Chapter 6
"But you were also my friend. If anyone should have dared in my presence to accuse you of a crime, of a mean act, of something infamous, I should have defended you, sir, with all my energy, without hesitation, and without a doubt. I should have defended you till absolute, undeniable evidence should have been brought forward of your culpability; and even then I should have pitied you, remembering that I had esteemed you so highly as to favor your alliance with my family. But you--I am accused, I do not know of what, falsely, wrongly; and at once you hasten hither, you believe the charge, and consent to become my judge. Well, let it be so! I washed my hands last night after coming home."
M. Galpin had not boasted too much in praising his self-possession and his perfect control over himself. He did not move when the terrible words fell upon his ear; and he asked again in the same calm tone,--
"What has become of the water you used for that purpose?"
"It is probably still there, in my dressing-room."
The magistrate at once went in. On the marble table stood a basin full of water. That water was black and dirty. At the bottom lay particles of charcoal. On the top, mixed with the soapsuds, were swimming some extremely slight but unmistakable fragments of charred paper. With infinite care the magistrate carried the basin to the table at which Mechinet had taken a seat; and, pointing at it, he asked M. de Boiscoran,--
"Is that the water in which you washed your hands last night after coming home?"
"Yes," replied the other with an air of careless indifference.
"You had been handling charcoal, or some inflammable material."
"Don't you see?"
Standing face to face, the commonwealth attorney and clerk exchanged rapid glances. They had had the same feeling at that moment. If M. de Boiscoran was innocent, he was certainly a marvellously cool and energetic man, or he was carrying out a long-premeditated plan of action; for every one of his answers seemed to tighten the net in which he was taken. The magistrate himself seemed to be struck by this; but it was only for a moment, and then, turning to the clerk, he said,--
"Write that down!"
He dictated to him the whole evidence, most minutely and accurately, correcting himself every now and then to substitute a better word, or to improve his style. When he had read it over he said,--
"Let us go on, sir. You were out last night?"
"Yes, sir."
"Having left the house at eight, you returned only around midnight."
"After midnight."
"You took your gun?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where is it?"
With an air of indifference, M. de Boiscoran pointed at it in the corner of the fireplace, and said,--
"There it is!"
M. Galpin took it up quickly. It was a superb weapon, double-barrelled, of unusually fine make, and very elegant. On the beautifully carved woodwork the manufacturer's name, Clebb, was engraven.
"When did you last fire this gun?" asked the magistrate.
"Some four or five days ago."
"What for?"
"To shoot some rabbits who infested my woods."
M. Galpin raised and lowered the cock with all possible care: he noticed that it was the Remington patent. Then he opened the chamber, and found that the gun was loaded. Each barrel had a cartridge in it. Then he put the gun back in its place, and, pulling from his pocket the leaden cartridge-case which Pitard had found, he showed it to M. de Boiscoran, and asked him,--
"Do you recognize this?"
"Perfectly!" replied the other. "It is a case of one of the cartridges which I have probably thrown away as useless."
"Do you think you are the only one in this country who has a gun by this maker?"
"I do not think it: I am quite sure of it."
"So that you must, as a matter of course, have been at a spot where such a cartridge-case as this has been found?"
"Not necessarily. I have often seen children pick up these things, and play with them."
The clerk, while he made his pen fly across his paper, could not resist the temptation of making all kinds of faces. He was too well acquainted with lawyers' tactics not to understand M. Galpin's policy perfectly well, and to see how cunningly it was devised to make every fact strengthen the suspicion against M. de Boiscoran.
"It is a close game," he said to himself.
The magistrate had taken a seat.
"If that is so," he began again, "I beg you will give me an account of how you spent the evening after eight o'clock: do not hurry, consider, take your time; for your answers are of the utmost importance."
M. de Boiscoran had so far remained quite cool; but his calmness betrayed one of those terrible storms within, which may break forth, no one knows when. This warning, and, even more so, the tone in which it was given, revolted him as a most hideous hypocrisy. And, breaking out all of a sudden, he cried,--
"After all, sir, what do you want of me? What am I accused of?"
M. Galpin did not stir. He replied,--
"You will hear it at the proper time. First answer my question, and believe me in your own interest. Answer frankly. What did you do last night?"
"How do I know? I walked about."
"That is no answer."
"Still it is so. I went out with no specific purpose: I walked at haphazard."
"Your gun on your shoulder?"
"I always take my gun: my servant can tell you so."
"Did you cross the Seille marshes?"
"No."
The magistrate shook his head gravely. He said,--
"You are not telling the truth."
"Sir!"
"Your boots there at the foot of the bed speak against you. Where does the mud come from with which they are covered?"
"The meadows around Boiscoran are very wet."
