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

jokes nor with fierce curses. Unfortunately, first impulses, which are apt to be good impulses, do not last long. One of those idle good-for-nothings, drunkards, envious scamps who are found in every community, in the country as well as in the city, cried out,—

“And why not?”

These few words opened at once a door to all kinds of bold guesses.

Everybody had heard something about the quarrel between Count Claudieuse and M. de Boiscoran. It was well known, moreover, that the provocation had always come from the count, and that the latter had invariably given way in the end. Why, therefore, might not M. de Boiscoran, impatient at last, have resorted to such means in order to avenge himself on a man whom they thought he must needs hate, and whom he probably feared at the same time?

“Perhaps he would not do it, because he is a nobleman, and because he is rich?” they added sneeringly.

The next step was, of course, to look out for circumstances which might support such a theory; and the opportunity was not lacking. Groups were formed; and soon two men and a woman declared aloud that they could astonish the world if they chose to talk. They were urged to tell what they knew; and, of course, they refused. But they had said too much already. Willing or not willing, they were carried up to the house, where, at that very moment, M. Galpin was examining Count Claudieuse. The excited crowd made such a disturbance, that M. Seneschal, trembling at the idea of a new accident, rushed out to the door.

“What is it now?” he asked.

“More witnesses,” replied the peasants. “Here are some more witnesses.”

The mayor turned round, and, after having exchanged glances with M. Daubigeon, he said to the magistrate,—

“They are bringing you some more witnesses, sir.”

No doubt M. Galpin was little pleased at the interruption; but he knew the people well enough to bear in mind, that, unless he took them at the moment when they were willing to talk, he might never be able to get any thing out of them at any other time.

“We shall return some other time to our conversation,” he said to Count Claudieuse.

Then, replying to M. Seneschal, he said,—

“Let the witnesses come in, but one by one.”

The first who entered was the only son of a well-to-do farmer in the village of Brechy, called Ribot. He was a young fellow of about twenty-five, broad-shouldered, with a very small head, a low brow, and formidable crimson ears. For twenty miles all around, he was reputed to be an irresistible beau,—a reputation of which he was very proud. After having asked him his name, his first names, and his age, M. Galpin said,—

“What do you know?”

The young man straightened himself, and with a marvellously conceited air, which set all the peasants a-laughing, he replied,—

“I was out that night on some little private business of my own. I was on the other side of the chateau of Boiscoran. Somebody was waiting for me, and I was behind time: so I cut right across the marsh. I knew the rains of the last days would have filled all the ditches; but, when a man is out on such important business as mine was, he can always find his way”—

“Spare us those tedious details,” said the magistrate coldly. The handsome fellow looked surprised, rather than offended, by the interruption, and then went on,—

“As your Honor desires. Well, it was about eight o’clock, or a little more, and it was growing dark, when I reached the Seille swamps. They were overflowing; and the water was two inches above the stones of the canal. I asked myself how I should get across without spoiling my clothes, when I saw M. de Boiscoran coming towards me from the other side.”

“Are you quite sure it was he?”

“Why, I should think so! I talked to him. But stop, he was not afraid of getting wet. Without much ado, he rolled up his trousers, stuffed them into the tops of his tall boots, and went right through. Just then he saw me, and seemed to be surprised. I was as much so as he was. ‘Why, is it you, sir?’ I said. He replied ‘Yes: I have to see somebody at Brechy.’ That was very probably so; still I said again, ‘But you have chosen a queer way.’ He laughed. ‘I did not know the swamps were overflowed,’ he answered, ‘and I thought I would shoot some snipes.’ As he said this, he showed me his gun. At that moment I had nothing to say; but now, when I think it over, it looks queer to me.”

M. Galpin had written down the statement as fast as it was given. Then he asked,—

“How was M. de Boiscoran dressed?”

“Stop. He had grayish trousers on, a shooting-jacket of brown velveteen, and a broad-brimmed panama hat.”

The count and the countess looked distressed and almost overcome; nor did the mayor and his friend seem to be less troubled. One circumstance in Ribot’s evidence seemed to have struck them with peculiar force,—the fact that he had seen M. de Boiscoran push his trousers inside his boots.

“You can go,” said M. Galpin to the young man. “Let another witness come in.”

The next one was an old man of bad reputation, who lived alone in an old hut two miles from Valpinson. He was called Father Gaudry. Unlike young Ribot, who had shown great assurance, the old man looked humble and cringing in his dirty, ill-smelling rags. After having given his name, he said,—

“It might have been eleven o’clock at night, and I was going through the forest of Rochepommier, along one of the little by-paths”—

“You were stealing wood!” said the magistrate sternly.

“Great God, what an idea!” cried the old man, raising his hands to heaven. “How can you say such a thing! I steal wood! No, my dear sir, I was very quietly going to sleep in the forest, so as to be up with daylight, and gather champignons and other mushrooms to sell at Sauveterre. Well, I was trotting along, when, all of a sudden, I hear footsteps behind me. Naturally, I was frightened.”

“Because you were stealing!”

“Oh, no! my dear sir; only, at night, you understand. Well, I hid behind a tree; and almost at the same moment I saw M. de Boiscoran pass by. I recognized him perfectly in spite of the dark; for he seemed to be in a great rage, talked loud to himself, swore, gesticulated, and tore handfuls of leaves from the branches.”

“Did he have a gun?”

“Yes, my dear sir; for that was the very thing that frightened me so. I thought he was a keeper.”

The third and last witness was a good old woman, Mrs. Courtois, whose little farm lay on the other side of the forest of Rochepommier. When she was asked,