Within an Inch of His Life (Murder Mystery). Emile Gaboriau

      II.

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      The railway which connects Sauveterre with the Orleans line enjoys a certain celebrity on account of a series of utterly useless curves, which defy all common sense, and which would undoubtedly be the source of countless accidents, if the trains were not prohibited from going faster than eight or ten miles an hour.

      The depot has been built—no doubt for the greater convenience of travellers—at a distance of two miles from town, on a place where formerly the first banker of Sauveterre had his beautiful gardens. The pretty road which leads to it is lined on both sides with inns and taverns, on market-days full of peasants, who try to rob each other, glass in hand, and lips overflowing with protestations of honesty. On ordinary days even, the road is quite lively; for the walk to the railway has become a favorite promenade. People go out to see the trains start or come in, to examine the new arrivals, or to exchange confidences as to the reasons why Mr. or Mrs. So-and-so have made up their mind to travel.

      It was nine o’clock in the morning when the train which brought the marchioness and Manuel Folgat at last reached Sauveterre. The former was overcome by fatigue and anxiety, having spent the whole night in discussing the chances for her son’s safety, and was all the more exhausted as the lawyer had taken care not to encourage her hopes.

      For he also shared, in secret at least, M. Chapelain’s doubts. He, also, had said to himself, that a man like M. de Boiscoran is not apt to be arrested, unless there are strong reasons, and almost overwhelming proofs of his guilt in the hands of the authorities.

      The train was slackening speed.

      “If only Dionysia and her father,” sighed the marchioness, “have thought of sending a carriage to meet us.”

      “Why so?” asked Manuel Folgat.

      “Because I do not want all the world to see my grief and my tears.”

      The young lawyer shook his head, and said,—

      “You will certainly not do that, madame, if you are disposed to follow my advice.”

      She looked at him quite amazed; but he insisted.

      “I mean you must not look as if you wished not to be seen: that would be a great, almost irreparable mistake. What would they think if they saw you in tears and great distress? They would say you were sure of your son’s guilt; and the few who may still doubt will doubt no longer. You must control public opinion from the beginning; for it is absolute in these small communities, where everybody is under somebody else’s immediate influence. Public opinion is all powerful; and say what you will, it controls even the jurymen in their deliberations.”

      “That is true,” said the marchioness: “that is but too true.”

      “Therefore, madame, you must summon all your energy, conceal your maternal anxiety in your innermost heart, dry your tears, and show nothing but the most perfect confidence. Let everybody say, as he sees you, ‘No mother could look so who thinks her son guilty.’”

      The marchioness straightened herself, and said,—

      “You are right, sir; and I thank you. I must try to impress public opinion as you say; and, so far from wishing to find the station deserted, I shall be delighted to see it full of people. I will show you what a woman can do who thinks of her son’s life.”

      The Marchioness of Boiscoran was a woman of rare power.

      Drawing her comb from her dressing-case, she repaired the disorder of her coiffure; with a few skilful strokes she smoothed her dress; her features, by a supreme effort of will, resumed their usual serenity; she forced her lips to smile without betraying the effort it cost her; and then she said in a clear, firm voice,—

      “Look at me, sir. Can I show myself now?”

      The train stopped at the station. Manuel Folgat jumped out lightly; and, offering the marchioness his hand to assist her, he said,—

      “You will be pleased with yourself, madam. Your courage will not be useless. All Sauveterre seems to be here.”

      This was more than half true. Ever since the night before, a report had been current,—no one knew how it had started,—that the “murderer’s mother,” as they charitably called her, would arrive by the nine o’clock train; and everybody had determined to happen to be at the station at that hour. In a place where gossip lives for three days upon the last new dress from Paris, such an opportunity for a little excitement was not to be neglected. No one thought for a moment of what the poor old lady would probably feel upon being compelled thus to face a whole town; for at Sauveterre curiosity has at least the merit, that it is not hypocritical. Everybody is openly indiscreet, and by no means ashamed of it. They place themselves right in front of you, and look at you, and try to find out the secret of your joy or your grief.

      It must be borne in mind, however, that public opinion was running strongly against M. de Boiscoran. If there had been nothing against him but the fire at Valpinson, and the attempts upon Count Claudieuse, that would have been a small matter. But the fire had had terrible consequences. Two men had perished in it; and two others had been so severely wounded as to put their lives in jeopardy. Only the evening before, a sad procession had passed through the streets of Sauveterre. In a cart covered with a cloth, and followed by two priests, the almost carbonized remains of Bolton the drummer, and of poor Guillebault, had been brought home. The whole city had seen the widow go to the mayor’s office, holding in her arms her youngest child, while the four others clung to her dress.

      All these misfortunes were traced back to Jacques, who was loaded with curses; and the people now thought of receiving his mother, the marchioness, with fierce hootings.

      “There she is, there she is!” they said in the crowd, when she appeared in the station, leaning upon M. Folgat’s arm.

      But they did not say another word, so great was their surprise at her appearance. Immediately two parties were formed. “She puts a bold face on it,” said some; while others declared, “She is quite sure of her son’s innocence.”

      At all events, she had presence of mind enough to see what an impression she produced, and how well she had done to follow M. Folgat’s advice. It gave her additional strength. As she distinguished in the crowd some people whom she knew, she went up to them, and, smiling, said,—

      “Well, you know what has happened to us. It is unheard of! Here is the liberty of a man like my son at the mercy of the first foolish notion that enters the head of a magistrate. I heard the news yesterday by telegram, and came down at once with this gentleman, a friend of ours, and one of the first lawyers of Paris.”

      M. Folgat looked embarrassed: he would have liked more considerate words. Still he could not help supporting the marchioness in what she had said.

      “These gentlemen of the court,” he said in measured tones, “will perhaps be sorry for what they have done.”

      Fortunately a young man, whose whole livery consisted in a gold-laced cap, came up to them at this moment.

      “M. de Chandore’s carriage is here,” he said.

      “Very well,” replied the marchioness.

      And bowing to the good people of Sauveterre, who were quite dumfounded by her assurance, she said,—

      “Pardon me if I leave you so soon; but M. de Chandore expects us. I shall, however, be happy to call upon you soon, on my son’s arm.”

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