Within an Inch of His Life

by Emile Gaboriau

  XIII.

  If he had been less distressed, Jacques de Boiscoran would have seen howwisely he had acted in choosing for his defender the great advocate ofSauveterre. A stranger, M. Folgat, for instance, would have heard himsilently, and would have seen in the revelation nothing but the factwithout giving it a personal value. In M. Magloire, on the contrary, hesaw what the whole country would feel. And M. Magloire, when he heardhim declare that the Countess Claudieuse had been his mistress, lookedindignant, and exclaimed,--

  "That is impossible."

  At least Jacques was not surprised. He had been the first to saythat they would refuse to believe him when he should speak; and thisconviction had largely influenced him in keeping silence so long.

  "It is impossible, I know," he said; "and still it is so."

  "Give me proofs!" said M. Magloire.

  "I have no proofs."

  The melancholy and sympathizing expression of the great lawyer changedinstantly. He sternly glanced at the prisoner, and his eye spoke ofamazement and indignation.

  "There are things," he said, "which it is rash to affirm when one is notable to support them with proof. Consider"--

  "My situation forces me to tell all."

  "Why, then, did you wait so long?"

  "I hoped I should be spared such a fearful extremity."

  "By whom?"

  "By the countess."

  M. Magloire's face became darker and darker.

  "I am not often accused of partiality," he said. "Count Claudieuse is,perhaps, the only enemy I have in this country; but he is a bitter,fierce enemy. To keep me out of the chamber, and to prevent my obtainingmany votes, he stooped to acts unworthy of a gentleman. I do not likehim. But in justice I must say that I look upon the countess as theloftiest, the purest, and noblest type of the woman, the wife, and themother."

  A bitter smile played on Jacques's lips.

  "And still I have been her lover," he said.

  "When? How? The countess lived at Valpinson: you lived in Paris."

  "Yes; but every year the countess came and spent the month of Septemberin Paris; and I came occasionally to Boiscoran."

  "It is very singular that such an intrigue should never have beensuspected even."

  "We managed to take our precautions."

  "And no one ever suspected any thing?"

  "No one."

  But Jacques was at last becoming impatient at the attitude assumed by M.Magloire. He forgot that he had foreseen all the suspicions to which hefound now he was exposed.

  "Why do you ask all these questions?" he said. "You do not believe me.Well, be it so! Let me at least try to convince you. Will you listen tome?"

  M. Magloire drew up a chair, and sitting down, not as usually, butacross the chair, and resting his arms on the back, he said,--

  "I listen."

  Jacques de Boiscoran, who had been almost livid, became crimson withanger. His eyes flashed wrath. That he, he should be treated thus! Neverhad all the haughtiness of M. Galpin offended him half as much as thiscool, disdainful condescension on the part of M. Magloire. It occurredto him to order him out of his room. But what then? He was condemnedto drain the bitter cup to the very dregs: for he must save himself; hemust get out of this abyss.

  "You are cruel, Magloire," he said in a voice of ill-suppressedindignation, "and you make me feel all the horrors of my situation tothe full. Ah, do not apologize! It does not matter. Let me speak."

  He walked up and down a few times in his cell, passing his handrepeatedly over his brow, as if to recall his memory. Then he began, ina calmer tone of voice,--

  "It was in the first days of the month of August, in 1866, and atBoiscoran, where I was on a visit to my uncle, that I saw the CountessClaudieuse for the first time. Count Claudieuse and my uncle were, atthat time, on very bad terms with each other, thanks to that unluckylittle stream which crosses our estates; and a common friend, M. deBesson, had undertaken to reconcile them at a dinner to which he hadinvited both. My uncle had taken me with him. The countess had come withher husband. I was just twenty years old; she was twenty-six. When I sawher, I was overcome. It seemed to me that I had never in all my life meta woman so perfectly beautiful and graceful; that I had never seen socharming a face, such beautiful eyes, and such a sweet smile.

  "She did not seem to notice me. I did not speak to her; and still I feltwithin me a kind of presentiment that this woman would play a great, afatal part in my life.

  "This impression was so strong, that, as we left the house, I could notkeep from mentioning it to my uncle. He only laughed, and said thatI was a fool, and that, if my existence should ever be troubled by awoman, it would certainly not be by the Countess Claudieuse.

