M. Folgat and M. Magloire went to the courthouse; and, as they descended
the steep street from M. de Chandore’s house, the Paris lawyer said,--
“M. Galpin must fancy himself wonderfully safe in his position, that
he should grant the defence permission to see all the papers of the
prosecution.”
Ordinarily such leave is given only after the court has begun
proceedings against the accused, and the presiding judge has questioned
him. This looks like crying injustice to the prisoner; and hence
arrangements can be made by which the rigor of the law is somewhat
mitigated. With the consent of the commonwealth attorney, and upon
his responsibility, the magistrate who had carried on the preliminary
investigation may inform the accused, or his counsel, by word of mouth,
or by a copy of all or of part, of what has happened during the first
inquiry. That is what M. Galpin had done.
And on the part of a man who was ever ready to interpret the law in its
strictest meaning, and who no more dared proceed without authority for
every step than a blind man without his staff,--or on the part of such
a man, an enemy, too, of M. de Boiscoran, this permission granted to
the defence was full of meaning. But did it really mean what M. Folgat
thought it did?
“I am almost sure you are mistaken,” said M. Magloire. “I know the
good man, having practiced with him for many years. If he were sure
of himself, he would be pitiless. If he is kind, he is afraid. This
concession is a door which he keeps open, in case of defeat.”
The eminent counsel was right. However well convinced M. Galpin might be
of Jacques’s guilt, he was still very much troubled about his means of
defence. Twenty examinations had elicited nothing from his prisoner but
protestations of innocence. When he was driven to the wall, he would
reply,--
“I shall explain when I have seen my counsel.”
This is often the reply of the most stupid scamp, who only wants to gain
time. But M. Galpin knew his former friend, and had too high an opinion
of his mind, not to fear that there was something serious beneath his
obstinate silence.
What was it? A clever falsehood? a cunningly-devised _alibi_? Or
witnesses bribed long beforehand?
M. Galpin would have given much to know. And it was for the purpose
of finding it out sooner, that he had given the permission. Before he
granted it, however, he had conferred with the commonwealth attorney.
Excellent M. Daubigeon, whom he found, as usual, admiring the beautiful
gilt edging of his beloved books, had treated him badly.
“Do you come for any more signatures?” he had exclaimed. “You shall have
them. If you want any thing else, your servant.
“‘When the blunder is made,
It is too late, I tell thee, to come for advice.’”
However discouraging such a welcome might be, M. Galpin did not give up
his purpose. He said in his bitterest tone,--
“You still insist that it is a blunder to do one’s duty. Has not a crime
been committed? Is it not my duty to find out the author, and to have
him punished? Well? Is it my fault if the author of this crime is an old
friend of mine, and if I was once upon a time on the point of marrying
a relation of his? There is no one in court who doubts M. de Boiscoran’s
guilt; there is no one who dares blame me: and yet they are all as cold
as ice towards me.”
“Such is the world,” said M. Daubigeon with a face full of irony. “They
praise virtue; but they hate it.”
“Well, yes! that is so,” cried M. Galpin in his turn. “Yes, they blame
people who have done what they had not the courage to do. The attorney
general has congratulated me, because he judges things from on high
and impartially. Here cliques are all-powerful. Even those who ought
to encourage and support me, cry out against me. My natural ally, the
commonwealth attorney, forsakes me and laughs at me. The president
of the court, my immediate superior, said to me this morning with
intolerable irony, ‘I hardly know any magistrate who would be able as
you are to sacrifice his relations and his friends to the interests of
truth and justice. You are one of the ancients: you will rise high.’”