M. Magloire, whom he was anxious to convert, and went on,--

"Yes, the face of the Countess Claudieuse, expressed amazement; but her eyes spoke of bitter, fierce hatred, of joy, and of vengeance. And that is not all. Will you please tell me, Mr. Mayor, when Count Claudieuse was roused by the fire, was the countess by him? No, she was nursing her youngest daughter, who had the measles. Hm! What do you think of measles which make sitting up at night necessary? And when the two shots were fired, where was the countess then? Still with her daughter, and on the other side of the house from where the fire was."

The mayor of Sauveterre was no less obstinate than the doctor. He at once objected,--

"I beg you will notice, doctor, that Count Claudieuse himself deposed how, when he ran to the fire, he found the door shut from within, just as he had left it a few hours before."

Dr. Seignebos returned a most ironical bow, and then asked,--

"Is there really only one door in the chateau at Valpinson?"

"To my knowledge," said M. de Chandore, "there are at least three."

"And I must say," added M. Magloire, "that according to M. de Boiscoran's statement, the countess, on that evening, had gone out by the laundry-door when she came to meet him."

"What did I say?" exclaimed the doctor.

And, wiping his glasses in a perfect rage, he added,--

"And the children! Does Mr. Mayor think it natural that the Countess Claudieuse, this incomparable mother in his estimation, should forget her children in the height of the fire?"

"What! The poor woman is called out by the discharge of fire-arms; she sees her house on fire; she stumbles over the lifeless body of her husband: and you blame her for not having preserved all her presence of mind."

"That is one view of it; but it is not the one I take. I rather think that the countess, having been delayed out of doors, was prevented by the fire from getting in again. I think, also, that Cocoleu came very opportunely; and that it was very lucky Providence should inspire his mind with that sublime idea of saving the children at the risk of his life."

This time M. Seneschal made no reply.