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

several comings and goings, roll a large arm-chair in front of the judge’s seat.

At last one of the ushers comes up to the president, and whispers something into his ear.

The president only nods his head.

When the usher has left the room, M. Domini says,—

“We shall now proceed to hear the witnesses, and we propose to begin with Count Claudieuse. Although seriously indisposed, he has preferred to appear in court.”

At these words Dr. Seignebos is seen to start up, as if he wished to address the court; but one of his friends, sitting by him, pulls him down by his coat. M. Folgat makes a sign to him, and he sits down again.

P.—Sheriff, bring in Count Claudieuse.

[Examination of Witnesses.]

The small door through which the armorer Maucroy had been admitted opens once more, and Count Claudieuse enters. Supported and almost carried by his man-servant.

He is greeted by a murmur of sympathetic pity. He is frightfully thin; and his features look as haggard as if he were about to give up the ghost. The whole vitality of his system seems to have centred in his eyes, which shine with extraordinary brilliancy.

He takes the oath in an almost inaudible voice.

But the silence is so deep, that when the president asks him the usual question, “Do you swear to tell the whole truth?” and he answers, “I swear,” the words are distinctly heard all over the court-room.

P.—(Very kindly.) We are very much obliged to you, sir, for the effort which you have made. That chair has been brought in for you: please sit down.

COUNT CLAUDIEUSE.—I thank you, sir; but I am strong enough to stand.

P.—Please tell us, then, what you know of the attempt made on your life.

C.C.—It might have been eleven o’clock: I had gone to bed a little while before, and blown out my light. I was in that half state which is neither waking nor sleeping, when I saw my room lighted up by a dazzling glare. I saw it was fire. I jumped out of bed, and, only lightly dressed, rushed down the stairs. I found some difficulty in opening the outer door, which I had locked myself. At last I succeeded. But I had no sooner put my foot outside than I felt a terrible pain in my right side, and at the same time I heard an explosion of fire-arms. Instinctively I rushed towards the place from which the shot seemed to have been fired; but, before I had taken three steps, I was struck once more in my shoulder, and fell down unconscious.

P.—How long a time was there between the first and the second shots?

C.C.—Almost three or four seconds.

P.—Was that time enough to distinguish the murderer?

C.C.—Yes; and I saw him run from behind a wood-pile, where he had been lying in ambush, and escape into the country.

P.—You can tell us, no doubt, how he was dressed?

C.C.—Certainly. He had on a pair of light gray trousers, a dark coat, and a large straw hat.

At a sign from the president, and in the midst of the most profound silence, the ushers remove the red cloth from the table.

P.—(Pointing at the clothes of the accused.) Does the costume which you describe correspond with those cloths?

C.C.—Of course; for they are the same.

P.—Then you must have recognized the murderer.

C.C.—The fire was so large at that time, that it was as bright as daylight. I recognized M. Jacques de Boiscoran.

There was, probably, in the whole vast audience assembled under that roof, not a heart that was not seized with unspeakable anguish when these crushing words were uttered.

We were so fully prepared for them, that we could watch the accused closely.

Not a muscle in his face seemed to move. His counsel showed as little any signs of surprise or emotion.

Like ourselves, the president also, and the prosecuting attorney, had been watching the accused and his counsel. Did they expect a protest, an answer, any thing at all? Perhaps they did.

But, as nothing came, the president continued, turning to witness,—

P.—Your declaration is a very serious one, sir.

C.C.—I know its weight.

P.—It is entirely different from your first deposition made before the investigating magistrate.

C.C.—It is.

P.—When you were examined a few hours after the crime, you declared that you had not recognized the murderer. More than that, when M. de Boiscoran’s name was mentioned, you seemed to be indignant of such a suspicion, and almost became surety yourself for his innocence.

C.C.—That was contrary to truth. I felt a very natural sense of commiseration, and tried to save a man who belonged to a highly esteemed family from disgraceful punishment.

P.—But now?

C.C.—Now I see that I was wrong, and that the law ought to have its course. And this is my reason for coming here,—although afflicted by a disease which never spares, and on the point of appearing before God—in order to tell you M. de Boiscoran is guilty. I recognized him.

P.—(To the accused.) Do you hear?

The accused rises and says,—

A.—By all that is dear and sacred to me in the world, I swear that I am innocent. Count Claudieuse says he is about to appear before God: I appeal to the justice of God.

Sobs well-nigh drown the voice of the accused. The Marchioness de Boiscoran is overcome by a nervous attack. She is carried out stiff and inanimate; and Dr. Seignebos and Miss Chandore hasten after her.

A.—(To Count Claudieuse.) You have killed my mother!

Certainly, all who had hoped for scenes of thrilling interest were not disappointed. Everybody looks overcome with excitement. Tears appear in the eyes of almost all the ladies.

And yet those who watch the glances which are exchanged between M. de Boiscoran and Count Claudieuse cannot help asking themselves, if there is not something else between these two men, besides what the trial has made known. We cannot explain to ourselves these singular answers given to the president’s questions, nor does any one understand the silence observed by M. de Boiscoran’s counsel. Do they abandon their client? No; for we see them go up to him, shake hands with him, and lavish upon him every sign of friendly consolation and encouragement.

We may even be permitted to say, that, to all appearances, the president himself and the prosecuting attorney were, for a moment, perfectly overcome