  "He was apparently right. It was hard to imagine that any thing shouldever again bring me in contact with the countess. M. de Besson's attemptat reconciliation had utterly failed; the countess lived at Valpinson;and I went back to Paris.

  "Still I was unable to shake off the impression; and the memory of thedinner at M. de Besson's house was still in my mind, when a monthlater, at a party at my mother's brother's, M. de Chalusse, I thoughtI recognized the Countess Claudieuse. It was she. I bowed, and, seeingthat she recognized me, I went up to her, trembling, and she allowed meto sit down by her.

  "She told me then that she had come up to Paris for a month, as she didevery year, and that she was staying at her father's, the Marquis deTassar. She had come to this party much against her inclination, as shedisliked going out. She did not dance; and thus I talked to her till themoment when she left.

  "I was madly in love when we parted; and still I made no effort to seeher again. It was mere chance again which brought us together.

  "One day I had business at Melun, and, reaching the station rather late,I had but just time to jump into the nearest car. In the compartmentwas the countess. She told me--and that is all I ever recollected of theconversation--that she was on her way to Fontainebleau to see a friend,with whom she spent every Tuesday and Saturday. Usually she took thenine o'clock train.

  "This was on a Tuesday; and during the next three days a great strugglewent on in my heart. I was desperately in love with the countess, andstill I was afraid of her. But my evil star conquered; and the nextSaturday, at nine o'clock, I was at the station again.

  "The countess has since confessed to me that she expected me. When shesaw me, she made a sign; and, when they opened the doors, I managed tofind a place by her side."

  M. Magloire had for some minutes given signs of great impatience; now hebroke forth,--

  "This is too improbable!"

  At first Jacques de Boiscoran made no reply. It was no easy task fora man, tried as he had been of late, to stir up thus the ashes of thepast; and it made him shudder. He was amazed at seeing on his lips thissecret which he had so long buried in his innermost heart. Besides, hehad loved, loved in good earnest; and his love had been returned. Andthere are certain sensations which come to us only once in life, andwhich can never again be effaced. He was moved to tears. But as theeminent advocate of Sauveterre repeated his words, and even added,--

  "No, it is not credible!"

  "I do not ask you to believe me," he said gently: "I only ask you tohear me."

  And, overcoming with all his energy the kind of torpor which wasmastering him, he continued,--

  "This trip to Fontainebleau decided our fate. Other trips followed. Thecountess spent her days with her friend, and I passed the long hoursin roaming through the woods. But in the evening we met again at thestation. We took a _coupe_, which I had engaged beforehand, and Iaccompanied her in a carriage to her father's house.

  "Finally, one evening, she left her friend's house at the usual hour;but she did not return to her father's house till the day after."

  "Jacques!" broke in M. Magloire, shocked, as if he had heard acurse,--"Jacques!"

  M. de Boiscoran remained unmoved.

  "Oh!" he said, "I know you must think it strange. You fancy that thereis no exc
use for the man who betrays the confidence of a woman who hasonce given herself to him. Wait, before you judge me."

  And he went on, in a firmer tone of voice,--

  "At that time I thought I was the happiest man on earth; and my heartwas full of the most absurd vanity at the thought that she was mine,this beautiful woman, whose purity was high above all calumny. I hadtied around my neck one of those fatal ropes which death alone cansever, and, fool that I was, I considered myself happy.

  "Perhaps she really loved me at that time. At least she did nothesitate, and, overcome by the only real great passion of her life, shetold me all that was in her innermost heart. At that time she did notthink yet of protecting herself against me, and of making me her slave.She told me the secret of her marriage, which had at one time createdsuch a sensation in the whole country.

  "When her father, the Marquis de Brissac, had given up his place, he hadsoon begun to feel his inactivity weigh upon him, and at the same timehe had become impatient at the narrowness of his means. He had venturedupon hazardous speculations. He had lost every thing he had; and evenhis honor was at stake. In his despair he was thinking of suicide, whenchance brought to his house a former comrade, Count Claudieuse. In amoment of confidence, the marquis confessed every thing; and the otherhad promised to rescue him, and save him from disgrace. That was nobleand grand. It must have cost an immense sum. And the friends of ouryouth who are capable of rendering us such services are rare in our day.Unfortunately, Count Claudieuse could not all the time be the hero hehad been at first. He saw Genevieve de Tassar. He was struck withher beauty; and overcome by a sudden passion--forgetting that she wastwenty, while he was nearly fifty--he made his friend aware that he wasstill willing to render him all the services in his power, but that hedesired to obtain Genevieve's hand in return.

