FIRST PART—FIRE AT VALPINSON (continued 2)

“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 is guilty?”

“I believe nothing. My reason tells me he is innocent. I feel he must be innocent; and yet I see terrible evidence rising against him.”

The attorney was overwhelmed.

“Alas!” he said, “why did you, contrary to everybody’s opinion, insist upon examining Cocoleu, a poor idiotic wretch?”

But the magistrate remonstrated—

“You do not mean to reproach me, sir, for having followed the impulses of my conscience?”

“I reproach you for nothing.”

“A horrible crime has been committed; and my duty compelled me to do all that lies in the power of man to discover the culprit.”

“Yes; and the man who is accused of the crime is your friend, and only yesterday you spoke of his friendship as your best chance of success in life.”

“Sir?”

“Are you surprised to find me so well informed? Ah, you do not know that nothing escapes the idle curiosity of a village. I know that your dearest hope was to become a member of M. de Boiscoran’s family, and that you counted upon him to back you in your efforts to obtain the hand of one of his cousins.”

“I do not deny that.”

“Unfortunately, you have been tempted by the prestige you might gain in a great and famous trial. You have laid aside all prudence; and your projects are forgotten. Whether M. de Boiscoran is innocent or guilty, his family will never forgive you your interference. If he is guilty, they will blame you for having handed him over to justice: if he is innocent, they will blame you even more for having suspected him.”

M. Galpin hung his head as if to conceal his trouble. Then he asked,—

“And what would you do in my place?”

“I would withdraw from the case, although it is rather late.”

“If I did so, I should risk my career.”

“Even that would be better for you than to engage in an affair in which you cannot feel the calmness nor the impartiality which are the first and indispensable virtues of an upright magistrate.”

The latter was becoming impatient. He exclaimed,—

“Sir, do you think I am a man to be turned aside from my duty by considerations of friendship or personal interest?”

“I said nothing of the kind.”

“Did you not see just now how I carried on the inquiry? Did you see me start when Cocoleu first mentioned M. de Boiscoran’s name? If he had denounced any one else, I should probably have let the matter rest there. But precisely because M. de Boiscoran is a friend of mine, and because I have great expectations from him, I have insisted and persisted, and I do so still.”

The commonwealth attorney shrugged his shoulders.

“That is it exactly,” he said. “Because M. de Boiscoran is a friend of yours, you are afraid of being accused of weakness; and you are going to be hard, pitiless, unjust even, against him. Because you had great expectations from him, you will insist upon finding him guilty. And you call yourself impartial?”

M. Galpin assumed all his usual rigidity, and said solemnly,—

“I am sure of myself!”

“Have a care!”

“My mind is made up, sir.”

It was time for M. Seneschal to join them again: he returned, accompanied by Capt. Parenteau.

“Well, gentlemen,” he asked, “what have you resolved?”

“We are going to Boiscoran,” replied the magistrate.

“What! Immediately?”

“Yes: I wish to find M. de Boiscoran in bed. I am so anxious about it, that I shall do without my clerk.”

Capt. Parenteau bowed, and said,—

“Your clerk is here, sir: he was but just inquiring for you.” Thereupon he called out as loud as he could,—

“Mechinet, Mechinet!”

A small gray-haired man, jovial and cheerful, came running up, and at once proceeded to tell at full length how a neighbor had told him what had happened, and how the magistrate had left town, whereupon he, also, had started on foot, and come after him as fast as he could.

“Now will you go to Boiscoran?” asked the mayor.

“I do not know yet. Mechinet will have to look for some conveyance.”

Quick like lightning, the clerk was starting off, when M. Seneschal held him back, saying,—

“Don’t go. I place my horse and my carriage at your disposal. Any one of these peasants can drive you. Capt. Parenteau and I will get into some farmer’s wagon, and thus get back to Sauveterre; for we ought to be back as soon as possible. I have just heard alarming news. There may be some disorder. The peasant-women who attend the market have brought in most exciting reports, and exaggerated the calamities of last night. They have started reports that ten or twelve men have been killed, and that the incendiary, M. de Boiscoran, has been arrested. The crowd has gone to poor Guillebault’s widow; and there have been demonstrations before the houses of several of the principal inhabitants of Sauveterre.”

In ordinary times, M. Seneschal would not have intrusted his famous horse, Caraby, for any thing in the world, to the hands of a stranger. He considered it the best horse in the province. But he was evidently terribly upset, and betrayed it in his manner, and by the very efforts he made to regain his official dignity and self-possession.

He made a sign, and his carriage was brought up, all ready. But, when he asked for somebody to drive, no one came forward. All these good people who had spent the night abroad were in great haste to return home, where their cattle required their presence. When young Ribot saw the others hesitate, he said,—

“Well, I’ll drive the justice.”

And, taking hold of the whip and the reins, he took his seat on the front-bench, while the magistrate, the commonwealth attorney, and the clerk filled the vehicle.

“Above all, take care of Caraby,” begged M. Seneschal, who at the last moment felt almost overcome with anxiety for his favorite.

“Don’t be afraid, sir,” replied the young man, as he started the horse. “If I strike too hard, M. Mechinet will stop me.”

