THE ACCUSED.
Since morning Bruno had remained at home, learning the news as best he
could from different sources, but not daring to go near Catherine for
fear of losing his self-possession.
In his heart he felt that Catherine was implicated. The proposition she
had made him in the walnut grove he was certain Firmin, a little later,
had accepted. He did not know that the valet was wounded, but thus far
free from the charge. At length, a young man from Quarré told him the
truth.
“If it is not Firmin, then who is it?” thought he, with the rest.
Presently the most harrowing news began to come to him from different
persons. Suspicion had now fallen upon Catherine, and the accusations
were multiplying against her. Finally, old Mathieu, in passing Mother
Mathurine’s cottage, shouted out: “It’s a pretty sure thing now against
Catherine. They will guillotine her fast enough.”
Bruno shuddered.
The investigation, then, had so far advanced that the method of
punishment was under discussion. Never until this day had the poor
fellow measured the greatness of his passion. An overmastering fear
came upon him. He could scarcely stand on account of weakness. The
blood rushed madly to his head. Catherine--Catherine accused of
murder! The idea that perhaps she was culpable was a torture to him. He
ran into his own chamber to prevent Mother Mathurine from observing his
condition of mind. Despairing and excited, he threw himself upon the
bed and cried aloud. He was nearly crazed with grief.
“What shall I do?” he wailed. “How can I save her? While I am living
she must not go to prison.”
Yes, but how could he prevent it? Could he fight against the world? Why
not carry her into the dense forest surrounding the town, and there
conceal her? But no, that was not practical. Intuition made him aware
that there was no time to be lost. But what could he do? His mental
anguish was lacerating. Suddenly a noise arrested his ear.
“They cannot enter now,” he exclaimed, springing to the door. But it
was only a cowherd--that was all. Words would fail to describe the
suffering of the motionless Bruno.
“Time passes and I must not be idle,” he remarked, as a thought flashed
through his brain. In a dream, as it were, the little blond head of
Sidonie passed before his eyes, and in a moment he seemed to hear her
voice saying: “But they will take you for an assassin, an accomplice!”
Meanwhile, at the Barrau cottage the proceedings revealed Catherine’s
peculiar attitude in regard to the affair. The justice of the peace had
found it necessary to interrogate her. With fixed eyes and half-open
mouth, she sat as though engrossed in one abstraction. Frequently she
raised her hand to her face, as though to brush away a stain. The
remembrance of that bloody hand was like an avenging fury. Besides,
the presence of Jeannille Marselon, whose look was mesmeric in its
influence, increased her nervousness.
Léocadia Faillot was gossiping as usual.
“She is feigning insanity,” said Léocadia. “See her face.”
There are people who take pleasure in giving pain. Mademoiselle Faillot
belonged to that genus. She derived pleasure in witnessing Catherine’s
misery.
To the questions propounded by the justice, Catherine answered: “I
do not know,” or “Oh, if he were _living_! He is my only judge, my
husband!”
“Fine words, indeed!” exclaimed Léocadia, derisively.
“Do you confess that you were implicated in your husband’s death?”
“No.”
“Do you deny it?”
“No.”
“Ah, ha! I knew she would pretend she had lost her head.”
So malicious did Léocadia look as she made this remark that Sidonie
indignantly reproved her. The little cripple had no reason either for
loving or defending Catherine, but she was too fair-minded not to take
her part when she saw others siding against her with Léocadia.
“You are a wicked woman, Mam’selle Léocadia, a very wicked woman!”
“Well, I am not an invalid or a cripple.”
“Who knows?” rejoined Sidonie.
Mademoiselle Faillot shrugged her shoulders, but continued her abuse.
Meanwhile the crowd began to threaten Catherine with death. Her only
answer was a smile, and that was irritating in the extreme. At length,
the justice decided to arrest her. Just then a young fellow, half
drunk, volunteered his opinion in these words: “It was your Bruno
Volane who dealt the blow for you, I fancy.”
“Bruno Volane,” said the magistrate. “Who is he?”
“Oh, another one of her lovers.”
“Poor fellow,” groaned Catherine.
The justice made inquiries. The crowd, led by Léocadia, demanded that
some one should be selected as the culprit. Bruno, for that purpose,
seemed as good as any one to them.
Monsieur Bérard heard many accusations, and then, after consulting with
Banastre, determined to go to Mother Mathurine’s cottage. A crowd of
people followed, and upon reaching the house they found Bruno in his
room, looking the image of woe.
“He was hiding,” sneered some one.
They conveyed him to the gamekeeper’s house.
“You are accused,” said the justice, “of having killed Savin Barrau.”
At these words a sigh of relief burst from Bruno’s lips.
“Yes, Monsieur, I killed him.”
The moment’s ensuing silence was broken by two voices--Catherine’s and
Sidonie’s.
