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

opened and three peasants appeared, looking bewildered, but evidently well pleased.

“We have just,” said one of them, “found something curious.”

“What?” asked M. Galpin.

“It looks very much like a case; but Pitard says it is the paper of a cartridge.”

Count Claudieuse raised himself on his pillows, and said eagerly,—

“Let me see! I have during these last days fired several times quite near to the house to frighten the birds away that eat my fruit. I want to see if the paper is mine.”

The peasant gave it to him.

It was a very thin lead form, such as contain the cartridges used in American breech-loading guns. What was singular was that it was blackened by burnt powder; but it had not been torn, nor had it blazed up in the discharge. It was so perfectly uninjured, that one could read the embossed letters of the name of the manufacturer, Clebb.

“That cartridge never belonged to me,” said the count.

But as he uttered these words he turned deadly pale, so pale, that his wife came close to him, and looked at him with a glance full of terrible anguish.

“Well?”

He made no reply.

But at that moment such silence was so eloquent, that the countess felt sickened, and whispered to him,—

“Then Cocoleu was right, after all!”

Not one feature of this dramatic scene had escaped M. Galpin’s eye. He had seen on every face signs of a kind of terror; still he made no remark. He took the metal case from the count’s hands, knowing that it might become an important piece of evidence; and for nearly a minute he turned it round and round, looking at it from all sides, and examining it in the light with the utmost attention.

Then turning to the peasants, who were standing respectfully and uncovered close by the door, he asked them,—

“Where did you find this cartridge, my friends?”

“Close by the old tower, where they keep the tools, and where the ivy is growing all over the old castle.”

M. Seneschal had in the meantime succeeded in recovering his self-control, and said now,—

“Surely the murderer cannot have fired from there. You cannot even see the door of the house from the old tower.”

“That may be,” replied the magistrate; “but the cartridge-case does not necessarily fall to the ground at the place where the gun is discharged. It falls as soon as the gun is cocked to reload.”

This was so true, that even Dr. Seignebos had nothing to say.

“Now, my friends,” said M. Galpin, “which of you has found the cartridge-case?”

“We were all together when we saw it, and picked it up.”

“Well, then, all three of you must give me your names and your domicile, so that I can send for you when you are wanted.”

This was done; and, when all formalities were attended to, they went off with numberless bows and doffings of hats. Just at that moment the furious gallop of a horse was heard approaching the house; the next moment the man who had been sent to Sauveterre for medicines came in. He was furious.

“That rascal of a druggist!” he said. “I thought he would never open his shop!”

Dr. Seignebos had eagerly seized the things that were sent him, then, bowing with mock respect to the magistrate, he said,—

“I know very well, sir, how pressing the necessity is to have the head of the culprit cut off; but I think it is almost as pressing to save the life of the murdered man. I have probably delayed the binding up of the count’s wounds longer than I ought to have done; and I beg you will now leave me alone, so as to enable me to do my duty to him.”

VI.

There was nothing more to be done for the magistrate, the commonwealth attorney, or the mayor. The doctor might assuredly have used more polite language; but people were accustomed to his brutal ways; for it is surprising with what readiness men are tolerated in France, under the pretext that they are as they are, and that they must be taken as they are. The three gentlemen, therefore, left the room, after having bid farewell to the countess, and after having promised to send the count news of all that might be discovered.

The fire was going out for want of fuel. A few hours had sufficed to destroy all that the hard work and incessant cares of many years had accomplished. This charming and much envied estate presented now nothing but a few half calcined walls, heaps of black and gray ashes, and still glowing timbers, from which columns of smoke were slowly rising upward. Thanks to Capt. Parenteau, all that they had been able to save had been carried to a distance, and safely stored away under the shelter of the ruins of the old castle. There, furniture and other articles were piled up pell-mell. There, carts and agricultural machines were standing about, empty casks, and sacks of oats and rye. There, also, the cattle were gathered, that had been drawn from their stalls with infinite labor, and at great risk of life,—horses, oxen, some sheep, and a dozen cows, who lowed piteously. Few of the people had left as yet. With greater zeal than ever the firemen, aided by the peasants, deluged the remains of the dwelling-house with water. They had nothing to fear from the fire; but they desired to keep the bodies of their unfortunate companions from being entirely consumed.

“What a terrible scourge fire is!” said M. Seneschal.

Neither M. Galpin nor the mayor made any answer. They also felt their hearts oppressed by the sad sight before them, in spite of all the intense excitement before; for a fire is nothing as long as the feverish excitement, and the hope of saving something, continue to keep us up, and as long as the red flames illumine the horizon; but the next day, when all is over, then we realize the extent of the misfortune.

The firemen recognized the mayor, and greeted him with cheers. He went rapidly towards them; and, for the first time since the alarm had been raised, the magistrate and the attorney were alone. They were standing close by each other, and for a moment kept silent, while each one tried to read in the other’s eyes the secret of his thoughts. At last M. Daubigeon asked,—

“Well?”

M. Galpin trembled.

“This is a fearful calamity,” he said.

“What is your opinion?”

“Ah! do I know it myself? I have lost my head: the whole thing looks to me like a nightmare.”

“You cannot really believe that M. de Boiscoran