This Mechinet, the magistrate’s clerk, was almost a power in Sauveterre; and the greatest personages there paid their court to him. His official duties were of very humble nature, and ill paid; but he knew how to eke out his income by other occupations, of which the court took no notice; and these added largely both to his importance in the community and to his modest income.

As he was a skilful lithographer, he printed all the visiting-cards which the people of Sauveterre ordered at the principal printing-office of Sauveterre, where “The Independent” was published. An able accountant, he kept books and made up accounts for some of the principal merchants in town. Some of the country people who were fond of litigation came to him for legal advice; and he drew up all kinds of law papers. For many years now, he had been director of the firemen’s band, and manager of the Orpheon. He was a correspondent of certain Paris societies, and thus obtained free admission to the theatre not only, but also to the sacred precincts behind the scenes. Finally he was always ready to give writing-lessons, French lessons to little girls, or music-lessons on the flute and the horn, to amateurs.

These varied talents had drawn upon him the hostility of all the other teachers and public servants of the community, especially that of the mayor’s clerk, and the clerks of the bank and great institutions of Sauveterre. But all these enemies he had gradually conquered by the unmistakable superiority of his ability; so that they fell in with the universal habit, and, when any thing special happened, said to each other,—

“Let us go and consult Mechinet.”

He himself concealed, under an appearance of imperturbable good nature, the ambition by which he was devoured: he wanted to become rich, and to rise in the world. In fact, Mechinet was a diplomat, working in secret, but as cunning as Talleyrand. He had succeeded already in making himself the one great personage of Sauveterre. The town was full of him; nothing was done without him; and yet he had not an enemy in the place.

The fact is, people were afraid of him, and dreaded his terrible tongue. Not that he had ever injured anybody, he was too wise for that; but they knew the harm he might do, if he chose, as he was master of every important secret in Sauveterre, and the best informed man in town as regarded all their little intrigues, their private foibles, and their dark antecedents.

This gave him quite an exceptional position. As he was unmarried, he lived with his sisters, the Misses Mechinet, who were the best dressmakers in town, and, moreover, devout members of all kinds of religious societies. Through them he heard all that was going on in society, and was able to compare the current gossip with what he heard in court, or at the newspaper office. Thus he could say pleasantly,—

“How could any thing escape me, when I have the church and the press, the court and the theatre, to keep me informed?”

Such a man would have considered himself disgraced if he had not known every detail of M. de Boiscoran’s private affairs. He did not hesitate, therefore, while the carriage was rolling along on an excellent road, in the fresh spring morning, to explain to his companions the “case,” as he called it, of the accused nobleman.

M. de Boiscoran, called Jacques by his friends, was rarely on his estate, and then only staid a month or so there. He was living in Paris, where his family owned a comfortable house in University Street. His parents were still alive.

His father, the Marquis de Boiscoran, the owner of a large landed estate, a deputy under Louis Philippe, a representative in 1848, had withdrawn from public life when the Second Empire was established, and spent, since that time, all his money, and all his energies, in collecting rare old books, and especially costly porcelain, on which he had written a monograph.

His mother, a Chalusse by birth, had enjoyed the reputation of being one of the most beautiful and most gifted ladies at the court of the Citizen King. At a certain period in her life, unfortunately, slander had attacked her; and about 1845 or 1846, it was reported that she had had a remarkable affair with a young lawyer of distinction, who had since become one of the austerest and most renowned judges. As she grew old, the marchioness devoted herself more and more to politics, as other women become pious. While her husband boasted that he had not read a newspaper for ten years, she had made her salon a kind of parliamentary centre, which had its influence on political affairs.

Although Jacques de Boiscoran’s parents were still alive, he possessed a considerable fortune of his own—five or six thousand dollars a year. This fortune, which consisted of the Chateau of Boiscoran, the farms, meadows, and forests belonging to it, had been left to him by one of his uncles, the oldest brother of his father, who had died a widower, and childless, in 1868. M. de Boiscoran was at this moment about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, dark complexion, tall, strong, well made, not exactly a handsome man, but having, what was worth more, one of those frank, intelligent faces which prepossess one at first sight.

His character was less well known at Sauveterre than his person. Those who had had any business with him described him as an honorable, upright man: his companions spoke of him as cheerful and gay, fond of pleasure, and always in good humor. At the time of the Prussian invasion, he had been made a captain of one of the volunteer companies of the district. He had led his men bravely under fire, and conducted himself so well on the battlefield, that Gen. Chanzy had rewarded him, when wounded, with the cross of the legion of honor.

“And such a man should have committed such a crime at Valpinson,” said M. Daubigeon to the magistrate. “No, it is impossible! And no doubt he will very easily scatter all our doubts to the four winds.”

“And that will be done at once,” said young Ribot; “for here we are.”

In many of the provinces of France the name of chateau is given to almost any little country-house with a weathercock on its pointed roof. But Boiscoran was a real chateau. It had been built towards the end of the seventeenth century, in wretched taste, but massively, like a fortress. Its position is superb. It is surrounded on all sides by woods and forests; and at the foot of the sloping garden flows a little river, merrily splashing over its pebbly bed, and called the Magpie on account of its perpetual babbling.

VII.

