as he was called—was formerly an attorney at Melun. At fifty, Mr. Plantat, whose career had been one of unbroken prosperity, lost in the same month, his wife, whom he adored, and his two sons, charming youths, one eighteen, the other twenty-two years old. These successive losses crushed a man whom thirty years of happiness left without defence against misfortune. For a long time his reason was despaired of. Even the sight of a client, coming to trouble his grief, to recount stupid tales of self-interest, exasperated him. It was not surprising that he sold out his professional effects and good-will at half price. He wished to establish himself at his ease in his grief, with the certainty of not being disturbed in its indulgence.
But the intensity of his mourning diminished, and the ills of idleness came. The justiceship of the peace at Orcival was vacant, and M. Plantat applied for and obtained it. Once installed in this office, he suffered less from ennui. This man, who saw his life drawing to an end, undertook to interest himself in the thousand diverse cases which came before him. He applied to these all the forces of a superior intelligence, the resources of a mind admirably fitted to separate the false from the true among the lies he was forced to hear. He persisted, besides, in living alone, despite the urging of M. Courtois; pretending that society fatigued him, and that an unhappy man is a bore in company.
Misfortune, which modifies characters, for good or bad, had made him, apparently, a great egotist. He declared that he was only interested in the affairs of life as a critic tired of its active scenes. He loved to make a parade of his profound indifference for everything, swearing that a rain of fire descending upon Paris, would not even make him turn his head. To move him seemed impossible. “What’s that to me?” was his invariable exclamation.
Such was the man who, a quarter of an hour after Baptiste’s departure, entered the mayor’s house.
M. Plantat was tall, thin, and nervous. His physiognomy was not striking. His hair was short, his restless eyes seemed always to be seeking something, his very long nose was narrow and sharp. After his affliction, his mouth, formerly well shaped, became deformed; his lower lip had sunk, and gave him a deceptive look of simplicity.
“They tell me,” said he, at the threshold, “that Madame de Tremorel has been murdered.”
“These men here, at least, pretend so,” answered the mayor, who had just reappeared.
M. Courtois was no longer the same man. He had had time to make his toilet a little. His face attempted to express a haughty coldness. He had been reproaching himself for having been wanting in dignity, in showing his grief before the Bertauds. “Nothing ought to agitate a man in my position,” said he to himself. And, being terribly agitated, he forced himself to be calm, cold, and impassible.
M. Plantat was so naturally.
“This is a very sad event,” said he, in a tone which he forced himself to make perfectly disinterested; “but after all, how does it concern us? We must, however, hurry and ascertain whether it is true. I have sent for the brigadier, and he will join us.”
“Let us go,” said M. Courtois; “I have my scarf in my pocket.”
They hastened off. Philippe and his father went first, the young man eager and impatient, the old one sombre and thoughtful. The mayor, at each step, made some exclamation.
“I can’t understand it,” muttered he; “a murder in my commune! a commune where, in the memory of men, no crime has been committed!”
And he directed a suspicious glance toward the two Bertauds. The road which led toward the chateau of M. de Tremorel was an unpleasant one, shut in by walls a dozen feet high. On one side is the park of the Marchioness de Lanascol; on the other the spacious garden of Saint Jouan. The going and coming had taken time; it was nearly eight o’clock when the mayor, the justice, and their guides stopped before the gate of M. de Tremorel.
The mayor rang. The bell was very large; only a small gravelled court of five or six yards separated the gate from the house; nevertheless no one appeared.
The mayor rang more vigorously, then with all his strength; but in vain.
Before the gate of Mme. de Lanascol’s chateau, nearly opposite, a groom was standing, occupied in cleaning and polishing a bridle-bit. “It’s of no use to ring, gentlemen,” said this man; “there’s nobody in the chateau.”
“How! nobody?” asked the mayor, surprised.
“I mean,” said the groom, “that there is no one there but the master and mistress. The servants all went away last evening by the 8.40 train to Paris, to the wedding of the old cook, Madame Denis. They ought to return this morning by the first train. I was invited myself—”
“Great God!” interrupted M. Courtois, “then the count and countess remained alone last night?”
“Entirely alone, Monsieur Mayor.”
“It is horrible!”
M. Plantat seemed to grow impatient during this dialogue. “Come,” said he, “we cannot stay forever at the gate. The gendarmes do not come; let us send for the locksmith.” Philippe was about to hasten off, when, at the end of the road, singing and laughing were heard. Five persons, three women and two men, soon appeared.
“Ah, there are the people of the chateau,” cried the groom, whom this morning visit seemed to annoy, “they ought to have a key.”
The domestics, seeing the group about the gate, became silent and hastened their steps. One of them began to run ahead of the others; it was the count’s valet de chambre.
“These gentlemen perhaps wish to speak to Monsieur the Count?” asked he, having bowed to M. Plantat.
“We have rung five times, as hard as we could,” said the mayor.
“It is surprising,” said the valet de chambre, “the count sleeps very lightly. Perhaps he has gone out.”
“Horror!” cried Philippe. “Both of them have been murdered!” These words shocked the servants, whose gayety announced a reasonable number of healths drunk to the happiness of the newly wedded pair. M. Courtois seemed to be studying the attitude of old Bertaud.
“A murder!” muttered the valet de chambre. “It was for money then; it must have been known—”
“What?” asked the mayor.
“Monsieur the Count received a very large sum yesterday morning.”
“Large! yes,” added a chambermaid. “He had a large package of bank-bills. Madame even said to Monsieur that she should not shut her eyes the whole night, with this immense sum in the house.”
There was a silence; each one looked at the others with a frightened air. M. Courtois reflected.
“At what hour did you leave the chateau last evening?” asked he of the servants.
“At eight o’clock; we had dinner early.”
“You went away all together?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You did not leave each other?”
“Not a minute.”
“And you returned all