"Do not attempt to deny it. You have been seen there."
"But"--
"Young Ribot met you at the moment when you were crossing the canal."
M. de Boiscoran made no reply.
"Where were you going?" asked the magistrate.
For the first time a real embarrassment appeared in the features of the accused,--the embarrassment of a man who suddenly sees an abyss opening before him. He hesitated; and, seeing that it was useless to deny, he said,--
"I was going to Brechy."
"To whom?"
"To my wood-merchant, who has bought all this year's wood. I did not find him at home, and came back on the high road."
M. Galpin stopped him by a gesture.
"That is not so," he said severely.
"Oh!"
"You never went to Brechy."
"I beg your pardon."
"And the proof is, that, about eleven o'clock, you were hurriedly crossing the forest of Rochepommier."
"I?"
"Yes, you! And do not say No; for there are your trousers torn to pieces by the thorns and briers through which you must have made your way."
"There are briers elsewhere as well as in the forest."
"To be sure; but you were seen there."
"By whom?"
"By Gaudry the poacher. And he saw so much of you, that he could tell us in what a bad humor you were. You were very angry. You were talking loud, and pulling the leaves from the trees."
As he said so, the magistrate got up and took the shooting-jacket, which was lying on a chair not far from him. He searched the pockets, and pulled out of one a handful of leaves.
"Look here! you see, Gaudry has told the truth."
"There are leaves everywhere," said M. de Boiscoran half aloud.
"Yes; but a woman, Mrs. Courtois, saw you come out of the forest of Rochepommier. You helped her to put a sack of flour on her ass, which she could not lift alone. Do you deny it? No, you are right; for, look here! on the sleeve of your coat I see something white, which, no doubt, is flour from her bag."
M. de Boiscoran hung his head. The magistrate went on,--
"You confess, then, that last night, between ten and eleven you were at Valpinson?"
"No, sir, I do not."
"But this cartridge-case which I have just shown you was picked up at Valpinson, close by the ruins of the old castle."
"Well, sir, have I not told you before that I have seen a hundred times children pick up these cases to play with? Besides, if I had really been at Valpinson, why should I deny it?"
M. Galpin rose to his full height, and said in the most solemn manner,--
"I am going to tell you why! Last night, between ten and eleven, Valpinson was set on fire; and it has been burnt to the ground."
"Oh!"
"Last night Count Claudieuse was fired at twice."
"Great God!"
"And it is thought, in fact there are strong reasons to think, that you, Jacques de Boiscoran, are the incendiary and the assassin."
IX.
M. de Boiscoran looked around him like a man who has suddenly been seized with vertigo, pale, as if all his blood had rushed to his heart.
He saw nothing but mournful, dismayed faces.
Anthony, his old trusted servant, was leaning 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?"
"I conjure you," said Anthony, "I answer for any thing. It is barely twenty feet. In your mother's name"--
But, instead of answering him, M. de Boiscoran turned round, and called M. Galpin. When he had come in, he said to him, "Look at that window, sir! I have money, fast horses; and the sea is only five miles off. A guilty man would have escaped. I stay here; for I am innocent."
In one point, at least, M. de Boiscoran had been right. Nothing would have been easier for him than to escape, to get into the garden, and to reach the hiding-place which his servant had suggested to him. But after that? He had, to be sure, with old Anthony's assistance, some chance of escaping altogether. But, after all, he might have been found out in his hiding-place, or he might have been overtaken in his ride to the coast. Even if he had succeeded, what would have become of him? His flight would necessarily have been looked upon as a confession of his guilt.
Under such circumstances, to resist the temptation to escape, and to make this resistance well known, was in fact not so much an evidence of innocence as a proof of great cleverness. M. Galpin, at all events, looked upon it in that light; for he judged others by himself. Carefully and cunningly calculating every step he took in life, he did not believe in sudden inspirations. He said, therefore, with an ironical smile, which was to show that he was not so easily taken in,--
"Very well, sir. This circumstance shall be mentioned, as well as the others, at the trial."
Very differently thought the commonwealth attorney and the clerk. If the magistrate had been too much engaged in his dictation to notice any thing, they had been perfectly able to notice the great excitement under which the accused had naturally labored. Perfectly amazed at first, and thinking, for a moment, that the whole was a joke, he had next become furiously angry; then fear and utter dejection had followed one another. But in precise proportion as the charges had accumulated, and the evidence had become overwhelming, he had, so far from becoming demoralized, seemed to recover his assurance.
"There is something curious about it," growled Mechinet. M. Daubigeon, on the other hand, said nothing; but when M. de Boiscoran came out of his dressing-room, fully dressed and ready, he said,--
"One more question, sir."
The poor man bowed. He was pale, but calm and self-possessed.