It was seven o’clock when the carriage containing the justice drove into the courtyard at Boiscoran,—a vast court, planted with lime-trees, and surrounded by farm buildings. The chateau was wide awake. Before her house-door, the farmer’s wife was cleaning the huge caldron in which she had prepared the morning soup; the maids were going and coming; and at the stable a groom was rubbing down with great energy a thorough-bred horse.

On the front-steps stood Master Anthony, M. de Boiscoran’s own man, smoking his cigar in the bright sunlight, and overlooking the farm operations. He was a man of nearly fifty, still very active, who had been bequeathed to his new master by his uncle, together with his possessions. He was a widower now; and his daughter was in the marchioness’ service.

As he had been born in the family, and never left it afterwards, he looked upon himself as one of them, and saw no difference between his own interests and those of his master. In fact, he was treated less like a servant than like a friend; and he fancied he knew every thing about M. de Boiscoran’s affairs.

When he saw the magistrate and the commonwealth attorney come up to the door, he threw away his cigar, came down quickly, and, bowing deeply, said to them with his most engaging smile,—

“Ah, gentlemen! What a pleasant surprise! My master will be delighted.”

With strangers, Anthony would not have allowed himself such familiarity, for he was very formal; but he had seen M. Daubigeon more than once at the chateau; and he knew the plans that had been discussed between M. Galpin and his master. Hence he was not a little amazed at the embarrassed stiffness of the two gentlemen, and at the tone of voice in which the magistrate asked him,—

“Has M. de Boiscoran gotten up yet?”

“Not yet,” he replied; “and I have orders not to wake him. He came home late last night, and wanted to make up this morning.”

Instinctively the magistrate and the attorney looked away, each fearing to meet the other’s eyes.

“Ah! M. de Boiscoran came home late last night?” repeated M. Galpin.

“Towards midnight, rather after midnight than before.”

“And when had he gone out?”

“He left here about eight.”

“How was he dressed?”

“As usually. He had light gray trousers, a shooting-jacket of brown velveteen, and a large straw hat.”

“Did he take his gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know where he went?”

But for the respect which he felt for his master’s friends, Anthony would not have answered these questions, which he thought were extremely impertinent. But this last question seemed to him to go beyond all fair limits. He replied, therefore, in a tone of injured self-respect,—

“I am not in the habit of asking my master where he goes when he leaves the house, nor where he has been when he comes back.”

M. Daubigeon understood perfectly well the honorable feelings which actuated the faithful servant. He said to him with an air of unmistakable kindness,—

“Do not imagine, my friend, that I ask you these questions from idle curiosity. Tell me what you know; for your frankness may be more useful to your master than you imagine.”

Anthony looked with an air of perfect stupefaction, by turns at the magistrate and the commonwealth attorney, at Mechinet, and finally at Ribot, who had taken the lines, and tied Caraby to a tree.

“I assure you, gentlemen, I do not know where M. de Boiscoran has spent the evening.”

“You have no suspicion?”

“No.”

“Perhaps he went to Brechy to see a friend?”

“I do not know that he has any friends in Brechy.”

“What did he do after he came home?”

The old servant showed evident signs of embarrassment.

“Let me think,” he said. “My master went up to his bedroom, and remained there four or five minutes. Then he came down, ate a piece of a pie, and drank a glass of wine. Then he lit a cigar, and told me to go to bed, adding that he would take a little walk, and undress without my help.”

“And then you went to bed?”

“Of course.”

“So that you do not know what your master may have done?”

“I beg your pardon. I heard him open the garden door.”

“He did not appear to you different from usual?”

“No: he was as he always is,—quite cheerful: he was singing.”

“Can you show me the gun he took with him?”

“No. My master probably took it to his room.”

M. Daubigeon was about to make a remark, when the magistrate stopped him by a gesture, and eagerly asked,—

“How long is it since your master and Count Claudieuse have ceased seeing each other?”

Anthony trembled, as if a dark presentiment had entered his mind. He replied,—

“A long time: at least I think so.”

“You are aware that they are on bad terms?”

“Oh!”

“They have had great difficulties between them?”

“Something unpleasant has happened, I know; but it was not much. As they do not visit each other, they cannot well hate each other. Besides, I have heard master say a hundred times, that he looked upon Count Claudieuse as one of the best and most honorable men; that he respected him highly, and”—

For a minute or so M. Galpin kept silent, thinking whether he had forgotten any thing. Then he asked suddenly,—

“How far is it from here to Valpinson?”

“Three miles, sir,” replied Anthony.

“If you were going there, what road would you take?”

“The high road which passes Brechy.”

“You would not go across the marsh?”

“Certainly not.”

“Why not?”

“Because the Seille is out of its banks, and the ditches are full of water.”

“Is not the way much shorter through the forest?”

“Yes, the way is shorter; but it would take more time. The paths are very indistinct, and overgrown with briers.”

The commonwealth attorney could hardly conceal his disappointment. Anthony’s answers seemed to become worse and worse.

“Now,” said the magistrate again, “if fire should break out at Valpinson, would you see it from here?”

“I think not, sir. There are hills and tall woods between.”

“Can you hear the Brechy bells from here?”