  "That very evening the ruined nobleman entered his daughter's room, and,with tears in his eyes, explained to her his terrible situation. She didnot hesitate a moment.

  "'Above all,' she said to her father, 'let us save our honor, whicheven your death would not restore. Count Claudieuse is cruel to forgetthat he is thirty years older than I am. From this moment I hate anddespise him. Tell him I am willing to be his wife.'

  "And when her father, overcome with grief, told her that the count wouldnever accept her hand in this form, she replied,--

  "'Oh, do not trouble yourself about that! I shall do the thinghandsomely, and your friend shall have no right to complain. But I knowwhat I am worth; and you must remember hereafter, that, whatever servicehe may render you, you owe him nothing.'

  "Less than a fortnight after this scene, Genevieve had allowed the countto perceive that he was not indifferent to her and a month later shebecame his wife.

  "The count, on his side, had acted with the utmost delicacy and tact;so that no one suspected the cruel position of the Marquis de Tassar. Hehad placed two hundred thousand francs in his hands to settle his mostpressing debts. In his marriage-contract he had acknowledged havingreceived with his wife a dower of the same amount; and finally, he hadbound himself to pay to his father-in-law and his wife an annual incomeof ten thousand francs. This had absorbed more than half of all hepossessed."

  M. Magloire no longer thought of protesting. Sitting stiffly on hischair, his eyes wide open, like a man who asks himself whether he isasleep or awake, he murmured,--

  "That is incomprehensible! That is unheard of!"

  Jacques was becoming gradually excited. He went on,--

  "This is, at least, what the countess told me in her first hours ofenthusiasm. But she told it to me calmly, coldly, like a thing that wasperfectly natural. 'Certainly,' she said, 'Count Claudieuse has neverhad to regret the bargain he made. If he has been generous, I have beenfaithful. My father owes his life to him; but I have given him years ofhappiness to which he was not entitled. If he has received no love, hehas had all the appearance of it, and an appearance far more pleasantthan the reality.'

  "When I could not conceal my astonishment, she added, laughingheartily,--

  "'Only I brought to the bargain a mental reservation. I reserved tomyself the right to claim my share of earthly happiness whenever itshould come within my reach. That share is yours, Jacques; and do notfancy that I am troubled by remorse. As long as my husband thinks he ishappy, I am within the terms of the contract.'

  "That was the way she spoke at that time, Magloire; and a man of moreexperience would have been frightened. But I was a child; I loved herwith all my heart. I admired her genius; I was overcome by her sophisms.

  "A letter from Count Claudieuse aroused us from our dreams.

  "The countess had committed the only and the last imprudence of herwhole life: she had remained three weeks longer in Paris than was agreedupon; and her impatient husband threatened to come for her.

  "'I must go back to Valpinson,' she said; 'for there is nothing I wouldnot do to keep up the reputation I have managed to make for myself.My life, your life, my daughter's life--I would give them all, withouthesitation, to protect my reputation."

  "This happened--ah! the dates have remained fixed in my mind as ifengraven on bronze--on the 12th October.

  "'I cannot remain longer than a month,' she said to me, 'without seeingyou. A month from to-day, that is to say, on 12th November, at threeo'clock precisely, you must be in the forest of Rochepommier, at the RedMen's Cross-roads. I will be there.'

  "And she left Paris. I was in such a state of depression, that Iscarcely felt the pain of parting. The thought of being loved by such awoman filled me with extreme pride, and, no doubt, saved me from manyan excess. Ambition was rising within me whenever I thought of her. Iwanted to work, to distinguish myself, to become eminent in some way.

  "'I want her to be proud of me,' I said to myself, ashamed at beingnothing at my age but the son of a rich father."

  Ten times, at least, M. Magloire had risen from his chair, and moved hislips, as if about to make some objection. But he had pledged himself, inhis own mind, not to interrupt Jacques, and he did his best to keep hispledge.

