WHO IS GUILTY?
As soon as Savin’s death was announced, Bruno resolved at once to keep
away from the house. From the fact that he would be forced, perhaps, to
exchange glances with Catherine, he feared lest he might involuntarily
accuse her of the deed by a facial tremor or an uncontrollable gesture.
But the suspense of waiting for the news at home was maddening. His
imagination caused him to suffer the greatest anxiety, and the poor
fellow started at every sound, expecting to see Catherine led away by
the gendarmes, followed by a mob of curiosity-seekers and mockers. A
tender pity filled his heart. What could he do to save her? That was
his one thought as he stood by the window.
He remembered having read in the journals how under such circumstances
the mob sometimes tried to stone the prisoner. At this idea the blood
leaped to his face and his look became savage. To run madly to her
assistance was the one wish of his heart, but reason checked him. And
then, how could he forsake Mother Mathurine?
Soon, however, he saw the gendarmes take the road leading to his
cottage. They knew of his love for Madame Barrau. Perhaps he was
suspected and would be arrested. Cold beads of perspiration stood
on his forehead, but he nevertheless experienced a sense of joy. To
sacrifice himself for Catherine was perhaps the only manner in which
he could prove his love--a joy truly, but a joy half stifled by a
revulsion of horror. Such infamy was unworthy of him.
At this moment old Jeannille Marselon, his neighbor, appeared solemnly
upon the doorstep. With closed lips, crossed hands, and stern eyes she
stood watching the agents of justice as they approached. Then she fixed
her melancholy eyes on Bruno. Nothing was more embarrassing than a
penetrating glance from the eye of old Jeannille. Bruno felt his lids
contract a little under the intense look she gave him, and he could
well understand how he would be trembling now had he been guilty of the
crime. She lingered for a moment, and then with a steady gait started
to join the little procession, which had stopped in front of Firmin’s
cottage.
Upon discovering that suspicion had fallen upon the valet a strange
feeling of disappointment took possession of Bruno. In a burst of
jealousy he reproached himself for not having attracted the suspicion
of which Firmin was the object.
“He dared to do it, and yet he does not love her as I do. I would die
for her,” he inwardly said. A consuming, all-absorbing passion, indeed,
must have ruled him, that his mind should entertain such reflections.
But how little reason was there for jealousy!
The gendarmes did not find Firmin at his house, but they were not
surprised. A murderer who, after the deed was done, would quietly
remain in his house to be arrested, would be a simpleton. Nevertheless,
the crowd was disappointed.
Banastre was about to send Plagnolles to Quarré to telegraph to
Avallon, when a little band of men halted in front of the house. Four
stalwart fellows were carrying upon a stretcher the body of a man. A
cry of surprise was uttered by more than one spectator, for the wounded
man was none other than Firmin himself. And in what a state!
His muscles were drawn up in pain, and his face was the picture of
defiant suffering. A clamor of voices arose.
“It is he!” cried the bystanders.
Banastre and Plagnolles at once established order, and Firmin was
placed in the lower hall of his house.
What could have happened? How had Firmin been found, and how had he
been wounded? All sorts of guesses were made by the curious crowd, and
some most unreasonable ideas were suggested. Rosalie, as usual, had her
say.
“Of course, Barrau defended himself, and Firmin must have received a
blow in the legs or stomach,” she observed. Upon the same theme others
expatiated.
“Or else,” put in Mathieu, “Firmin was ashamed of his cowardice day
before yesterday, and, as it was moonlight, he proposed to fight it
out, as Savin wished.”
“That must be it,” said Nicolas. “Savin was killed and Firmin is
wounded.”
“Oh, but that is not half so interesting,” protested the heartless
Rosalie.
“Cruel frog,” exclaimed Andoche, doubtless thinking that a more
insulting epithet than that of an aquatic animal could not be
conceived--he himself being so averse to water.
“But no,” said a young fellow of sixteen, “Felicien Collas says he has
not been shot.”
“What is the matter, then?”
“His leg is broken.”
“How did that happen?” inquired Mathieu, vexed that he had not guessed
aright.
“How? How? Go and ask Cremailly of Trinquelin.”
Cremailly was the proprietor of a mill, and just now he held the
attention of the listeners. Under the calm but piercing gaze of
Jeannille Marselon he related how Firmin had broken his leg under
conditions and at a moment when he could not be accused of murder.
“Well, tell us all you know about it,” urged Rosalie.
“Last evening at a quarter to eleven I opened the sluice for the night,
and was going to bed, when I heard a noise at the door.”
“’Twas Firmin, eh?” interrupted Mathieu.