“It is not true! It is not true!”
But it was the little lame girl who continued: “Do not listen,
Monsieur, do not listen! He is not capable of it, I assure you. The boy
is mad. I will tell you why he accuses himself.”
Sidonie spoke with a nervous volubility. Her timidity had fled;
her love alone remained invincible. Bruno, however, maddened by her
interference, persisted that he was guilty.
“I tell you I _am_ guilty. Be quiet, Sidonie. Why do you defend me?
What do you know about it?”
The justice gazed intently at Bruno. Jeannille Marselon also closely
scrutinized him, and for a moment appeared surprised. The crowd, for
a brief interval stupefied, soon recovered itself, and tongues began
wagging faster than ever.
“What did I tell you?” exclaimed Léocadia and Rosalie.
“I have suspected Bruno all along,” said another.
Banastre did not for an instant turn his eyes away from Bruno’s face.
He was puzzled. It scarcely seemed possible that one with such a frank
and guileless countenance could commit such a heinous crime.
“It must have been one of the two--Firmin or Bruno,” continued Léocadia.
“For Heaven’s sake, be quiet!” cried Sidonie.
“Why should I?” returned Mademoiselle Faillot. “It is you who ought to
go and hide yourself. Perhaps you dare say you love him, eh? He’s a
fine lover.”
“Yes, I do love him. God bless him!” exclaimed Sidonie, with a look of
utter devotion.
“I congratulate you. Unfortunately, however, it is Catherine Barrau
that _he_ loves, and he has done this deed to please _her_.”
“That is a falsehood, you slanderer!”
“You shall pay for this,” snarled Léocadia.
“We shall see,” retorted the lame girl.
“Silence!” shouted Monsieur Bérard, authoritatively. “I cannot permit
such wrangling. Keep still, every one of you, and remember that to
accuse a man of murder may cost you dear.”
“Well, I never saw such a man as that justice,” growled Léocadia.
Monsieur Bérard overheard these words.
“Bring that woman here,” he said to Banastre.
Protesting and crying, she was brought forward. Leading her by the arm,
Banastre placed her before the justice.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Léocadia Faillot.”
“Your age? No lying!”
“Fifty-eight.”
“Married or single?”
“Single.”
“Well, if you adhere to the opinion you expressed this morning, you
formally accuse this young man of assassination.”
“But, Monsieur, I am my own accuser,” declared Bruno.
“Pray, do not say that,” cried Sidonie, touching his arm.
“That is to say, I suppose him to be guilty, since he alone had any
interest in killing the keeper,” averred Léocadia, in answer to the
remark made by the justice.
“So that is your opinion?”
“However,” continued Léocadia, “it is very strange that you refuse to
believe his word when he confesses the deed. Everybody knows that day
before yesterday Bruno and Madame Barrau were seen together in the
walnut grove. Savin said he would teach Bruno a lesson. There is not
a man in the village who does not know of Bruno’s love for Catherine
Barrau. But if I were judge or gendarme it would not be long before I
had them both on the way to Avallon prison.”
“Do you pretend to dictate to me?”
“No, Monsieur, but----”
“Silence!”
Monsieur Bérard turned to Andoche: “Is this true?”
“In the main, yes.”
Sidonie, pale and trembling, at length approached Bruno.
“Why do you say such things, foolish boy? Don’t you see that will not
save her?”
Then going to Catherine the lame girl said: “Come, Madame, you as well
as I have protested that what Bruno declares is not true. But perhaps
you know the murderer. Then speak his name. Oh, tell us, I implore
you! Bruno did not do this foul deed. Oh, no! He has spent his life in
saving others.”
Many who heard Sidonie’s earnest words agreed with her. Catherine, in
turn, made the inquiry: “Was it you, Bruno? No.”
“Yes, Madame, it was I.”
“Do you swear it?”
“I swear it.”
Revolving the past in her mind, Catherine recalled Savin’s blow. The
criminal must be somebody whom Savin thought was sent by his wife, or
he would not have struck at her. And, therefore, Bruno, who had taken
to flight at her proposition, perhaps had reconsidered it and resolved
to carry it out.
“I am a wretched woman,” she said, with a crestfallen look. Presently
she once more withdrew to examine her cheek. It was burning, and she
imagined that the impression of Savin’s fingers was still there.
The justice and Banastre continued in consultation. They were at a loss
as to their duty. In the face of Bruno’s confession, the other evidence
seemed to put upon it a reasonable doubt, but finally they decided to
arrest Bruno. In vain did he protest that he alone was the criminal;
that Catherine was innocent.
“Very well. That the magistrate must decide,” asseverated the Chief of
Police.
For the time being the prisoners were locked up in two rooms in the
house. A guard was placed over them, and then the justice went home
with Monsieur Eugène. The people likewise sought their homes.
It was now eleven o’clock in the morning.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]