“When the wind is north, yes, sir.”

“And last night, how was it?”

“The wind was from the west, as it always is when we have a storm.”

“So that you have heard nothing? You do not know what a terrible calamity”—

“A calamity? I do not understand you, sir.”

This conversation had taken place in the court-yard: and at this moment there appeared two gendarmes on horseback, whom M. Galpin had sent for just before he left Valpinson.

When old Anthony saw them, he exclaimed,—

“Great God! what is the meaning of this? I must wake master.”

The magistrate stopped him, saying harshly,—

“Not a step! Don’t say a word!”

And pointing out Ribot to the gendarmes, he said,—

“Keep that lad under your eyes, and let him have no communication with anybody.”

Then, turning again to Anthony, he said,—

“Now show us to M. de Boiscoran’s bedroom.”

VIII.

In spite of its grand feudal air, the chateau at Boiscoran was, after all, little more than a bachelor’s modest home, and in a very bad state of preservation. Of the eighty or a hundred rooms which it contained, hardly more than eight or ten were furnished, and this only in the simplest possible manner,—a sitting-room, a dining-room, a few guest-chambers: this was all M. de Boiscoran required during his rare visits to the place. He himself used in the second story a small room, the door of which opened upon the great staircase.

When they reached this door, guided by old Anthony, the magistrate said to the servant,—

“Knock!”

The man obeyed: and immediately a youthful, hearty voice replied from within,—

“Who is there?”

“It is I,” said the faithful servant. “I should like”—

“Go to the devil!” broke in the voice.

“But, sir”—

“Let me sleep, rascal. I have not been able to close an eye till now.” The magistrate, becoming impatient, pushed the servant aside, and, seizing the door-knob tried to open it; it was locked inside. But he lost no time in saying,—

“It is I, M. de Boiscoran: open, if you please!”

“Ah, dear M. Galpin!” replied the voice cheerfully.

“I must speak to you.”

“And I am at your service, illustrious jurist. Just give me time to veil my Apollonian form in a pair of trousers, and I appear.”

Almost immediately, the door opened; and M. de Boiscoran presented himself, his hair dishevelled, his eyes heavy with sleep, but looking bright in his youth and full health, with smiling lips and open hands.

“Upon my word!” he said. “That was a happy inspiration you had, my dear Galpin. You come to join me at breakfast?”

And, bowing to M. Daubigeon, he added,—

“Not to say how much I thank you for bringing our excellent commonwealth attorney with you. This is a veritable judicial visit”—

But he paused, chilled as he was by M. Daubigeon’s icy face, and amazed at M. Galpin’s refusal to take his proffered hand.

“Why,” he said, “what is the matter, my dear friend?”

The magistrate had never been stiffer in his life, when he replied,—

“We shall have to forget our relations, sir. It is not as a friend I come to-day, but as a magistrate.”

M. de Boiscoran looked confounded; but not a shadow of trouble appeared on his frank and open face.

“I’ll be hanged,” he said, “if I understand”—

“Let us go in,” said M. Galpin.

They went in; and, as they passed the door, Mechinet whispered into the attorney’s ear,—

“Sir, that man is certainly innocent. A guilty man would never have received us thus.”

“Silence, sir!” said the commonwealth attorney, however much he was probably of his clerk’s opinion. “Silence!”

And grave and sad he went and stood in one of the window embrasures. M. Galpin remained standing in the centre of the room, trying to see every thing in it, and to fix it in his memory, down to the smallest details. The prevailing disorder showed clearly how hastily M. de Boiscoran had gone to bed the night before. His clothes, his boots, his shirt, his waistcoat, and his straw hat lay scattered about on the chairs and on the floor. He wore those light gray trousers, which had been succcessively seen and recognized by Cocoleu, by Ribot, by Gaudry, and by Mrs. Courtois.

“Now, sir,” began M. de Boiscoran, with that slight angry tone of voice which shows that a man thinks a joke has been carried far enough, “will you please tell me what procures for me the honor of this early visit?”

Not a muscle in M. Galpin’s face was moving. As if the question had been addressed to some one else, he said coldly,—

“Will you please show us your hands, sir?”

M. de Boiscoran’s cheeks turned crimson; and his eyes assumed an expression of strange perplexity.

“If this is a joke,” he said, “it has perhaps lasted long enough.”

He was evidently getting angry. M. Daubigeon thought it better to interfere, and thus he said,—

“Unfortunately, sir, the question is a most serious one. Do what the magistrate desires.”

More and more amazed, M. de Boiscoran looked rapidly around him. In the door stood Anthony, his faithful old servant, with anguish on his face. Near the fireplace, the clerk had improvised a table, and put his paper, his pens, and his horn inkstand in readiness. Then with a shrug of his shoulders, which showed that he failed to understand, M. de Boiscoran showed his hands.

They were perfectly clean and white: the long nails were carefully cleaned also.

“When did you last wash your hands?” asked M. Galpin, after having examined them minutely.

At this question, M. de Boiscoran’s face brightened up; and, breaking out into a hearty laugh, he said,—

“Upon my word! I confess you nearly caught me. I was on the point of getting angry. I almost feared”—

“And there was good reason for fear,” said M. Galpin; “for a terrible charge has been brought against you. And it may be, that on your answer to my question, ridiculous as it seems to you, your honor may depend, and perhaps your liberty.”