  "In the meantime," Jacques went on, "the day fixed by the countess wasdrawing near. I went down to Boiscoran; and on the appointed day, at theprecise hour, I was in the forest at the Red Men's Cross-roads. I wassomewhat behind time, and I was extremely sorry for it: but I did notknow the forest very well, and the place chosen by the countess for therendezvous is in the very thickest part of the old wood. The weatherwas unusually severe for the season. The night before, a heavy snow hadfallen: the paths were all white; and a sharp wind blew the flakesfrom the heavily-loaded branches. From afar off, I distinguishedthe countess, as she was walking, up and down in a kind of feverishexcitement, confining herself to a narrow space, where the ground wasdry, and where she was sheltered from the wind by enormous masses ofstone. She wore a dress of dark-red silk, very long, a cloak trimmedwith fur, and a velvet hat to match her dress. In three minutes I was byher side. But she did not draw her hand from her muff to offer it to me;and, without giving me time to apologize for the delay, she said in adry tone,--

  "'When did you reach Boiscoran?'

  "'Last night.'

  "'How childish you are!' she exclaimed, stamping her foot. 'Last night!And on what pretext?'

  "'I need no pretext to visit my uncle.'

  "'And was he not surprised to see you drop from the clouds at this timeof the year?'

  "'Why, yes, a little,' I answered foolishly, incapable as I was ofconcealing the truth.

  "Her dissatisfaction increased visibly.

  "'And how did you get here?' she commenced again. 'Did you know thiscross-road?'

  "'No, I inquired about it.'

  "'From whom?'

  "'From one of my uncle's servants; but his information was soimperfect, that I lost my way.'

  "She looked at me with such a bitter, ironical smile, that I stopped.

  "'And all that, you think, is very simple,' she broke in. 'Do youreally imagine people will think it very natural that you should
thusfall like a bombshell upon Boiscoran, and immediately set out forthe Red Men's Cross-roads in the forest? Who knows but you have beenfollowed? Who knows but behind one of these trees there may be eyes evennow watching us?'

  "And as she looked around with all the signs of genuine fear, Ianswered,--

  "'And what do you fear? Am I not here?'

  "I think I can even now see the look in her eyes as she said,--

  "'I fear nothing in the world--do you hear me? nothing in the world,except being suspected; for I cannot be compromised. I like to do as Ido; I like to have a lover. But I do not want it to be known; because,if it became known, there would be mischief. Between my reputation andmy life I have no choice. If I were to be surprised here by any one, Iwould rather it should be my husband than a stranger. I have no love forthe count, and I shall never forgive him for having married me; buthe has saved my father's honor, and I owe it to him to keep his honorunimpaired. He is my husband, besides, and the father of my child: Ibear his name, and I want it to be respected. I should die with griefand shame and rage, if I had to give my arm to a man at whom peoplemight look and smile. Wives are absurdly stupid when they do not feelthat all the scorn with which their unfortunate husbands are receivedin the great world falls back upon them. No. I do not love the count,Jacques, and I love you. But remember, that, between him and you, Ishould not hesitate a moment, and that I should sacrifice your life andyour honor, with a smile on my lips, even though my heart should break,if I could, by doing so, spare him the shadow of a suspicion.'

  "I was about to reply; but she said,--

  "'No more! Every minute we stay here increases the danger. What pretextwill you plead for your sudden appearance at Boiscoran?'

  "'I do not know,' I replied.

  "'You must borrow some money from your uncle, a considerable sum, topay your debts. He will be angry, perhaps; but that will explain yoursudden fancy for travelling in the month of November. Good-by, good-by!'

  "All amazed, I cried,--

  "'What! You will not let me see you again, at least from afar?'

  "'During this visit that would be the height of imprudence. But, stop!Stay at Boiscoran till Sunday. Your uncle never stays away from highmass: go with him to church. But be careful, control yourself. A singleimprudence, one blunder, and I should despise you. Now we must part. Youwill find in Paris a letter from me.'"

