“That may be so! You say that carelessly, indifferently, madman! Did you
never think of the grief Count Claudieuse would feel if he should learn
the truth? And even if he merely suspected it! Can you not comprehend
that such a suspicion is quite sufficient to embitter a whole life, to
ruin the life of that girl? Have you never told yourself that such a
doubt inflicts a more atrocious punishment than any thing you have yet
suffered?”
He paused. A few words more, and he would have betrayed his secret.
Checking his excitement by an heroic effort, he said,--
“But I did not come here to discuss this question; I came to tell you,
that, whatever may happen, your father will stand by you, and that, if
you must undergo the disgrace of appearing in court, I will take a seat
by your side.”
In spite of his own great trouble, Jacques had not been able to avoid
seeing his father’s unusual excitement and his sudden vehemence. For
a second, he had a vague perception of the truth; but, before the
suspicion could assume any shape, it had vanished before this promise
which his father made, to face by his side the overwhelming humiliation
of a judgment in court,--a promise full of divine self-abnegation and
paternal love. His gratitude burst forth in the words,--
“Ah, father! I ought to ask your pardon for ever having doubted your
heart for a moment.”
M. de Boiscoran tried his best to recover his self-possession. At last
he said in an earnest voice,--
“Yes, I love you, my son; and still you must not make me out more of a
hero than I am. I still hope we may be spared the appearance in court.”
“Has any thing new been discovered?”
“M. Folgat has found some traces which justify legitimate hopes,
although, as yet, no real success has been achieved.”
Jacques looked rather discouraged.
“Traces?” he asked.
“Be patient. They are feeble traces, I admit, and such as could not be
produced in court; but from day to day they may become decisive. And
already they have had one good effect: they have brought us back M.
Magloire.”
“O God! Could I really be saved?”
“I shall leave to M. Folgat,” continued the marquis, “the satisfaction
of telling you the result of his efforts. He can explain their bearing
better than I could. And you will not have long to wait; for last night,
or rather this morning, when we separated, he and M. Magloire agreed to
meet here at the prison, before two o’clock.”
A few minutes later a rapid step approached in the passage; and Trumence
appeared, the prisoner of whom Blangin had made an assistant, and whom
Mechinet had employed to carry Jacques’s letters to Dionysia. He was a
tall well-made man of twenty-five or six years, whose large mouth and
small eyes were perpetually laughing. A vagabond without hearth or home,
Trumence had once been a land-owner. At the death of his parents, when
he was only eighteen years old, Trumence had come into possession of a
house surrounded by a yard, a garden, several acres of land, and a salt
meadow; all worth about fifteen thousand francs. Unfortunately the time
for the conscription was near. Like many young men of that district,
Trumence believed in witchcraft, and had gone to buy a charm, which cost
him fifty francs. It consisted of three tamarind-branches gathered on
Christmas Eve, and tied together by a magic number of hairs drawn from
a dead man’s head. Having sewed this charm into his waistcoat, Trumence
had gone to town, and, plunging his hand boldly into the urn, had drawn
number three. This was unexpected. But as he had a great horror of
military service, and, well-made as he was, felt quite sure that he
would not be rejected, he determined to employ a chance much more
certain to succeed; namely, to borrow money in order to buy a
substitute.
As he was a land-owner, he found no difficulty in meeting with an
obliging person, who consented to lend him for two years thirty-five
hundred francs, in return for a first mortgage on his property. When the
papers were signed, and Trumence had the money in his pocket, he set out
for Rochefort, where dealers in substitutes abounded; and for the sum of
two thousand francs, exclusive of some smaller items, they furnished him
a substitute of the best quality.
Delighted with the operation, Trumence was about to return home, when
his evil star led him to sup at his inn with a countryman, a former
schoolmate, who was now a sailor on board a coal-barge. Of course,
countrymen when they meet must drink. They did drink; and, as the sailor
very soon scented the twelve hundred francs which remained in Trumence’s
pockets, he swore that he was going to have a jolly time, and would
not return on board his barge as long as there remained a cent in his
friend’s pocket. So it happened, that, after a fortnight’s carouse,
the sailor was arrested and put in jail; and Trumence was compelled to
borrow five francs from the stage-driver to enable him to get home.
This fortnight was decisive for his life. During these days he had lost
all taste for work, and acquired a real passion for taverns where they
played with greasy cards. After his return he tried to continue this
jolly life; and, to do so, he made more debts. He sold, piece after
piece, all he possessed that was salable, down to his mattress and his
tools. This was not the way to repay the thirty-five hundred francs
which he owed. When pay-day came, the creditor, seeing that his security
was diminishing every day, lost no time. Before Trumence was well aware
of what was going on, an execution was in the house; his lands were
sold; and one fine day he found himself in the street, possessing
literally nothing in the world but the wretched clothes on his back.
He might easily have found employment; for he was a good workman, and
people were fond of him in spite of all. But he was even more afraid
of work than he was fond of drink. Whenever want pressed too hard, he
worked a few days; but, as soon as he had earned ten francs, good-by!
Off he went, lounging by the road-side, talking with the wagoners, or
loafing about the villages, and watching for one of those kind topers,
who, rather than drink alone, invite the first-comer. Trumence
boasted of being well known all along the coast, and even far into the
department. And what was most surprising was that people did not blame
him much for his idleness. Good housewives in the country would, it is
true, greet him with a “Well, what do you want here, good-for-nothing?”
But they would rarely refuse him a bowl of soup or a glass of white
wine. His unchanging good-humor, and his obliging disposition, explained
this forbearance. This man, who would refuse a well-paid job, was ever
ready to lend a hand for nothing. And he was handy at every thing, by
land and by water, he called it, so that the farmer whose business was
pressing, and the fisherman in his boat who wanted help, appealed alike
to Trumence.
The mischief, however, is, that this life of rural beggary, if it has
its good days, also has its evil times. On certain days, Trumence could
not find either kind-hearted topers or hospitable housewives. Hunger,
however, was ever on hand; then he had to become a marauder; dig some
potatoes, and cook them in a corner of a wood, or pilfer the orchards.
And if he found neither potatoes in the fields, nor apples in the
orchards, what could he do but climb a fence, or scale a wall?
Relatively speaking, Trumence was an honest man, and incapable of
stealing a piece of money; but vegetables, fruits, chickens--
Thus it had come about that he had been arrested twice, and condemned to
several days’ imprisonment; and each time he had vowed solemnly that he
would never be caught at it again, and that he was going to work hard.
And yet he had been caught again.
The poor fellow had told his misfortunes to Jacques; and Jacques,
who owed it to him that he could, when still in close confinement,
correspond with Dionysia, felt very kindly towards him. Hence, when he
saw him come up very respectful, and cap in hand, he asked,--
“What is it, Trumence?”
“Sir,” replied the vagrant, “M. Blangin sends you word that the two
advocates are coming up to your room.”