This time there was no mistake possible. M. de Boiscoran felt that kind of terror which the law inspires even in the best of men, when they find themselves suddenly accused of a crime. He turned pale, and then he said in a troubled voice,—

“What! A charge has been brought against me, and you, M. Galpin, come to my house to examine me?”

“I am a magistrate, sir.”

“But you were also my friend. If anyone should have dared in my presence to accuse you of a crime, of a mean act, of something infamous, I should have defended you, sir, with all my energy, without hesitation, and without a doubt. I should have defended you till absolute, undeniable evidence should have been brought forward of your culpability; and even then I should have pitied you, remembering that I had esteemed you so highly as to favor your alliance with my family. But you—I am accused, I do not know of what, falsely, wrongly; and at once you hasten hither, you believe the charge, and consent to become my judge. Well, let it be so! I washed my hands last night after coming home.”

M. Galpin had not boasted too much in praising his self-possession and his perfect control over himself. He did not move when the terrible words fell upon his ear; and he asked again in the same calm tone,—

“What has become of the water you used for that purpose?”

“It is probably still there, in my dressing-room.”

The magistrate at once went in. On the marble table stood a basin full of water. That water was black and dirty. At the bottom lay particles of charcoal. On the top, mixed with the soapsuds, were swimming some extremely slight but unmistakable fragments of charred paper. With infinite care the magistrate carried the basin to the table at which Mechinet had taken a seat; and, pointing at it, he asked M. de Boiscoran,—

“Is that the water in which you washed your hands last night after coming home?”

“Yes,” replied the other with an air of careless indifference.

“You had been handling charcoal, or some inflammable material.”

“Don’t you see?”

Standing face to face, the commonwealth attorney and clerk exchanged rapid glances. They had had the same feeling at that moment. If M. de Boiscoran was innocent, he was certainly a marvellously cool and energetic man, or he was carrying out a long-premeditated plan of action; for every one of his answers seemed to tighten the net in which he was taken. The magistrate himself seemed to be struck by this; but it was only for a moment, and then, turning to the clerk, he said,—

“Write that down!”

He dictated to him the whole evidence, most minutely and accurately, correcting himself every now and then to substitute a better word, or to improve his style. When he had read it over he said,—

“Let us go on, sir. You were out last night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Having left the house at eight, you returned only around midnight.”

“After midnight.”

“You took your gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is it?”

With an air of indifference, M. de Boiscoran pointed at it in the corner of the fireplace, and said,—

“There it is!”

M. Galpin took it up quickly. It was a superb weapon, double-barrelled, of unusually fine make, and very elegant. On the beautifully carved woodwork the manufacturer’s name, Clebb, was engraven.

“When did you last fire this gun?” asked the magistrate.

“Some four or five days ago.”

“What for?”

“To shoot some rabbits who infested my woods.”

M. Galpin raised and lowered the cock with all possible care: he noticed that it was the Remington patent. Then he opened the chamber, and found that the gun was loaded. Each barrel had a cartridge in it. Then he put the gun back in its place, and, pulling from his pocket the leaden cartridge-case which Pitard had found, he showed it to M. de Boiscoran, and asked him,—

“Do you recognize this?”

“Perfectly!” replied the other. “It is a case of one of the cartridges which I have probably thrown away as useless.”

“Do you think you are the only one in this country who has a gun by this maker?”

“I do not think it: I am quite sure of it.”

“So that you must, as a matter of course, have been at a spot where such a cartridge-case as this has been found?”

“Not necessarily. I have often seen children pick up these things, and play with them.”

The clerk, while he made his pen fly across his paper, could not resist the temptation of making all kinds of faces. He was too well acquainted with lawyers’ tactics not to understand M. Galpin’s policy perfectly well, and to see how cunningly it was devised to make every fact strengthen the suspicion against M. de Boiscoran.

“It is a close game,” he said to himself.

The magistrate had taken a seat.

“If that is so,” he began again, “I beg you will give me an account of how you spent the evening after eight o’clock: do not hurry, consider, take your time; for your answers are of the utmost importance.”

M. de Boiscoran had so far remained quite cool; but his calmness betrayed one of those terrible storms within, which may break forth, no one knows when. This warning, and, even more so, the tone in which it was given, revolted him as a most hideous hypocrisy. And, breaking out all of a sudden, he cried,—

“After all, sir, what do you want of me? What am I accused of?”

M. Galpin did not stir. He replied,—

“You will hear it at the proper time. First answer my question, and believe me in your own interest. Answer frankly. What did you do last night?”

“How do I know? I walked about.”

“That is no answer.”

“Still it is so. I went out with no specific purpose: I walked at haphazard.”

“Your gun on your shoulder?”

“I always take my gun: my servant can tell you so.”

“Did you cross the Seille marshes?”

“No.”

The magistrate shook his head gravely. He said,—

“You are not telling the truth.”

“Sir!”

“Your boots there at the foot of the bed speak against you. Where does the mud come from with which they are covered?”

“The meadows around Boiscoran are very wet.”

