“To be sure! He is a friend of ours; and, if any one is well informed,
he is. Let us go to him. Come.”
M. Seneschal was indeed a friend of the Chandores, the Lavarandes, and
also of the Boiscorans. Although he was a lawyer he had become attached
to the people whose confidential adviser he had been for more than
twenty years. Even after having retired from business, M. Seneschal had
still retained the full confidence of his former clients. They never
decided on any grave question, without consulting him first. His
successor did the business for them; but M. Seneschal directed what was
to be done.
Nor was the assistance all on one side. The example of great people
like M. de Chandore and Jacques’s uncle had brought many a peasant on
business into M. Seneschal’s office; and when he was, at a later period
of his life, attacked by the fever of political ambition, and offered to
“sacrifice himself for his country” by becoming mayor of Sauveterre, and
a member of the general council, their support had been of great service
to him.
Hence he was well-nigh overcome when he returned, on that fatal morning,
to Sauveterre. He looked so pale and undone, that his wife was seriously
troubled.
“Great God, Augustus! What has happened?” she asked.
“Something terrible has happened,” he replied in so tragic a manner,
that his wife began to tremble.
To be sure, Mrs. Seneschal trembled very easily. She was a woman of
forty-five or fifty years, very dark, short, and fat, trying hard to
breathe in the corsets which were specially made for her by the Misses
Mechinet, the clerk’s sisters. When she was young, she had been rather
pretty: now she still kept the red cheeks of her younger days, a forest
of jet black hair, and excellent teeth. But she was not happy. Her life
had been spent in wishing for children, and she had none.
She consoled herself, it is true, by constantly referring to all the
most delicate details on the subject, mentioning not to her
intimate friends only, but to any one who would listen, her constant
disappointments, the physicians she had consulted, the pilgrimages she
had undertaken, and the quantities of fish she had eaten, although she
abominated fish. All had been in vain, and as her hopes fled with her
years, she had become resigned, and indulged now in a kind of romantic
sentimentality, which she carefully kept alive by reading novels and
poems without end. She had a tear ready for every unfortunate being, and
some words of comfort for every grief. Her charity was well known. Never
had a poor woman with children appealed to her in vain. In spite of all
that, she was not easily taken in. She managed her household with her
hand as well as with her eye; and no one surpassed her in the extent of
her washings, or the excellence of her dinners.
She was quite ready, therefore, to sigh and to sob when her husband told
her what had happened during the night. When he had ended, she said,--
“That poor Dionysia is capable of dying of it. In your place, I would go
at once to M. de Chandore, and inform him in the most cautious manner of
what has happened.”
“I shall take good care not to do so,” replied M. Seneschal; “and I tell
you expressly not to go there yourself.”
For he was by no means a philosopher; and, if he had been his own
master, he would have taken the first train, and gone off a hundred
miles, so as not to see the grief of the Misses Lavarande and Grandpapa
Chandore. He was exceedingly fond of Dionysia: he had been hard at work
for years to settle and to add to her fortune, as if she had been his
own daughter, and now to witness her grief! He shuddered at the idea.
Besides, he really did not know what to believe, and influenced by M.
Galpin’s assurance, misled by public opinion, he had come to ask himself
if Jacques might not, after all, have committed the crimes with which he
was charged.
Fortunately his duties were on that day so numerous and so troublesome,
that he had no time to think. He had to provide for the recovery and
the transportation of the remains of the two unfortunate victims of the
fire; he had to receive the mother of one, and the widow and children of
the other, and to listen to their complaints, and try to console them
by promising the former a small pension, and the latter some help in the
education of their children. Then he had to give directions to have the
wounded men brought home; and, after that, he had gone out in search
of a house for Count Claudieuse and his wife, which had given him much
trouble. Finally, a large part of the afternoon had been taken up by an
angry discussion with Dr. Seignebos. The doctor, in the name of outraged
society, as he called it, and in the name of justice and humanity,
demanded the immediate arrest of Cocoleu, that wretch whose unconscious
statement formed the basis of the accusation. He demanded with a furious
oath that the epileptic idiot should be sent to the hospital, and kept
there so as to be professionally examined by experts. The mayor had
for some time refused to grant the request, which seemed to him
unreasonable; but he doctor had talked so loud and insisted so strongly,
that at last he had sent two gendarmes to Brechy with orders to bring
back Cocoleu.
They had returned several hours later with empty hands. The idiot had
disappeared; and no one in the whole district had been able to give any
information as to this whereabouts.
“And you think that is natural?” exclaimed Dr. Seignebos, whose eyes
were glaring at the mayor from under his spectacles. “To me that looks
like an absolute proof that a plot has been hatched to ruin M. de
Boiscoran.”
“But can’t you be quiet?” M. Seneschal said angrily. “Do you think
Cocoleu is lost? He will turn up again.”
The doctor had left him without insisting any longer; but before going
home, he had dropped in at his club, and there, in the presence of
twenty people he had declared that he had positive proof of a plot
formed against M. de Boiscoran, whom the Monarchists had never forgiven
for having left them; and that the Jesuits were certainly mixed up with
the business.
This interference was more injurious than useful to Jacques; and the
consequences were soon seen. That same evening, when M. Galpin crossed
the New-Market Place, he was wantonly insulted. Very naturally he went,
almost in a fury, to call upon the mayor, to hold him responsible for
this insult offered to Justice in his person, and asking for energetic
punishment. M. Seneschal promised to take the proper measures, and
went to the commonwealth attorney to act in concert with him. There he
learned what had happened at Boiscoran, and the terrible result of the
examination.
So he had come home, quite sorrowful, distressed at Jacques’s situation,
and very much disturbed by the political aspect which the matter was
beginning to wear. He had spent a bad night, and in the morning had
displayed such fearful temper, that his wife had hardly dared to say a
word to him. But even that was not all. At two o’clock precisely, the
funeral of Bolton and Guillebault was to take place; and he had promised
Capt. Parenteau that he would be present in his official costume, and
accompanied by the whole municipal council. He had already given
orders to have his uniform gotten ready, when the servant announced
visitors,--M. de Chandore and friend.
“That was all that was wanting!” he exclaimed