Woman on Her Own, False Gods and The Red Robe Part 78

MOUZON [_rising, rather theatrically, pointing at Etchepare_] Now, Etchepare, that condemns you. I know that you went out that night. When you were arrested you said to your wife, "Don't for the world admit that I went out last night." Come, I must tell you everything. Someone saw you--a servant. She told the gendarmes that as she was saying good-night to a young man from Iholdy, with whom she had been dancing, at ten o'clock at night, she saw you a few hundred yards from your house. What have you to say to that?

ETCHEPARE. It is true--I did go out.

MOUZON [_triumphantly_] Ah! Now, my good man, we've had some trouble in getting you to say something. But I can read it in your face when you are lying--I can read it in your face in letters as big as that. The proof is that there was no witness who saw you go out--neither your servant nor anyone else; and yet I would have sworn to it with my head under the knife. Come, we have made a little progress now. [_To the recorder_] Have you put down carefully his first admission? Good. [_To Etchepare_] Now think for a moment. We will continue our little conversation. [_He goes towards the fireplace, rubbing his hands, pours himself a gla.s.s of spirits, swallows it, gives a sigh of gratification, and returns to his chair_]

FIRST GENDARME [_to his comrade_] A cunning one, he is!

SECOND GENDARME. You're right!

MOUZON. Let us continue. Come, now that you've got so far, confess the whole thing! Here are these good gendarmes who want to go to their grub.

[_The gendarmes, the recorder, and Mouzon laugh_] You confess? No? Then tell me, why did you insist on saying that you remained at home that night?

ETCHEPARE. Because I'd told the gendarmes so and I didn't want to make myself out a liar.

MOUZON. And why did you tell the gendarmes that?

ETCHEPARE. Because I thought they'd arrest me on account of the smuggling.

MOUZON. Good. Then you didn't go to Irissary that night?

ETCHEPARE. No.

MOUZON. Where did you go?

ETCHEPARE. Up the mountain, to look for a horse that had got away the night before, one of a lot we were taking to Spain.

MOUZON. Good. Excellent. That isn't badly thought out--that can be maintained. You went to look for a horse lost on the mountain, a horse which escaped from a lot you were smuggling over the frontier on the previous night. Excellent. If that is true, there is nothing for it but to set you at liberty before we are much older. Now to prove that you've simply to tell me to whom you sold the horse; we shall send for the purchaser, and if he confirms your statement, I will sign your discharge. To whom did you sell the horse?

ETCHEPARE. I didn't sell it.

MOUZON. You gave it away? You did something with it!

ETCHEPARE. No--I didn't find it again.

MOUZON. You didn't find it again! The devil! That's not so good. Come!

Let's think of something else. You didn't go up the mountain all alone?

ETCHEPARE. Yes, all alone.

MOUZON. Bad luck! Another time, you see, you ought to take a companion.

Were you out long?

ETCHEPARE. All night. I got in at five in the morning.

MOUZON. A long time.

ETCHEPARE. We aren't well off, and a horse is worth a lot of money.

MOUZON. Yes. But you didn't spend the whole night on the mountain without meeting someone--shepherds or customs officers?

ETCHEPARE. It was raining in torrents.

MOUZON. Then you met no one?

ETCHEPARE. No one.

MOUZON. I thought as much. [_In a tone of disappointed reproach, with apparent pity_] Tell me, Etchepare, do you take the jurymen for idiots?

[_Silence_] So that's all you've been able to think of? I said you were intelligent just now. I take that back. But think what you've told me--a rigmarole like that. Why, a child of eight would have done better. It's ridiculous I tell you--ridiculous. The jurymen will simply shrug their shoulders when they hear it. A whole night out of doors, in the pouring rain, to look for a horse you don't find--and without meeting a living soul--no shepherds, no customs officers--and you go home at five in the morning--although at this time of the year it's daylight by then--yes, and before then--but no, no one saw you and you saw no one. So everybody was stricken with blindness, eh? A miracle happened, and everyone was blind that night. You don't ask me to believe that? No? Why not? It's quite as probable as what you do tell me. So everybody wasn't blind?

[_The recorder bursts into a laugh; the gendarmes imitate him_] You see what it's worth, your scheme of defence! You make the gaolers and my recorder laugh. Don't you agree with me that your new method of defence is ridiculous?

ETCHEPARE [_abashed, under his breath_] I don't know.

MOUZON. Well, if you don't know, we do! Come now! I have no advice to give you. You repeat that at the trial and see what effect you produce.

But why not confess? Why not confess? I really don't understand your obstinacy. I repeat, I really do not understand it.

ETCHEPARE. Well, if I didn't do it, am I to say all the same that I did?

MOUZON. So you persist in your story of the phantom horse? You persist in it, do you?

ETCHEPARE. How do I know? How should I know what I ought to say? I should do better not to say anything at all--everything I say is turned against me!

MOUZON. Because the stories you invent are altogether too improbable--because you think me more of a fool than I am in thinking that I am going to credit such absurd inventions. I preferred your first method; at least you had two witnesses to speak for you--two witnesses who were not worth very much, it's true, but witnesses all the same.

You've made a change; well, you are within your rights. Let us stick to the lost horse.

ETCHEPARE. Well, then? [_A long pause_]

MOUZON. Come! Out with it!

ETCHEPARE [_without emphasis, hesitation, gazing at the recorder as though to read in his eyes whether he was replying as he should_] Well, I'm going to tell you, Monsieur. You are right--it isn't true--I didn't go up into the mountain. What I said first of all was the truth--I didn't go out at all. Just now I was all muddled. At first I denied everything, even what was true--I was so afraid of you. Then, when you told me--I don't remember what it was--my head's all going like--I don't know--I don't remember--but all the same I know I am innocent. Well, just now, I almost wished I could admit I was guilty if only you'd leave me in peace. What was I saying? I don't remember. Ah, yes--when you told me--whatever it was, I've forgotten--it seemed to me I'd better say I'd gone out--and I told a lie. But [_sincerely_] what I swear to you is that I am not the guilty man. I swear it, I swear it!

MOUZON. I repeat, I ask nothing better than to be able to believe it. So now it's understood, is it, that you were at home?

ETCHEPARE. Yes, Monsieur.

MOUZON. We shall hear your wife directly. You have no other witnesses to call?

ETCHEPARE. No, Monsieur.

MOUZON. Good. Take the accused away--but remain in the Court. I shall probably need him directly for a confrontation. His interrogatory isn't finished.

_The gendarmes lead Etchepare away._

SCENE VIII:--_Mouzon and the recorder._

MOUZON [_to the recorder_] What a rogue, eh? One might have taken him in the act, knife in hand, and he'd say it wasn't true! A crafty fellow too--he defends himself well.

RECORDER. I really thought, at one time, that your wors.h.i.+p had got him.