“Do not attempt to deny it. You have been seen there.”

“But”—

“Young Ribot met you at the moment when you were crossing the canal.”

M. de Boiscoran made no reply.

“Where were you going?” asked the magistrate.

For the first time a real embarrassment appeared in the features of the accused,—the embarrassment of a man who suddenly sees an abyss opening before him. He hesitated; and, seeing that it was useless to deny, he said,—

“I was going to Brechy.”

“To whom?”

“To my wood-merchant, who has bought all this year’s wood. I did not find him at home, and came back on the high road.”

M. Galpin stopped him by a gesture.

“That is not so,” he said severely.

“Oh!”

“You never went to Brechy.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“And the proof is, that, about eleven o’clock, you were hurriedly crossing the forest of Rochepommier.”

“I?”

“Yes, you! And do not say No; for there are your trousers torn to pieces by the thorns and briers through which you must have made your way.”

“There are briers elsewhere as well as in the forest.”

“To be sure; but you were seen there.”

“By whom?”

“By Gaudry the poacher. And he saw so much of you, that he could tell us in what a bad humor you were. You were very angry. You were talking loud, and pulling the leaves from the trees.”

As he said so, the magistrate got up and took the shooting-jacket, which was lying on a chair not far from him. He searched the pockets, and pulled out of one a handful of leaves.

“Look here! you see, Gaudry has told the truth.”

“There are leaves everywhere,” said M. de Boiscoran half aloud.

“Yes; but a woman, Mrs. Courtois, saw you come out of the forest of Rochepommier. You helped her to put a sack of flour on her ass, which she could not lift alone. Do you deny it? No, you are right; for, look here! on the sleeve of your coat I see something white, which, no doubt, is flour from her bag.”

M. de Boiscoran hung his head. The magistrate went on,—

“You confess, then, that last night, between ten and eleven you were at Valpinson?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“But this cartridge-case which I have just shown you was picked up at Valpinson, close by the ruins of the old castle.”

“Well, sir, have I not told you before that I have seen a hundred times children pick up these cases to play with? Besides, if I had really been at Valpinson, why should I deny it?”

M. Galpin rose to his full height, and said in the most solemn manner,—

“I am going to tell you why! Last night, between ten and eleven, Valpinson was set on fire; and it has been burnt to the ground.”

“Oh!”

“Last night Count Claudieuse was fired at twice.”

“Great God!”

“And it is thought, in fact there are strong reasons to think, that you, Jacques de Boiscoran, are the incendiary and the assassin.”

IX.

M. de Boiscoran looked around him like a man who has suddenly been seized with vertigo, pale, as if all his blood had rushed to his heart.

He saw nothing but mournful, dismayed faces.

Anthony, his old trusted servant, was leaning against the doorpost, as if he feared to fall. The clerk was mending his pen in the air, overcome with amazement. M. Daubigeon hung his head.

“This is horrible!” he murmured: “this is horrible!”

He fell heavily into a chair, pressing his hands on his heart, as if to keep down the sobs that threatened to rise. M. Galpin alone seemed to remain perfectly cool. The law, which he imagined he was representing in all its dignity, knows nothing of emotions. His thin lips even trembled a little, as if a slight smile was about to burst forth: it was the cold smile of the ambitious man, who thinks he has played his little part well.

Did not every thing tend to prove that Jacques de Boiscoran was the guilty man, and that, in the alternative between a friend, and an opportunity of gaining high distinction, he had chosen well? After the silence of a minute, which seemed to be a century, he went and stood, with arms crossed on his chest, before the accused, and asked him,—

“Do you confess?”

M. de Boiscoran sprang up as if moved by a spring, and said,—

“What? What do you want me to confess?”

“That you have committed the crime at Valpinson.”

The young man pressed his hands convulsively on his brow, and cried out,—

“But I am mad! I should have committed such a fearful, cowardly crime? Is that possible? Is that likely? I might confess, and you would not believe me. No! I am sure you would not believe my own words.”

He would have moved the marble on his mantelpiece sooner than M. Galpin. The latter replied in icy tones,—

“I am not part of the question here. Why will you refer to relations which must be forgotten? It is no longer the friend who speaks to you, not even the man, but simply the magistrate. You were seen”—

“Who is the wretch?”

“Cocoleu!”

M. de Boiscoran seemed to be overwhelmed. He stammered,—

“Cocoleu? That poor epileptic idiot whom the Countess Claudieuse has picked up?”

“The same.”

“And upon the strength of the senseless words of a poor imbecile I am charged with incendiarism, with murder?”

Never had the magistrate made such efforts to assume an air of impassive dignity and icy solemnity, as when he replied,—

“For an hour, at least, poor Cocoleu has been in the full enjoyment of his faculties. The ways of Providence are inscrutable.”

“But sir”—

“And what does Cocoleu depose? He says he saw you kindle the fire with your own hands, then conceal yourself behind a pile of wood, and fire twice at Count Claudieuse.”

“And all that appears quite natural to you?”

“No! At first it shocked me as it shocked everybody. You seem to be far above all suspicion. But a moment afterwards they pick up the cartridge-case, which can only have belonged to you. Then, upon my arrival here, I surprise you in bed, and find the water in which you have washed your hands black with coal, and little pieces of charred paper swimming on top of it.”

