Within an Inch of His Life

by Emile Gaboriau

  I.

  The Paris house of the Boiscoran family, No. 216 University Street, isa house of modest appearance. The yard in front is small; and the fewsquare yards of damp soil in the rear hardly deserve the name of agarden. But appearances are deceptive. The inside is marvellouslycomfortable; careful and painstaking hands have made every provision forease; and the rooms display that solid splendor for which our age haslost the taste. The vestibule contains a superb mosaic, brought homefrom Venice, in 1798, by one of the Boiscorans, who had degenerated, andfollowed the fortunes of Napoleon. The balusters of the great staircaseare a masterpiece of iron work; and the wainscoting in the dining-roomhas no rival in Paris.

  All this, however, is a mere nothing in comparison with the marquis'scabinet of curiosities. It fills the whole depth, and half the width, ofthe upper story; is lighted from above like a huge _atelier_; and wouldfill the heart of an artist with delight. Immense glass cases,which stand all around against the walls, hold the treasures of themarquis,--priceless collections of enamels, ivories, bronzes, uniquemanuscripts, matchless porcelains, and, above all, his _faiences_, hisdear _faiences_, the pride and the torment of his old age.

  The owner was well worthy of such a setting.

  Though sixty-one years old at that time, the marquis was as straightas ever, and most aristocratically lean. He had a perfectly magnificentnose, which absorbed immense quantities of snuff; his mouth was large,but well furnished; and his brilliant eyes shone with that restlesscunning which betrayed the amateur, who has continually to deal withsharp and eager dealers in curiosities and second-hand articles of_vertu_.

  In the year 1845 he had reached the summit of his renown by a greatspeech on the question of public meetings; but at that hour his watchseemed to have stopped. All his ideas were those of an Orleanist. Hisappearance, his costume, his high cravat, his whiskers, and the way hebrushed his hair, all betrayed the admirer and friend of the citizenking. But for all that, he did not trouble himself about politics; infact, he troubled himself about nothing at all. With the only conditionthat his inoffensive passion should be respected, the marchioness wasallowed to rule supreme in the house, administering her large fortune,ruling her only son, and deciding all questions without the right ofappeal. It was perfectly useless to ask the marquis any thing: hisanswer was invariably,--

  "Ask my wife."

  The good man had, the evening before, purchased a little at haphazard,a large lot of _faiences_, representing scenes of the Revolution; andat about three o'clock, he was busy, magnifying-glass in hand, examininghis dishes and plates, when the door was suddenly opened.

  The marchioness came in, holding a blue paper in her hand. Six or sevenyears younger than her husband, she was the very companion for such anidle, indolent man. In her walk, in her manner, and in her voice,she showed at once the woman who stands at the wheel, and means to beobeyed. Her once celebrated beauty had left remarkable traces enoughto justify her pretensions. She denied having any claims to beingconsidered handsome, since it was impossible to deny or conceal theravages of time, and hence by far her best policy was to accept old agewith good grace. Still, if the marchioness did not grow younger, shepretended to be older than she really was. She had her gray hair puffedout with considerable affectation, so as to contrast all the moreforcibly with her ruddy, blooming cheeks, which a girl might have enviedand she often thought of powdering her hair.

  She was so painfully excited, and almost undone, when she came into herhusband's cabinet, that even he, who for many a year had made it a ruleof his life to show no emotion, was seriously troubled. Laying aside thedish which he was examining, he said with an anxious voice,--

  "What is the matter? What has happened?"

  "A terrible misfortune."

  "Is Jacques dead?" cried the old collector.

  The marchioness shook her head.

  "No! It is something worse, perhaps"--

  The old man, who has risen at the sight of his wife, sank slowly backinto his chair.

  "Tell me," he stammered out,--"tell me. I have courage."

  She handed him the blue paper which she had brought in, and saidslowly,--

  "Here. A telegram which I have just received from old Anthony, our son'svalet."

  With trembling hands the old marquis unfolded the paper, and read,--

  "Terrible misfortune! Master Jacques accused of having set the chateauat Valpinson on fire, and murdered Count Claudieuse. Terrible evidenceagainst him. When examined, hardly any defence. Just arrested andcarried to jail. In despair. What must I do?"

