“You must be under a mistake. Servants are curious, and to hide from
them is only to make them mad with curiosity. That girl has watched you.
That girl has found means to see the countess when she came there. She
must be examined. Is she still in your service?”
“No, she left me when the war broke out.”
“Why?”
“She wanted to return to England.”
“Then we cannot hope to find her again?”
“I believe not.”
“We must give it up, then. But your man-servant? Old Anthony was in your
confidence. Did you never tell him any thing about it?”
“Never. Only once I sent for him to come to Vine Street when I had
sprained my foot in coming down stairs.”
“So that it is impossible for you to prove that the Countess Claudieuse
ever came to your house in Passy? You have no evidence of it, and no
eye-witness?”
“I used to have evidence. She had brought a number of small articles for
her private use; but they have disappeared during the war.”
“Ah, yes!” said M. Magloire, “always the war! It has to answer for every
thing.”
Never had any of M. Galpin’s examinations been half as painful to
Jacques de Boiscoran as this series of quick questions, which betrayed
such distressing incredulity.
“Did I not tell you, Magloire,” he resumed, “that the countess had a
genius for prudence? You can easily conceal yourself when you can spend
money without counting it. Would you blame me for not having any proofs
to furnish? Is it not the duty of every man of honor to do all he can to
keep even a shadow of suspicion from her who has confided herself to
his hands? I have done my duty, and whatever may come of it, I shall not
regret it. Could I foresee such unheard-of emergencies? Could I foresee
that a day might come when I, Jacques de Boiscoran, should have to
denounce the Countess Claudieuse, and should be compelled to look for
evidence and witnesses against her?”
The eminent advocate of Sauveterre looked aside; and, instead of
replying, he said in a somewhat changed voice,--
“Go on, Jacques, go on!”
Jacques de Boiscoran tried to overcome the discouragement which
well-nigh mastered him, and said,--
“It was on the 2d September, 1867, that the Countess Claudieuse for
the first time entered this house in Passy, which I had purchased and
furnished for her; and during the five weeks which she spent in Paris,
she came almost every day, and spent several hours there.
“At her father’s house she enjoyed absolute and almost uncontrolled
independence. She left her daughter--for she had at that time but one
child--with her mother, the Marchioness de Tassar; and she was free to
go and to come as she liked.
“When she wanted still greater freedom, she went to see her friend in
Fontainebleau; and every time she did this she secured twenty-four or
forty-eight hours over and above the time for the journey. I, for my
part, was as perfectly free from all control. Ostensibly, I had gone to
Ireland; in reality, I lived in Vine Street.
“These five weeks passed like a dream; and yet I must confess, the
parting was not as painful as might have been supposed. Not that the
bright prism was broken; but I always felt humiliated by the necessity
of being concealed. I began to be tired of these incessant precautions;
and I was quite ready to give up being Sir Francis Burnett, and to
resume my identity.
“We had, besides, promised each other never to remain a month without
seeing each other, at least for a few hours; and she had invented a
number of expedients by which we could meet without danger.
“A family misfortune came just then to our assistance. My father’s
eldest brother, that kind uncle who had furnished me the means to
purchase my house in Passy, died, and left me his entire fortune. As
owner of Boiscoran, I could, henceforth, live as much as I chose in
the province; and at all events come there whenever I liked, without
anybody’s inquiring for my reasons.”