"I am ready to reply," he said.
"I'll be brief. You seemed to be surprised and indignant at any one's daring to accuse you. That was weakness. Justice is but the work of man, and must needs judge by appearances. If you reflect, you will see that the appearances are all against you."
"I see it but too clearly."
"If you were on a jury, you would not hesitate to pronounce a man guilty upon such evidence."
"No, sir, no!"
The commonwealth attorney bounded from his chair. He said,--
"You are not sincere!"
M. de Boiscoran sadly shook his head, and replied,--
"I speak to you without the slightest hope of convincing you, but in all sincerity. No, I should not condemn a man, as you say, if he asserted his innocence, and if I did not see any reason for his crime. For, after all, unless a man is mad, he does not commit a crime for nothing. Now I ask you, how could I, upon whom fortune has always smiled; I who am on the eve of marrying one whom I love passionately,--how could I have set Valpinson on fire, and tried to murder Count Claudieuse?"
M. Galpin had scarcely been able to disguise his impatience, when he saw the attorney take part in the affair. Seizing, therefore, the opportunity to interfere, he said,--
"Your reason, sir, was hatred. You hated the count and the countess mortally. Do not protest: it is of no use. Everybody knows it; and you yourself have told me so."
M. de Boiscoran looked as if he were growing still more pale, and then replied in a tone of crushing disdain,--
"Even if that were so, I do not see what right you have to abuse the confidence of a friend, after having declared, upon your arrival here, that all friendship between us had ceased. But that is not so. I never told you any such thing. As my feelings have never changed, I can repeat literally what I have said. I have told you that the count was a troublesome neighbor, a stickler for his rights, and almost absurdly attached to his preserves. I have also told you, that, if he declared my public opinions to be abominable, I looked upon his as ridiculous and dangerous. As for the countess, I have simply said, half in jest, that so perfect a person was not to my taste; and that I should be very unhappy if my wife were a Madonna, who hardly ever deigned to put her foot upon the ground."
"And that was the only reason why you once pointed your gun at Count Claudieuse? A little more blood rushing to your head would have made you a murderer on that day."
A terrible spasm betrayed M. de Boiscoran's fury; but he checked himself, and said,--
"My passion was less fiery than it may have looked. I have the most profound respect for the count's character. It is an additional grief to me that he should have accused me."
"But he has not accused you!" broke in M. Daubigeon. "On the contrary, he was the first and the most eager to defend you."
And, in spite of the signs which M. Galpin made, he continued,--
"Unfortunately that has nothing to do with the force of the evidence against you. If you persist in keeping silence, you must look for a criminal trial for the galleys. If you are innocent, why not explain the matter? What do you wait for? What do you hope?"
"Nothing."
Mechinet had, in the meantime, completed the official report.
"We must go," said M. Galpin
"Am I at liberty," asked M. de Boiscoran, "to write a few lines to my father and my mother? They are old: such an event may kill them."
"Impossible!" said the magistrate.
Then, turning to Anthony, he said,--
"I am going to put the seals on this room, and I shall leave it in the meanwhile in your keeping. You know your duty, and the penalties to which you would be subject, if, at the proper time, every thing is not found in the same condition in which it is left now. Now, how shall we get back to Sauveterre?"
After mature deliberation it was decided that M. de Boiscoran should go in one of his own carriages, accompanied by one of the gendarmes. M. Daubigeon, the magistrate, and the clerk would return in the mayor's carriage, driven by Ribot, who was furious at being kept under surveillance.
"Let us be off," said the magistrate, when the last formalities had been fulfilled.
M. de Boiscoran came down slowly. He knew the court was full of furious peasants; and he expected to be received with hootings. It was not so. The gendarme whom the attorney had sent down had done his duty so well, that not a cry was heard. But when he had taken his seat in the carriage, and the horse went off at a trot, fierce curses arose, and a shower of stones fell, one of which wounded a gendarme.
"Upon my word, you bring ill luck, prisoner," said the man, a friend of the other gendarme who had been so much injured at the fire.
M. de Boiscoran made no reply. He sank back into the corner, and seemed to fall into a kind of stupor, from which he did not rouse himself till the carriage drove into the yard of the prison at Sauveterre. On the threshold stood Master Blangin, the jailer, smiling with delight at the idea of receiving so distinguished a prisoner.
"I am going to give you my best room," he said, "but first I have to give a receipt to the gendarme, and to enter you in my book." Thereupon he took down his huge, greasy register, and wrote the name of Jacques de Boiscoran beneath that of Trumence Cheminot, a vagabond who had just been arrested for having broken into a garden.
It was all over. Jacques de Boiscoran was a prisoner, to be kept in close confinement.
SECOND PART--THE BOISCORAN TRIAL
I.