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.Iknow 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 ****** truth, excusing himself, however, for having dared to penetrate into the park.
1
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.
It was then nearly three o'clock.M.Plantat remarked that probably no one had eaten anything during the day.Would it not be wise to take something, he suggested, if the investigations were to be pursued till night? This appeal to the trivial necessities of our rail humanity highly displeased the worthy mayor; but the rest readily assented to the suggestion, and M.Courtois, though not in the least hungry, followed the general example.Around the table which was yet wet with the wine spilt by the assassins, the judge, M.Plantat, the mayor, and the doctor sat down, and partook of an improvised collation.