  The marchioness had feared lest the marquis should have been crushedby this despatch, which in its laconic terms betrayed Anthony's abjectterror. But it was not so. He put it back on the table in the calmestmanner, and said, shrugging his shoulders,--

  "It is absurd!"

  His wife did not understand it. She began again,--

  "You have not read it carefully, my friend"--

  "I understand," he broke in, "that our son is accused of a crime whichhe has not and can not have committed. You surely do not doubt hisinnocence? What a mother you would be! On my part, I assure you I amperfectly tranquil. Jacques an incendiary! Jacques a murderer! That isnonsense!"

  "Ah! you did not read the telegram," exclaimed the marchioness.

  "I beg your pardon."

  "You did not see that there was evidence against him."

  "If there had been none, he could not have been arrested. Of course, thething is disagreeable: it is painful."

  "But he did not defend himself."

  "Upon my word! Do you think that if to-morrow somebody accused me ofhaving robbed the till of some shopkeeper, I would take the trouble todefend myself?"

  "But do you not see that Anthony evidently thinks our son is guilty?"

  "Anthony is an old fool!" declared the marquis.

  Then pulling out his snuffbox, and stuffing his nose full of snuff, hesaid,--

  "Besides, let us consider. Did you not tell me that Jacques is in lovewith that little Dionysia Chandore?"

  "Desperately. Like a real child."

  "And she?"

  "She adores Jacques."

  "Well. And did you not also tell me that the wedding-day was fixed?"

  "Yes, three days ago."

  "Has Jacques written to you about the matter?"

  "An excellent letter."

  "In which he tells you he is coming up?"

  "Yes: he wanted to purchase the wedding-presents himself." With agesture of magnificent indifference the marquis tapped the top of hissnuffbox, and said,--

  "And you think a boy like our Jacques, a Boiscoran, in love, andbeloved, who is about to be married, and has his head full ofwedding-presents, could have committed such a horrible crime? Suchthings are not worth discussing, and, with your leave, I shall return tomy occupation."

  If doubt is contagious, confidence is still more so. Gradually themarchioness felt reassured by the perfect assurance of her husband. Theblood came back to her cheeks; and smiles reappeared on pale lips. Shesaid in a stronger voice,--

  "In fact, I may have been too easily frightened."

  The marquis assented by a gesture.

  "Yes, much too easily, my dear. And, between us, I would not say muchabout it. How could the officers help accusing our Jacques if his ownmother suspects him?"

  The marchioness had taken up the telegram, and was reading it over oncemore.

  "And yet," she said, answering her own objections, "who in my placewould not have been frightened? This name of Claudieuse especially"--

  "Why? It is the name of an excellent and most honorable gentleman,--thebest man in the world, in spite of his sea-dog manners."

  "Jacques hates him, my dear."

  "Jacques does not mind him any more than that."

  "They have repeatedly quarrelled."

  "Of course. Claudieuse is a furious legitimist; and as such he alwaystalks with the utmost contempt of all of us who have been attached tothe Orleans family."r />
  "Jacques has been at law with him."

  "And he has done right, only he ought to have carried the matterthrough. Claudieuse has claims on the Magpie, which divides ourlands,--absurd claims. He wants at all seasons, and according as he maydesire, to direct the waters of the little stream into his own channels,and thus drown the meadows at Boiscoran, which are lower than his own.Even my brother, who was an angel in patience and gentleness, had histroubles with this tyrant."

  But the marchioness was not convinced yet.

  "There was another trouble," she said.

  "What?"

  "Ah! I should like to know myself."

  "Has Jacques hinted at any thing?"

  "No. I only know this. Last year, at the Duchess of Champdoce's, I metby chance the Countess Claudieuse and her children. The young woman isperfectly charming; and, as we were going to give a ball the week after,it occurred to me to invite her at once. She refused, and did so in suchan icy, formal manner, that I did not insist."

  "She probably does not like dancing," growled the marquis.

  "That same evening I mentioned the matter to Jacques. He seemed to bevery angry, and told me, in a manner that was hardly compatible withrespect, that I had been very wrong, and that he had his reasons for notdesiring to come in contact with those people."

  The marquis felt so secure, that he only listened with partialattention, looking all the time aside at his precious _faiences_.

