body with a cold and calm eye. He said, simply:
“She is happier than I; she is dead, she suffers no longer; and I, who am not guilty, am accused of her death.”
M. Domini made one more effort.
“Come, Guespin; if in any way you know of this crime, I conjure you, tell me. If you know the murderers, name them. Try to merit some indulgence for your frankness and repentance.”
Guespin made a gesture as if resigned to persecution. “By all that is most sacred,” he answered, “I am innocent. Yet I see clearly that if the murderer is not found, I am lost.”
Little by little M. Domini’s conviction was formed and confirmed. An inquest of this sort is not so difficult as may be imagined. The difficulty is to seize at the beginning; in the entangled skein, the main thread, which must lead to the truth through all the mazes, the ruses, silence, falsehoods of the guilty. M. Domini was certain that he held this precious thread. Having one of the assassins, he knew well that he would secure the others. Our prisons, where good soup is eaten, and good beds are provided, have tongues, as well as the dungeons of the medieval ages.
The judge ordered the brigadier to arrest Guespin, and told him not to lose sight of him. He then sent for old Bertaud. This worthy personage was not one of the people who worry themselves. He had had so many affairs with the men of law, that one inquisition the more disturbed him little.
“This man has a bad reputation in my commune,” whispered the mayor to M. Domini.
Bertaud heard it, however, and smiled.
Questioned by the judge of instruction, he recounted very clearly and exactly what had happened in the morning, his resistance, and his son’s determination. He explained the reason for the falsehood they told; and here again the chapter of antecedents came up.
“Look here; I’m better than my reputation, after all,” said he. “There are many folks who can’t say as much. You see many things when you go about at night—enough.”
He was urged to explain his allusions, but in vain.
When he was asked where and how he had passed the night, he answered, that having left the cabaret at ten o’clock, he went to put down some traps in Mauprevoir wood; and had gone home and to bed about one o’clock.
“By the bye,” added he, “there ought to be some game in those traps by this time.”
“Can you bring a witness to prove that you went home at one?” asked the mayor, who bethought him of the count’s clock, stopped at twenty minutes past three.
“Don’t know, I’m sure,” carelessly responded the poacher, “it’s quite likely that my son didn’t wake up when I went to bed.”
He added, seeing the judge reflect:
“I suspect that you are going to imprison me until the murderers are discovered. If it was winter, I wouldn’t complain much; a fellow is well off in prison then, for it’s warm there. But just at the time for hunting, it’s provoking. It will be a good lesson for that Philippe; it’ll teach him what it costs to render a service to gentlefolks.”
“Enough!” interrupted M. Domini, sternly. “Do you know Guespin?”
This name suddenly subdued the careless insolence of the marauder; his little gray eyes experienced a singular restlessness.
“Certainly,” he answered in an embarrassed tone, “we have often made a party at cards, you understand, while sipping our ‘gloria.’"*
[* Coffee and brandy.]
The man’s inquietude struck the four who heard him. Plantat, especially, betrayed profound surprise. The old vagabond was too shrewd not to perceive the effect which he produced.
“Faith, so much the worse!” cried he: “I’ll tell you everything. Every man for himself, isn’t it? If Guespin has done the deed, it will not blacken him any more, nor make him any the worse off. I know him, simply because he used to sell me the grapes and strawberries from the count’s conservatories; I suppose he stole them; we divided the money, and I left.”
Plantat could not refrain from an exclamation of satisfaction, as if to say, “Good luck! I knew it well enough!”
When he said he would be sent to prison, Bertaud was not wrong. The judge ordered his arrest.
It was now Philippe’s turn.
The poor fellow was in a pitiable state; he was crying bitterly.
“To accuse me of such a crime, me!” he kept repeating.
On being questioned he told the pure and simple truth, excusing himself, however, for having dared to penetrate into the park. When he was asked at what hour his father reached home, he said he knew nothing about it; he had gone to bed about nine, and had not awoke until morning. He knew Guespin, from having seen him at his father’s several times. He knew that the old man had some transactions with the gardener, but he was ignorant as to what they were. He had never spoken four times to Guespin. The judge ordered Philippe to be set at liberty, not that he was wholly convinced of his innocence, but because if the crime had been committed by several persons, it was well to have one of them free; he could be watched, and he would betray the whereabouts of the rest.
Meanwhile the count’s body was nowhere to be found. The park had been rigidly searched, but in vain. The mayor suggested that he had been thrown into the river, which was also M. Domini’s opinion; and some fishermen were sent to drag the Seine, commencing their search a little above the place where the countess was found.
Chapter V
The staircase had been put under guard, but the vestibule had remained free. People were heard coming and going, tramping and coughing; then rising above this continuous noise, the oaths of the gendarmes trying to keep back the crowd. From time to time, a scared face passed by the dining-room door, which was ajar. These were curious folks who, more daring than the rest, wished to see the “men of justice” eating, and tried to hear a word or two, to report them, and so become important in the eyes of the others. But the “men of justice”—as they said at Orcival—took care to say nothing of moment while the doors were open, and while a servant was passing to and fro. Greatly moved by this frightful crime, disturbed by the mystery which surrounded it, they hid their impressions. Each, on his part, studied the probability of his suspicions, and kept his opinion to himself.
M. Domini, as he ate, put his notes in order, numbering the leaves, marking certain peculiarly significant answers of the suspected persons with a cross. He was, perhaps, the least tormented of the four companions at this funereal repast. The crime did not seem to him one of those which keep judges of instruction sleepless through the night; he saw clearly the motive of it; and he had Bertaud and Guespin, two of the assassins, or at least accomplices, secure.
M. Plantat and Dr. Gendron, seated next each other, were talking of the illness which carried off Sauvresy. M. Courtois listened to the hubbub without.
The news of the double murder was soon noised about the neighborhood, and the crowd increased every minute. It filled the court, and became bolder and bolder; the gendarmes were overwhelmed. Then or never was the time for the mayor to show his authority. “I am going to make these people listen to reason,” said he, “and make them retire.” And at once, wiping his mouth, he threw his tumbled napkin on the table, and went out.
It was time. The brigadier’s injunctions were no longer heeded. Some curious people, more eager than the rest, had flanked the position and were forcing an entrance through the gate leading to the garden. The mayor’s presence did not perhaps intimidate the crowd much, but it redoubled the energy of the gendarmes; the vestibule was cleared, amid murmurings against the arm of the law. What a chance for a speech! M. Courtois was not wanting to the occasion. He believed that his eloquence,