  Jacques paused here, looking to read in M. Magloire's face whatimpression his recital had produced so far. But the famous lawyerremained impassive. He sighed, and continued,--

  "I have entered into all these details, Magloire, because I want you toknow what kind of a woman the countess is, so that you may understandher conduct. You see that she did not treat me like a traitor: she hadgiven me fair warning, and shown me the abyss into which I was goingto fall. Alas! so far from being terrified, these dark sides of hercharacter only attracted me the more. I admired her imperious air,her courage, and her prudence, even her total lack of principle, whichcontrasted so strangely with her fear of public opinion. I said tomyself with foolish pride,--

  "'She certainly is a superior woman!'

  "She must have been pleased with my obedience at church; for I managedto check even a slight trembling which seized me when I saw her andbowed to her as she passed so close to me that my hand touched herdress. I obeyed her in other ways also. I asked my uncle for sixthousand francs, and he gave them to me, laughing; for he was the mostgenerous man on earth: but he said at the same time,--

  "'I thought you had not come to Boiscoran merely for the purpose ofexploring the forest of Rochepommier.'

  "This trifling circumstance increased my admiration for the CountessClaudieuse. How well she had foreseen my uncle's astonishment, when Ihad not even dreamed of it!

  "'She has a genius for prudence,' I thought.

  "Yes, indeed she had a genius for it, and a genius for calculation also,as I soon found out. When I reached Paris, I found a letter from herwaiting for me; but it was nothing more than a repetition of all shehad told me at our meeting. This letter was followed by several others,which she begged me to keep for her sake, and which all had a number inthe upper corner.

  "The first time I saw her again, I asked her,--

  "'What are these numbers?'

  "'My dear Jacques,' she replied, 'a woman ought always to know howmany letters she has written to her lover. Up to now, you must have hadnine.'

  "This occurred in May, 1867, at Rochefort, where she had gone to bepresent at the launching of a frigate, and where I had followed her,at her suggestion, with a view to spending a few hours in eachother's company. Like a fool, I laughed at the idea of this epistolaryresponsibility, and then I thought no more of it. I was at that time toobusy otherwise. She had recalled to me the fact that time was passing,in spite of the sadness of our separation, and that the month ofSeptember, the month of her freedom, was drawing near. Should we becompelled again, like the year before, to resort to these perilous tripsto Fontainebleau? Why not get a house in a remote quarter of town?

  "Every wish of hers was an order for me. My uncle's liberality knew noend. I bought a house."

  At last in the midst of all of Jacques's perplexities, there appeared acircumstance which might furnish tangible evidence.

  M. Magloire started, and asked eagerly,--

  "Ah, you bought a house?"

  "Yes, a nice house with a large garden, in Vine Street, Passy."

  "And you own it still?"

  "Yes."

  "Of course you have the title-papers?"

  Jacques looked in despair.

  "Here, again, fate is against me. There is quite a tale connected withthat house."

  The features of the Sauveterre lawyer grew dark again, much quicker thanthey had brightened up just now.

  "Ah!" he said,--"a tale, ah!"

  "I was scarcely of age," resumed Jacques, "when I wanted to purchasethis house. I dreaded difficulties. I was afraid my father might hearof it; in fine, I wanted to be as prudent as the countess was. I asked,therefore, one of my English friends, Sir Francis Burnett, to purchaseit in his name. He agreed; and he handed me, with the necessary bills ofsale, also a paper in which he acknowledged my right as proprietor."

  "But then"--

  "Oh! wait a moment. I did not take these papers to my rooms in myfather's house. I put them into a drawer of a bureau in my house atPassy. When the war broke out, I forgot them. I had left Paris beforethe siege began, you know, being in command of a company of volunteersfrom this department. During the two sieges, my house was successivelyoccupied by the National Guards, the soldiers of the Commune, and theregular troops. When I got back there, I found the four walls piercedwith holes by the shells; but all the furniture had disappeared, andwith it the papers."

  "And Sir Francis Burnett?"

  "He left France at the beginning of the invasion; and I do not knowwhat has become of him. Two friends of his in England, to whom I wrote,replied,--the one that he was probably in Australia; the other that hewas dead."

  "And you have taken no other steps to secure your rights to a piece ofproperty which legally belongs to you?"

  "No, not till now."

  "You mean to say virtually that there is in Paris a house which has noowner, is forgotten by everybody, and unknown even to the tax-gatherer?"