“Yes,” said M. de Boiscoran in an undertone: “it is fate.”

“And that is not all,” continued the magistrate, raising his voice, “I examine you, and you admit having been out from eight o’clock till after midnight. I ask what you have been doing, and you refuse to tell me. I insist, and you tell a falsehood. In order to overwhelm you, I am forced to quote the evidence of young Ribot, of Gaudry, and Mrs. Courtois, who have seen you at the very places where you deny having been. That circumstance alone condemns you. Why should you not be willing to tell me what you have been doing during those four hours? You claim to be innocent. Help me, then, to establish your innocence. Speak, tell me what you were doing between eight and midnight.”

M. de Boiscoran had no time to answer.

For some time already, half-suppressed cries, and the sound of a large crowd, had come up from the courtyard. A gendarme came in quite excited; and, turning to the magistrate and the commonwealth attorney, he said,—

“Gentlemen, there are several hundred peasants, men and women, in the yard, who clamor for M. de Boiscoran. They threaten to drag him down to the river. Some of the men are armed with pitchforks; but the women are the maddest. My comrade and I have done our best to keep them quiet.”

And just then, as if to confirm what he said, the cries came nearer, growing louder and louder; and one could distinctly hear,—

“Drown Boiscoran! Let us drown the incendiary!”

The attorney rose, and told the gendarme,—

“Go down and tell these people that the authorities are this moment examining the accused; that they interrupt us; and that, if they keep on, they will have to do with me.”

The gendarme obeyed his orders. M. de Boiscoran had turned deadly pale. He said to himself,—

“These unfortunate people believe my guilt!”

“Yes,” said M. Galpin, who had overheard the words; “and you would comprehend their rage, for which there is good reason, if you knew all that has happened.”

“What else?”

“Two Sauveterre firemen, one the father of five children, have perished in the flames. Two other men, a farmer from Brechy, and a gendarme who tried to rescue them, have been so seriously burned that their lives are in danger.”

M. de Boiscoran said nothing.

“And it is you,” continued the magistrate, “who is charged with all these calamities. You see how important it is for you to exculpate yourself.”

“Ah! how can I?”

“If you are innocent, nothing is easier. Tell us how you employed yourself last night.”

“I have told you all I can say.”

The magistrate seemed to reflect for a full minute; then he said,—

“Take care, M. de Boiscoran: I shall have to have you arrested.”

“Do so.”

“I shall be obliged to order your arrest at once, and to send you to jail in Sauveterre.”

“Very well.”

“Then you confess?”

“I confess that I am the victim of an unheard-of combination of circumstances; I confess that you are right, and that certain fatalities can only be explained by the belief in Providence: but I swear by all that is holy in the world, I am innocent.”

“Prove it.”

“Ah! would I not do it if I could?”

“Be good enough, then, to dress, sir, and to follow the gendarmes.”

Without a word, M. de Boiscoran went into his dressing-room, followed by his servant, who carried him his clothes. M. Galpin was so busy dictating to the clerk the latter part of the examination, that he seemed to forget his prisoner. Old Anthony availed himself of this opportunity.

“Sir,” he whispered into his master’s ear while helping him to put on his clothes.

“What?”

“Hush! Don’t speak so loud! The other window is open. It is only about twenty feet to the ground: the ground is soft. Close by is one of the cellar openings; and in there, you know, there is the old hiding-place. It is only five miles to the coast, and I will have a good horse ready for you to-night, at the park-gate.”

A bitter smile rose on M. de Boiscoran’s lips, as he said,—

“And you too, my old friend: you think I am guilty?”

“I conjure you,” said Anthony, “I answer for any thing. It is barely twenty feet. In your mother’s name”—

But, instead of answering him, M. de Boiscoran turned round, and called M. Galpin. When he had come in, he said to him, “Look at that window, sir! I have money, fast horses; and the sea is only five miles off. A guilty man would have escaped. I stay here; for I am innocent.”

In one point, at least, M. de Boiscoran had been right. Nothing would have been easier for him than to escape, to get into the garden, and to reach the hiding-place which his servant had suggested to him. But after that? He had, to be sure, with old Anthony’s assistance, some chance of escaping altogether. But, after all, he might have been found out in his hiding-place, or he might have been overtaken in his ride to the coast. Even if he had succeeded, what would have become of him? His flight would necessarily have been looked upon as a confession of his guilt.

Under such circumstances, to resist the temptation to escape, and to make this resistance well known, was in fact not so much an evidence of innocence as a proof of great cleverness. M. Galpin, at all events, looked upon it in that light; for he judged others by himself. Carefully and cunningly calculating every step he took in life, he did not believe in sudden inspirations. He said, therefore, with an ironical smile, which was to show that he was not so easily taken in,—

“Very well, sir. This circumstance shall be mentioned, as well as the others, at the trial.”

Very differently thought the commonwealth attorney and the clerk. If the magistrate had been too much engaged in his dictation to notice any thing, they had been perfectly able to notice the great excitement under which the accused had naturally labored. Perfectly amazed at first, and thinking, for a moment, that the whole was a joke, he had next become furiously angry; then fear and utter dejection had followed one another. But in precise proportion as the charges had accumulated, and the evidence had become overwhelming, he had, so far from becoming demoralized, seemed to recover his assurance.

