“I pray you, doctor, do not press me just now. Give me time to collect
my thoughts. I am bewildered by all these conjectures. No, I am sure
M. de Boiscoran has not told a falsehood, and the countess has been his
mistress. No, he has not deceived us; and on the night of the crime he
really had an interview with the countess. Did not Martha tell us that
her mother had gone out? And where could she have gone, except to meet
M. de Boiscoran?”
He paused a moment.
“Oh, come, come!” said the physician, “you need not be afraid of me.”
“Well, it might possibly be, that, after the countess had left M. de
Boiscoran, Fate might have stepped in. Jacques has told us how the
letters which he was burning had suddenly blazed up, and with such
violence that he was frightened. Who can tell whether some burning
fragments may not have set a straw-rick on fire? You can judge yourself.
On the point of leaving the place, M. de Boiscoran sees this beginning
of a fire. He hastens to put it out. His efforts are unsuccessful.
The fire increases step by step: it lights up the whole front of the
chateau. At that moment Count Claudieuse comes out. Jacques thinks he
has been watched and detected; he sees his marriage broken off, his life
ruined, his happiness destroyed; he loses his head, aims, fires, and
flees instantly. And thus you explain his missing the count, and also
this fact which seemed to preclude the idea of premeditated murder, that
the gun was loaded with small-shot.”
“Great God!” cried the doctor.
“What, what have I said?”
“Take care never to repeat that! The suggestion you make is so fearfully
plausible, that, if it becomes known, no one will ever believe you when
you tell the real truth.”
“The truth? Then you think I am mistaken?”
“Most assuredly.”