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

young brains of twenty-five when they are set on fire by the remembrance of certain insults! Wrath is a dangerous counsellor.”

Grandpapa Chandore refused to hear any more.

“What! do you talk to me of wrath?” he broke in; “and what do you see of wrath in this Valpinson affair? I see nothing in it, for my part, but the very meanest crime, long prepared and coolly carried out.”

The mayor very seriously shook his head, and said,—

“You do not know all that has happened.”

“Sir,” added M. Folgat, “it is precisely for the purpose of hearing what has happened that we come to you.”

“Very well,” said M. Seneschal.

Thereupon he went to work to describe the events which he had witnessed at Valpinson, and those, which, as he had learned from the commonwealth attorney, had taken place at Boiscoran; and this he did with all the lucidity of an experienced old lawyer who is accustomed to unravel the mysteries of complicated suits. He wound up by saying,—

“Finally, do you know what Daubigeon said to me, whose evidence you will certainly know how to appreciate? He said in so many words, ‘Galpin could not but order the arrest of M. de Boiscoran. Is he guilty? I do not know what to think of it. The accusation is overwhelming. He swears by all the gods that he is innocent; but he will not tell how he spent the night.’”

M. de Chandore, in spite of his vigor, was near fainting, although his face remained as crimson as ever. Nothing on earth could make him turn pale.

“Great God!” he murmured, “what will Dionysia say?”

Then, turning to M. Folgat, he said aloud,—

“And yet Jacques had something in his mind for that evening.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am sure of it. But for that, he would certainly have come to the house, as he has done every evening for a month. Besides, he said so himself in the letter which he sent Dionysia by one of his tenants, and which she mentioned to you. He wrote, ‘I curse from the bottom of my heart the business which prevents me from spending the evening with you; but I cannot possibly defer it any longer. To-morrow!’”

“You see,” said M. Seneschal.

“The letter is of such a nature,” continued the old gentleman, “that I repeat, No man who premeditated such a hideous crime could possibly have written it. Nevertheless, I confess to you, that, when I heard the fatal news, this very allusion to some pressing business impressed me painfully.”

But the young lawyer seemed to be far from being convinced.

“It is evident,” he said, “that M. de Boiscoran will on no account let it be known where he went.”

“He told a falsehood, sir,” insisted M. Seneschal. “He commenced by denying that he had gone the way on which the witnesses met him.”

“Very naturally, since he desires to keep the place unknown to which he went.”

“He did not say any more when he was told that he was under arrest.”

“Because he hopes he will get out of this trouble without betraying his secret.”

“If that were so, it would be very strange.”

“Stranger things than that have happened.”

“To allow himself to be accused of incendiarism and murder when he is innocent!”

“To be innocent, and to allow one’s self to be condemned, is still stranger; and yet there are instances”—

The young lawyer spoke in that short, imperious tone which is, so to say, the privilege of his profession, and with such an accent of assurance, that M. de Chandore felt his hopes revive. M. Seneschal was sorely troubled.

“And what do you think, sir?” he asked.

“That M. de Boiscoran must be innocent,” replied the young advocate. And, without leaving time for objections, he continued,—

“That is the opinion of a man who is not influenced by any consideration. I come here without any preconceived notions. I do not know Count Claudieuse any more than M. de Boiscoran. A crime has been committed: I am told the circumstances; and I at once come to the conclusion that the reasons which led to the arrest of the accused would lead me to set him at liberty.”

“Oh!”

“Let me explain. If M. de Boiscoran is guilty, he has shown, in the way in which he received M. Galpin at the house, a perfectly unheard-of self-control, and a matchless genius for comedy. Therefore, if he is guilty, he is immensely clever”—

“But.”

“Allow me to finish. If he is guilty, he has in the examination shown a marvellous want of self-control, and, to be brief, a nameless stupidity: therefore, if he is guilty, he is immensely stupid”—

“But.”

“Allow me to finish. Can one and the same person be at once so unusually clever and so unusually stupid? Judge yourself. But again: if M. de Boiscoran is guilty, he ought to be sent to the insane asylum, and not to prison; for any one else but a madman would have poured out the dirty water in which he had washed his blackened hands, and would have buried anywhere that famous breech-loader, of which the prosecution makes such good use.”

“Jacques is safe!” exclaimed M. de Chandore.

M. Seneschal was not so easily won over.

“That is specious pleading,” he said. “Unfortunately, we want something more than a logic conclusion to meet a jury with an abundance of witnesses on the other side.”

“We will find more on our side.”

“What do you propose to do?”

“I do not know. I have just told you my first impression. Now I must study the case, and examine the witnesses, beginning with old Anthony.”

M. de Chandore had risen. He said,—

“We can reach Boiscoran in an hour. Shall I send for my carriage?”

“As quickly as possible,” replied the young lawyer.

M. de Chandore’s servant was back in a quarter of an hour, and announced that the carriage was at the door. M. de Chandore and M. Folgat took their seats; and, while they were getting in, the mayor warned the young Paris lawyer,—

“Above all, be prudent and circumspect. The public mind is already but too much inflamed. Politics are mixed up with the case. I am afraid of some disturbance at the burial of the firemen; and they bring me word that Dr.