“Wait a moment. Don’t be in such a rush. At first I felt too frightened
to go to see who it was, but----”
“I believe you,” cried Andoche, rudely interrupting him. “Well, go on.”
“Well, soon I heard my name called.”
“That reassured you.”
“A little, but not much. It was my wife Charlotte----”
“Ah! We all know she isn’t afraid of any man.”
“No, not she. She said, ‘Go and see who it is, goose, or I will get up
and go myself.’”
“Then you decided to open the door, of course.”
“Not quite yet; but Charlotte was just about getting up, so----”
“You are a brave and noble fellow, Cremailly. Accept my compliments,”
again interrupted Andoche.
“For what?”
“I will tell you on the day of my wedding.”
“But you are married now.”
“Well, well, stupid, what did your wife do?”
“Oh, she got to the door first and found Firmin lying on the ground
with a broken leg.”
“How did it happen?”
“I do not know. Charlotte asked him how he came there. You know the
mountain, in that locality, slopes to the river. Well, he pretends he
tumbled down from above.”
“That is a curious explanation.”
“But I have an idea,” continued Cremailly, in suppressed tones, “that
the scamp was surprised by some luckless husband--you know he is a
wheedler--and was obliged to save himself by jumping out of some
window.”
“Yes, but whose window?”
“That I do not know. But as he was found by our door, it could not have
been far from us.”
“Charlotte could guess better, perhaps, than you.”
“Maybe, women are so quick.”
“Did he have a gun?”
“Firmin? Yes, it laid at his side.”
“Was it loaded, do you know?”
“Yes, two cartridges.”
“Well, then it could not have been Firmin who killed the gamekeeper,”
said Andoche.
At the same moment Monsieur Banastre, after interrogating the wounded
man, the bearers of the stretcher and Madame Cremailly, came to the
same conclusion. Some seven or eight inhabitants of Trinquelin who had
just arrived gave the same evidence as the mill owner. If the valet’s
limb was fractured at eleven o’clock in the evening, he certainly could
not have fired the bullet which killed Barrau at four o’clock on the
succeeding morning.
Being summoned, Dr. Morris declared and demonstrated, without any
hesitation, that the accident must have taken place on the previous
evening. And so Firmin was declared innocent, absolutely innocent, and
was no longer of special interest to the crowd.
Thus evidently thought Jeannille Marselon, for no sooner had the doctor
spoken than she left, without having opened her mouth. Curiosity led
her to Barrau’s house, where the attention of the gendarmes would now
probably be directed. The crowd there was still great, for nearly
every moment some new-comer appeared, and although a large number had
followed the gendarmes to Firmin’s house, yet there was no lack of
people about poor Catherine’s. Jeannille Marselon, with that tranquil
and patient manner of people who act without speaking, glided quietly
into the room and took her place in the front rank of spectators.
Apparently it was of interest to her to see; for when she approached
the body she arranged her dress, adjusted her cap, and took up her
position with her penetrating gaze fixed upon Savin’s face. Then she
studied Catherine’s countenance, which was troubled and remorseful.
At first, Catherine did not notice Jeannille, but in a few minutes she
raised her eyes and perceived the stern, silent old woman watching her.
A vague uneasiness seized her. While the woman scanned her countenance,
Catherine dropped her eyes. Again something constrained her to look
up. The same steady gaze met her eyes. It was insufferable. She rose,
advanced a few steps, and then turned her back upon the woman, but
she still felt that awful look penetrating her inward self. She could
endure it no longer. A vivid red mounted to her forehead, and she in
turn gazed into Jeannille’s eyes defiantly. But only for an instant.
She put her hand to her cheek. The remembrance of the five bloody
fingers made her start aghast. Could it be that the tell-tale marks
were still upon her face? Terror chilled the blood in her veins. The
flesh seemed to burn in her cheek. It must be--the marks remained
visible. That hand! that dreadful hand! Oh, how could she escape it?
She covered her face with her hand. The illusion grew so strong she
fancied she felt the warm blood oozing through her fingers. A desolate
cry escaped her lips. “I am lost,” she inwardly cried. “I am lost, and
those people are torturing me! That hand! that hand!”
She examined the faces surrounding her. No; all looked kindly and
sympathetic. Jeannille alone remained unfathomable--her terrible eyes
fixed upon Catherine’s features. Unable to bear it, Catherine ascended
the stairs and rushed to the mirror. Nothing! The skin was fair as
ever. Not a trace of blood was there.
Descending she again kneeled by her husband’s body, but her own was
shaken by convulsions. She concealed her cheek with her hand, as though
afraid the blood-stains would again become visible. Soon the gendarmes
reappeared, this time accompanied by the justice of the peace, Monsieur
Bérard.