  "I beg your pardon! The taxes have always been regularly paid; and thewhole neighborhood knows that I am the owner. But the individuality isnot the same. I have unceremoniously assumed the identity of my friend.In the eyes of the neighbors, the small dealers near by, the workmen andcontractors whom I have employed, for the servants and the gardener, Iam Sir Francis Burnett. Ask them about Jacques de Boiscoran, and theywill tell you, 'Don't know.' Ask them about Sir Francis Burnett, andthey will answer, 'Oh, very well!' and they will give you my portrait."

  M. Magloire shook his head as if he were not fully convinced.

  "Then," he asked again, "you declare that the Countess Claudieuse hasbeen at this house?"
<
br />   "More than fifty times in three years."

  "If that is so, she must be known there."

  "No."

  "But"--

  "Paris is not like Sauveterre, my dear friend; and people are not solelyoccupied with their neighbors' doings. Vine Street is quite a desertedstreet; and the countess took the greatest precautions in coming andgoing."

  "Well, granted, as far as the outside world is concerned. But within?You must have had somebody to stay in the house and keep it in orderwhen you were away, and to wait upon you when you were there?"

  "I had an English maid-servant."

  "Well, this girl must know the countess?"

  "She has never caught a glimpse of her even."

  "Oh!"

  "When the countess was coming down, or when she was going away, or whenwe wanted to walk in the garden, I sent the girl on some errand. I havesent her as far as Orleans to get rid of her for twenty-four hours. Therest of the time we staid up stairs, and waited upon ourselves."

  Evidently M. Magloire was suffering. He said,--

  "You must be under a mistake. Servants are curious, and to hide fromthem 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. Shemust 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 yourconfidence. Did you never tell him any thing about it?"

  "Never. Only once I sent for him to come to Vine Street when I hadsprained my foot in coming down stairs."

  "So that it is impossible for you to prove that the Countess Claudieuseever came to your house in Passy? You have no evidence of it, and noeye-witness?"

  "I used to have evidence. She had brought a number of small articles forher private use; but they have disappeared during the war."

  "Ah, yes!" said M. Magloire, "always the war! It has to answer for everything."

  Never had any of M. Galpin's examinations been half as painful toJacques de Boiscoran as this series of quick questions, which betrayedsuch distressing incredulity.

  "Did I not tell you, Magloire," he resumed, "that the countess had agenius for prudence? You can easily conceal yourself when you can spendmoney without counting it. Would you blame me for not having any proofsto furnish? Is it not the duty of every man of honor to do all he can tokeep even a shadow of suspicion from her who has confided herself tohis hands? I have done my duty, and whatever may come of it, I shall notregret it. Could I foresee such unheard-of emergencies? Could I foreseethat a day might come when I, Jacques de Boiscoran, should have todenounce the Countess Claudieuse, and should be compelled to look forevidence and witnesses against her?"

  The eminent advocate of Sauveterre looked aside; and, instead ofreplying, he said in a somewhat changed voice,--

  "Go on, Jacques, go on!"

  Jacques de Boiscoran tried to overcome the discouragement whichwell-nigh mastered him, and said,--

  "It was on the 2d September, 1867, that the Countess Claudieuse forthe first time entered this house in Passy, which I had purchased andfurnished 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 uncontrolledindependence. She left her daughter--for she had at that time but onechild--with her mother, the Marchioness de Tassar; and she was free togo and to come as she liked.

  "When she wanted still greater freedom, she went to see her friend inFontainebleau; and every time she did this she secured twenty-four orforty-eight hours over and above the time for the journey. I, for mypart, was as perfectly free from all control. Ostensibly, I had gone toIreland; in reality, I lived in Vine Street.

  "These five weeks passed like a dream; and yet I must confess, theparting was not as painful as might have been supposed. Not that thebright prism was broken; but I always felt humiliated by the necessityof being concealed. I began to be tired of these incessant precautions;and I was quite ready to give up being Sir Francis Burnett, and toresume my identity.

  "We had, besides, promised each other never to remain a month withoutseeing each other, at least for a few hours; and she had invented anumber of expedients by which we could meet without danger.

  "A family misfortune came just then to our assistance. My father'seldest brother, that kind uncle who had furnished me the means topurchase my house in Passy, died, and left me his entire fortune. Asowner of Boiscoran, I could, henceforth, live as much as I chose inthe province; and at all events come there whenever I liked, withoutanybody's inquiring for my reasons."