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,—