Firmin had triumphantly established his innocence, and Banastre had
said to him, a trifle naïvely: “Ah, well, you can boast of having had a
rare escape by so opportunely breaking your leg; otherwise you would
now be on the way to Auxerre prison. Everybody was of one mind in
accusing you.”
“If Firmin is not guilty,” said the justice of the peace, addressing
Banastre, as they were proceeding to Savin’s house, “who is? That is
the question.”
The Chief of Police only replied by a shrug of the shoulders.
“Have you received no hints which might put you on the track?”
Léocadia Faillot, at that moment, passed by with Rosalie. Monsieur
Bérard’s question impressed her.
“For my part,” she said to her companion, in a voice sufficiently loud
for Banastre and Bérard to hear, “I believe that if Firmin did not kill
the gamekeeper, it was not because he did not want to do it.”
“Why?” asked Rosalie.
“Well, he probably set out for that purpose.”
“Take care, Mam’selle Léocadia, somebody might hear you.”
“Well, I should like to know what he was doing behind the rocks of
Trinquelin at eleven o’clock at night.”
“Good heavens, yes!”
“He had a gun, and _I_ believe he was lying in wait for the gamekeeper
when his leg gave out. I tell you that was it.”
“All the same, it has been proven that it could not have been Firmin.”
“Very true. But do you suppose that Firmin, who allowed himself to be
boxed on the ears once before by Savin, like the coward that he is,
would have had the courage to deal this blow unless somebody had goaded
him on?”
Rosalie lowered her voice considerably: “Do you mean Catherine?”
“To be sure.”
“Well, I did think so.”
“You know she is a D’Angerolles. They say that murder was in the
family.”
“Born in the blood, I suppose.”
“_Mon Dieu!_ yes.”
“Do the papers say so?”
“Yes, and the books, too. I have read them myself.”
“Holy Virgin!”
Rosalie was overpowered by this idea, and Monsieur Bérard, though
rather disgusted by Léocadia’s manner, nevertheless made a note of it.
“That is no proof, however, that she is guilty.”
“I do not say that she actually fired the bullet.”
“What do you say?” demanded the justice, peremptorily.
“I--nothing at all, sir,” responded Léocadia, hurriedly and in surprise.
After they reached Barrau’s house Monsieur Bérard began to gaze
attentively at the old woman’s face, that is to say, the face of
Léocadia Faillot, who with Rosalie had followed the two officials back
to the little cottage at the corner of the wood.
Léocadia Faillot was fifty-eight years old, but she might easily have
been taken to be ten years older; for she belonged to that category
of old maids who look as though they never had been young and pretty.
Wicked little eyes, a short flat face covered with furrows and
wrinkles, a head almost bald, and a long skinny neck were her principal
features; while with these her character was in perfect accord.
The justice regarded her for some time in silence, and then asked
Banastre who she was.
“Her name is Mademoiselle Faillot.”
“Ah, and what sort of a person is she?”
“I do not know exactly, but there are plenty who do. I would recommend
you, among others, to go to a certain Andoche Grignon, a blacksmith by
trade. He is generally drunk; but when he is sober, as he is to-day, he
is not wanting in good sense.”
“You must point him out.”
While these words were being exchanged Léocadia was circulating the
report that most likely Catherine would be arrested before long.
“Any one must be blind,” said she, “not to see that she is guilty. The
other person who committed the deed was but the instrument. She planned
it, you may be sure.”
Everybody knew that Léocadia hated the Barraus. Especially against
Savin she had cherished an irrepressible hatred. Now he was dead,
and the sum total of her hatred fell upon Catherine. If Léocadia was
possessed of a peculiar physiognomy, her moral qualities were equally
peculiar. By all she was considered an evil genius. Unmarried and
unloved, she had for more than a quarter of a century stirred up strife
among the villagers whenever occasion permitted. It seemed as though
she were the very incarnation of discord. Turning hot or cold according
to will, she influenced the mayor against the curate, the curate
against the community, the community against the bishopric. Malicious,
hypocritical, and treacherous, she was one day at peace and the next
day at war with her neighbors. Evilly disposed and disagreeable, she
yet practised a sort of ostensible good will, which led people to say:
“Well, perhaps she is like the devil--not so black as she’s painted.”
In the present case, as in all others, she put herself to the front
because it was her nature to embroil her acquaintances in rows.
Whenever any such occasion as this one presented itself, she had always
pushed herself into prominence. She was always ready to advise strange
things, and many feared her as a dangerous woman. By her insinuations
she hoped to secure Catherine’s arrest.