  "Well," he said at last, "Jacques detests the Claudieuses. What doesthat prove? God be thanked, we do not murder all the people we detest!"

  His wife did not insist any longer. She only asked,--

  "Well, what must we do?"

  She was so little in the habit of consulting her husband, that he wasquite surprised.

  "The first thing is to get Jacques out of jail. We must see--we ought toask for advice."

  At this moment a light knock was heard at the door.

  "Come in!" he said.

  A servant came in, bringing a large envelope, marked "TelegraphicDespatch. Private."

  "Upon my word!" cried the marquis. "I thought so. Now we shall be allright again."

  The servant had left the room. He tore open the envelope; but at thefirst glance at the contents the smile vanished, he turned pale, andjust said,--

  "Great God!"

  Quick as lightning, the marchioness seized the fatal paper. She read ata glance,--

  "Come quick. Jacques in prison; close confinement; accused of horriblecrime. The whole town says he is guilty, and that he has confessed.Infamous calumny! His judge is his former friend, Galpin, who wasto marry his cousin Lavarande. Know nothing except that Jacques isinnocent. Abominable intrigue! Grandpa Chandore and I will do what canbe done. Your help indispensable. Come, come!

  "DIONYSIA CHANDORE."

  "Ah, my son is lost!" cried the marchioness with tears in her eyes. Themarquis, however, had recovered already from the shock.

  "And I--I say more than ever, with Dionysia, who is a brave girl,Jacques is innocent. But I see he is in danger. A criminal prosecutionis always an ugly affair. A man in close confinement may be made to sayany thing."

  "We must do something," said the mother, nearly mad with grief.

  "Yes, and without losing a minute. We have friends: let us see who amongthem can help us."

  "I might write to M. Margeril."

  The marquis, who had turned quite pale, became livid.

  "What!" he cried. "You dare utter that name in my presence?"

  "He is all powerful; and my son is in danger."

  The marquis stopped her with a threatening gesture, and cried with anaccent of bitter hatred,--

  "I would a thousand times rather my son should die innocent on thescaffold than owe his safety to that man!"

  His wife seemed to be on the point of fainting.

  "Great God! And yet you know very well that I was only a littleindiscreet."

  "No more!" said the marquis harshly.

  Then, recovering his self-control by a powerful effort, he went on,--

  "Before we attempt any thing, we must know how the matter stands. Youwill leave for Sauveterre this evening."

  "Alone?"

  "No. I will find some able lawyer,--a reliable jurist, who is not apolitician,--if such a one can be found nowadays. He will tell you whatto do, and will write to me, so that I can do here whatever may bebest. Dionysia is right. Jacques must be the victim of some abominableintrigue. Nevertheless, we shall save him; but we must keep cool,perfectly cool."

  And as he said this he rang the bell so violently, that a number ofservants came rushing in at once.

  "Quick," he said; "send for my lawyer, Mr. Chapelain. Take a carriage."

  The servant who took the order was so expeditious, that, in less thantwenty minutes, M. Chapelain arrived.

  "Ah! we want all your experience, my friend," said the marquis to him."Look here. Read these telegrams."

  Fortunately, the lawyer had such control over himself, that he did notbetray what he felt; for he believed Jacques guilty, knowing as he didhow reluctant courts generally are to order the arrest of a suspectedperson.

  "I know the man for the marchioness," he said at last.

  "Ah!"

  "A young man whose modesty alone has kept him from distinguishinghimself so far, although I know he is one of the best jurists at thebar, and an admirable speaker."

  "What is his name?"

  "Manuel Folgat. I shall send him to you at once."

  Two hours later, M. Chapelain's _protege_ appeared at the house ofthe Boiscorans. He was a man of thirty-one or thirty-two, with large,wide-open eyes, whose whole appearance was breathing intelligence andenergy.

  The marquis was pleased with him, and after having told him all he knewabout Jacques's position, endeavored to inform him as to the peopledown at Sauveterre,--who would be likely to be friends, and who enemies,recommending to him, above all, to trust M. Seneschal, an old friend ofthe family, and a most influential man in that community.

  "Whatever is humanly possible shall be done, sir," said the lawyer.

  That same evening, at fifteen minutes past eight, the Marchioness ofBoiscoran and Manuel Folgat took their seats in the train for Orleans.