their best friends. Ah, sir, what charming people! excellent, and affable, and devoted—”
And at the remembrance of all his friends’ good qualities, M. Courtois choked in his utterance.
“The Count de Tremorel,” he resumed, “was a man of thirty-four years, handsome, witty to the tips of his nails. He had sometimes, however, periods of melancholy, during which he did not wish to see anybody; but he was ordinarily so affable, so polite, so obliging; he knew so well how to be noble without haughtiness, that everybody here esteemed and loved him.”
“And the countess?” asked the judge of instruction.
“An angel, Monsieur, an angel on earth! Poor lady! You will soon see her remains, and surely you would not guess that she has been the queen of the country, by reason of her beauty.”
“Were they rich?”
“Yes; they must have had, together, more than a hundred thousand francs income—oh, yes, much more; for within five or six months the count, who had not the bucolic tastes of poor Sauvresy, sold some lands to buy consols.”
“Have they been married long?”
M. Courtois scratched his head; it was his appeal to memory.
“Faith,” he answered, “it was in September of last year; just six months ago. I married them myself. Poor Sauvresy had been dead a year.”
The judge of instruction looked up from his notes with a surprised air.
“Who is this Sauvresy,” he inquired, “of whom you speak?”
Papa Plantat, who was furiously biting his nails in a corner, apparently a stranger to what was passing, rose abruptly.
“Monsieur Sauvresy,” said he, “was the first husband of Madame de Tremorel. My friend Courtois has omitted this fact.”
“Oh!” said the mayor, in a wounded tone, “it seems to me that under present circumstances—”
“Pardon me,” interrupted the judge. “It is a detail such as may well become valuable, though apparently foreign to the case, and at the first view, insignificant.”
“Hum!” grunted Papa Plantat. “Insignificant—foreign to it!”
His tone was so singular, his air so strange, that M. Domini was struck by it.
“Do you share,” he asked, “the opinion of the mayor regarding the Tremorels?”
Plantat shrugged his shoulders.
“I haven’t any opinions,” he answered: “I live alone—see nobody; don’t disturb myself about anything. But—”
“It seems to me,” said M. Courtois, “that nobody should be better acquainted with people who were my friends than I myself.”
“Then, you are telling the story clumsily,” said M. Plantat, dryly.
The judge of instruction pressed him to explain himself. So M. Plantat, without more ado, to the great scandal of the mayor, who was thus put into the background, proceeded to dilate upon the main features of the count’s and countess’s biography.
“The Countess de Tremorel, nee Bertha Lechaillu, was the daughter of a poor village school-master. At eighteen, her beauty was famous for three leagues around, but as she only had for dowry her great blue eyes and blond ringlets, but few serious lovers presented themselves. Already Bertha, by advice of her family, had resigned herself to take a place as a governess—a sad position for so beautiful a maid—when the heir of one of the richest domains in the neighborhood happened to see her, and fell in love with her.
“Clement Sauvresy was just thirty; he had no longer any family, and possessed nearly a hundred thousand livres income from lands absolutely free of incumbrance. Clearly, he had the best right in the world to choose a wife to his taste. He did not hesitate. He asked for Bertha’s hand, won it, and, a month after, wedded her at mid-day, to the great scandal of the neighboring aristocracy, who went about saying: ’What folly! what good is there in being rich, if it is not to double one’s fortune by a good marriage!’
“Nearly a month before the marriage, Sauvresy set the laborers to work at Valfeuillu, and in no long time had spent, in repairs and furniture, a trifle of thirty thousand crowns. The newly married pair chose this beautiful spot in which to spend their honeymoon. They were so well-contented there that they established themselves permanently at Valfeuillu, to the great satisfaction of the neighborhood.
“Bertha was one of those persons, it seemed, who are born especially to marry millionnaires. Without awkwardness or embarrassment, she passed easily from the humble school-room, where she had assisted her father, to the splendid drawing-room of Valfeuillu. And when she did the honors of her chateau to all the neighboring aristocracy, it seemed as though she had never done anything else. She knew how to remain simple, approachable, modest, all the while that she took the tone of the highest society. She was beloved.”
“But it appears to me,” interrupted the mayor, “that I said the same thing, and it was really not worth while—”
A gesture from M. Domini closed his mouth, and M. Plantat continued:
“Sauvresy was also liked, for he was one of those golden hearts which know not how to suspect evil. He was one of those men with a robust faith, with obstinate illusions, whom doubts never disturb. He was one of those who thoroughly confide in the sincerity of their friends, in the love of their mistresses. This new domestic household ought to be happy; it was so. Bertha adored her husband —that frank man, who, before speaking to her a word of love, offered her his hand. Sauvresy professed for his wife a worship which few thought foolish. They lived in great style at Valfeuillu. They received a great deal. When autumn came all the numerous spare chambers were filled. The turnouts were magnificent.
“Sauvresy had been married two years, when one evening he brought from Paris one of his old and intimate friends, a college comrade of whom he had often spoken, Count Hector de Tremorel. The count intended to remain but a short time at Valfeuillu; but weeks passed and then months, and he still remained. It was not surprising. Hector had passed a very stormy youth, full of debauchery, of clubs, of gambling, and of amours. He had thrown to the winds of his caprices an immense fortune; the relatively calm life of Valfeuillu was a relief. At first people said to him, ’You will soon have enough of the country.’ He smiled, but said nothing. It was then thought, and rightly, perhaps, that having become poor, he cared little to display his ruin before those who had obscured his splendor. He absented himself rarely, and then only to go to Corbeil, almost always on foot. There he frequented the Belle Image hotel, the best in the town, and met, as if by chance, a young lady from Paris. They spent the afternoon together, and separated when the last train left.”
“Peste!” growled the mayor, “for a man who lives alone, who sees nobody, who would not for the world have anything to do with other people’s business, it seems to me our dear Monsieur Plantat is pretty well informed.”
Evidently M. Courtois was jealous. How was it that he, the first personage in the place, had been absolutely ignorant of these meetings? His ill-humor was increasing, when Dr. Gendron answered:
“Pah! all Corbeil prated about that at the time.”
M. Plantat made a movement with his lips as if to say, “I know other things besides.”
