Within an Inch of His Life, Emile Gaboriau [thriller books to read txt] 📗

had cleaned and washed your breech-loader the night before the crime.”

“Great God!” exclaimed Jacques.

“Well, I see you appreciate the importance of the fact. Between that cleaning and the time when you set a cartridge on fire, in order to burn the letters of the Countess Claudieuse, did you fire your gun? If you did, we must say nothing more about it. If you did not, one of the barrels of the breech-loader must be clean, and then you are safe.”

For more than a minute, Jacques remained silent, trying to recall the facts; at last he replied,—

“It seems to me, I am sure, I fired at a rabbit on the morning of the fatal day.”

M. Magloire looked disappointed.

“Fate again!” he said.

“Oh, wait!” cried Jacques. “I am quite sure, at all events, that I killed that rabbit at the first shot. Consequently, I can have fouled only one barrel of the gun. If I have used the same barrel at Valpinson, to get a light, I am safe. With a double gun, one almost instinctively first uses the right-hand barrel.”

M. Magloire’s face grew darker.

“Never mind,” he said, “we cannot possibly make an argument upon such an uncertain chance,—a chance which, in case of error, would almost fatally turn against us. But at the trial, when they show you the gun, examine it, so that you can tell me how that matter stands.”

Thus they had sketched the outlines of their plan of defence. There remained nothing now but to perfect the details; and to this task the two lawyers were devoting themselves still, when Blangin, the jailer, called to them through the wicket, that the doors of the prison were about to be closed.

“Five minutes more, my good Blangin!” cried Jacques.

And drawing his two friends aside, as far from the wicket as he could, he said to them in a low and distressed voice,—

“A thought has occurred to me, gentlemen, which I think I ought to mention to you. It cannot be but that the Countess Claudieuse must be suffering terribly since I am in prison. However, sure she may be of having left no trace behind her that could betray her, she must tremble at the idea that I may, after all, tell the truth in self-defence. She would deny, I know, and she is so sure of her prestige, that she knows my accusation would not injure her marvellous reputation. Nevertheless, she cannot but shrink from the scandal. Who knows if she might not give us the means to escape from the trial, to avoid such exposure? Why might not one of you gentleman make the attempt?”

M. Folgat was a man of quick resolution.

“I will try, if you will give me a line of introduction.”

Jacque immediately sat down, and wrote,—

“I have told my counsel, M. Folgat, every thing. Save me, and I swear to you eternal silence. Will you let me perish, Genevieve, when you know I am innocent?

“JACQUES.” “Is that enough?” he asked, handing the lawyer the note.

“Yes; and I promise you I will see the Countess Claudieuse within the next forty-eight hours.”

Blangin was becoming impatient; and the two advocates had to leave the prison. As they crossed the New-Market Square, they noticed, not far from them, a wandering musician, who was followed by a number of boys and girls.

It was a kind of minstrel, dressed in a sort of garment which was no longer an overcoat and had not yet assumed the shape of a shortcoat. He was strumming on a wretched fiddle; but his voice was good, and the ballad he sang had the full flavor of the local accent:—

“In the spring, mother Redbreast Made her nest in the bushes, The good lady! Made her nest in the bushes, The good lady!”

Instinctively M. Folgat was fumbling in his pocket for a few cents, when the musician came up to him, held out his hat as if to ask alms, and said,—

“You do not recognize me?”

The advocate started.

“You here!” he said.

“Yes, I myself. I came this morning. I was watching for you; for I must see you this evening at nine o’clock. Come and open the little garden-gate at M. de Chandore’s for me.”

And, taking up his fiddle again, he wandered off listlessly, singing with his clear voice,—

“And a few, a few weeks later, She had a wee, a wee bit birdy.”

XXIV.

The great lawyer of Sauveterre had been far more astonished at the unexpected and extraordinary meeting than M. Folgat. As soon as the wandering minstrel had left them, he asked his young colleague,—

“You know that individual?”

“That individual,” replied M. Folgat, “is none other than the agent whose services I have engaged, and whom I mentioned to you.”

“Goudar?”

“Yes, Goudar.”

“And did you not recognize him?”

The young advocate smiled.

“Not until he spoke,” he replied. “The Goudar whom I know is tall, thin, beardless, and wears his hair cut like a brush. This street-musician is low, bearded, and has long, smooth hair falling down his back. How could I recognize my man in that vagabond costume, with a violin in his hand, and a provincial song set to music?”

M. Magloire smiled too, as he said,—

“What are, after all, professional actors in comparison with these men! Here is one who pretends having reached Sauveterre only this morning, and who knows the country as well as Trumence himself. He has not been here twelve hours, and he speaks already of M. de Chandore’s little garden-gate.”

“Oh! I can explain that circumstance now, although, at first, it surprised me very much. When I told Goudar the whole story, I no doubt mentioned the little gate in connection with Mechinet.”

Whilst they were chatting thus, they had reached the upper end of National Street. Here they stopped; and M. Magloire said,—

“One word before we part. Are you quite resolved to see the Countess Claudieuse?”

“I have promised.”

“What do you propose telling her?”

“I do not know. That depends upon how she receives me.”

“As far as I know her, she will, upon looking at the note, merely order you out.”

“Who knows! At