The examining magistrate would demand her presence at Auxerre, and, in
her own mind, she would be regarded as of great importance. Moreover,
Catherine d’Angerolles was too handsome to come out of this affair
unscathed. According to Léocadia, it would require a volume to relate
Catherine’s coquetries; and as she was the daughter of an assassin, and
had lived unhappily with her husband immediately prior to his death,
was it not reasonable to implicate her? And, in any event, Catherine
should suffer if Léocadia could bring it about. And so in less than
an hour Mademoiselle Faillot had persuaded nearly every one into her
way of thinking; and Catherine, the daughter of D’Angerolles, and not
universally popular, was but feebly defended.
“If Firmin had been unable to prove an alibi, she most likely would
have been arrested with him,” declared Léocadia.
“But,” returned Father Collas, with a sensible exhibition of
incredulity, “Monsieur Barrau having been a gamekeeper, it is more than
possible that a poacher----”
“A poacher?” interrupted Léocadia. “Who? Do you know any one in this
community capable of such a misdemeanor? Pray enlighten us.”
This outburst of taunting opposition prompted Father Collas to beat a
hasty retreat, and no one seemed equal to the task of answering it.
All sorts of reports concerning Catherine were voiced abroad, and alas!
how few were her defenders. Like a flock of sheep the majority followed
their leader, and accordingly, when Monsieur Bérard questioned some of
them, they echoed Léocadia’s opinions.
One man, however, had the courage of his own convictions, and that man
was Andoche Grignon, the blacksmith.
“Monsieur Bérard, I cannot say anything about it,” said he.
“Why?”
“Because I do not know any more than the rest.”
“Still you know that Madame Barrau has been a coquette; that she has
flirted a good deal.”
“That is to say, she has been fond of amusing herself, yes. But I have
known a great many women given to coquetry, and yet who would go no
further.”
“So you believe the woman is innocent?”
“No, sir, I do not say so, but simply that I believe nothing.”
“You have no opinion to give, then. Well, you must admit that she lived
at enmity with her husband for five months.”
“That is no proof. Here I have lived for seven years unhappily with my
wife--Madame Grignon. She is no angel either. But she never killed me.”
“Well, one thing is certain: Savin Barrau has been murdered.”
“Yes; and this morning, had you asked my opinion, I should not have
hesitated to accuse Firmin. And you see I would have been wrong. At
all events, Madame Barrau did not pull the trigger.”
“I agree with you.”
“But who did?” pursued Andoche, meditatively.
“Do you know Léocadia Faillot, by the way?”
“The universal legatee? Oh, yes.”
“Why do you call her that?”
“It is a title I have given her, because she inherits something from
everybody.”
“What do you think of her?”
“Between ourselves, she is a meddlesome old woman.”
“In what way?”
“When a good man or woman in the village is about to die, Mademoiselle
Faillot always appears upon the scene, and makes herself so useful that
the poor dying one offers her some token of appreciation, which she
accepts, and the moment all is over her tongue begins to wag as usual,
maligning the dead as well as the living.”
Monsieur Bérard smiled.
“So I call her the universal legatee. For the last twenty-five years
she has performed ministrations for the dying. In this way she has
earned her living, and to-day, were it not for Fadard, she would be a
rich woman.”
“Fadard? Who is he?”
“You must know him. The young man who looks like an old man.”
“Oh, yes, I know him. Is he here?”
“No, I have not seen him to-day.”
“Is he a relative of Mademoiselle Faillot?”
“Her cousin, so she says,” replied Andoche, with a funny little
gesture.
“How old is he, do you suppose?”
“That is a question which the Lord only knows how to answer.”
“Mademoiselle Faillot just now vehemently accused Catherine Barrau.”
“Oh, she would accuse her own father, were he living, rather than keep
silent. You will see that in less than forty-eight hours she will have
the whole town in an uproar.”
“How so?”
“She will try to establish two warring factions. That is her plan of
attack, and she never fails to accomplish her purpose. I tell you she
is a venomous creature.”
Andoche was right. Already in the Barraus’ yard two parties had
been formed. One accused Catherine, and the other, composed of less
adherents, proclaimed her innocence. Among those who were ready to
defend Catherine were brave little Sidonie, Suzanne the young bride,
and her stupid liege, Monsieur Eugène, who gave no little weight to the
cause, and some peasants of less importance.
Discussions were heard on every hand.
The justice of the peace did not dare to take sides, but it was evident
from the first that the daughter of D’Angerolles would be arrested, and
compelled, if possible, to reveal the name of her accomplice.
So matters stood, when all at once an incident occurred which changed
the whole aspect of affairs.
[Illustration]