“There is something curious about it,” growled Mechinet. M. Daubigeon, on the other hand, said nothing; but when M. de Boiscoran came out of his dressing-room, fully dressed and ready, he said,—

“One more question, sir.”

The poor man bowed. He was pale, but calm and self-possessed.

“I am ready to reply,” he said.

“I’ll be brief. You seemed to be surprised and indignant at any one’s daring to accuse you. That was weakness. Justice is but the work of man, and must needs judge by appearances. If you reflect, you will see that the appearances are all against you.”

“I see it but too clearly.”

“If you were on a jury, you would not hesitate to pronounce a man guilty upon such evidence.”

“No, sir, no!”

The commonwealth attorney bounded from his chair. He said,—

“You are not sincere!”

M. de Boiscoran sadly shook his head, and replied,—

“I speak to you without the slightest hope of convincing you, but in all sincerity. No, I should not condemn a man, as you say, if he asserted his innocence, and if I did not see any reason for his crime. For, after all, unless a man is mad, he does not commit a crime for nothing. Now I ask you, how could I, upon whom fortune has always smiled; I who am on the eve of marrying one whom I love passionately,—how could I have set Valpinson on fire, and tried to murder Count Claudieuse?”

M. Galpin had scarcely been able to disguise his impatience, when he saw the attorney take part in the affair. Seizing, therefore, the opportunity to interfere, he said,—

“Your reason, sir, was hatred. You hated the count and the countess mortally. Do not protest: it is of no use. Everybody knows it; and you yourself have told me so.”

M. de Boiscoran looked as if he were growing still more pale, and then replied in a tone of crushing disdain,—

“Even if that were so, I do not see what right you have to abuse the confidence of a friend, after having declared, upon your arrival here, that all friendship between us had ceased. But that is not so. I never told you any such thing. As my feelings have never changed, I can repeat literally what I have said. I have told you that the count was a troublesome neighbor, a stickler for his rights, and almost absurdly attached to his preserves. I have also told you, that, if he declared my public opinions to be abominable, I looked upon his as ridiculous and dangerous. As for the countess, I have simply said, half in jest, that so perfect a person was not to my taste; and that I should be very unhappy if my wife were a Madonna, who hardly ever deigned to put her foot upon the ground.”

“And that was the only reason why you once pointed your gun at Count Claudieuse? A little more blood rushing to your head would have made you a murderer on that day.”

A terrible spasm betrayed M. de Boiscoran’s fury; but he checked himself, and said,—

“My passion was less fiery than it may have looked. I have the most profound respect for the count’s character. It is an additional grief to me that he should have accused me.”

“But he has not accused you!” broke in M. Daubigeon. “On the contrary, he was the first and the most eager to defend you.”

And, in spite of the signs which M. Galpin made, he continued,—

“Unfortunately that has nothing to do with the force of the evidence against you. If you persist in keeping silence, you must look for a criminal trial for the galleys. If you are innocent, why not explain the matter? What do you wait for? What do you hope?”

“Nothing.”

Mechinet had, in the meantime, completed the official report.

“We must go,” said M. Galpin

“Am I at liberty,” asked M. de Boiscoran, “to write a few lines to my father and my mother? They are old: such an event may kill them.”

“Impossible!” said the magistrate.

Then, turning to Anthony, he said,—

“I am going to put the seals on this room, and I shall leave it in the meanwhile in your keeping. You know your duty, and the penalties to which you would be subject, if, at the proper time, every thing is not found in the same condition in which it is left now. Now, how shall we get back to Sauveterre?”

After mature deliberation it was decided that M. de Boiscoran should go in one of his own carriages, accompanied by one of the gendarmes. M. Daubigeon, the magistrate, and the clerk would return in the mayor’s carriage, driven by Ribot, who was furious at being kept under surveillance.

“Let us be off,” said the magistrate, when the last formalities had been fulfilled.

M. de Boiscoran came down slowly. He knew the court was full of furious peasants; and he expected to be received with hootings. It was not so. The gendarme whom the attorney had sent down had done his duty so well, that not a cry was heard. But when he had taken his seat in the carriage, and the horse went off at a trot, fierce curses arose, and a shower of stones fell, one of which wounded a gendarme.

“Upon my word, you bring ill luck, prisoner,” said the man, a friend of the other gendarme who had been so much injured at the fire.

M. de Boiscoran made no reply. He sank back into the corner, and seemed to fall into a kind of stupor, from which he did not rouse himself till the carriage drove into the yard of the prison at Sauveterre. On the threshold stood Master Blangin, the jailer, smiling with delight at the idea of receiving so distinguished a prisoner.

“I am going to give you my best room,” he said, “but first I have to give a receipt to the gendarme, and to enter you in my book.” Thereupon he took down his huge, greasy register, and wrote the name of Jacques de Boiscoran beneath that of Trumence Cheminot, a vagabond who had just been arrested for having broken into a garden.

It was all over. Jacques de Boiscoran was a prisoner, to be kept in close confinement.