“That is what I think. And the proof of it is, that, as I came along, I
made up my mind I would first get the doctor, and then report the crime
at the police office.”
“Never mind,” said the mayor. “I will do that myself. In ten minutes
I shall see the attorney of the Commonwealth. Now go. Don’t spare your
horse, and tell your mistress that we are all coming after you.”
In his whole official career M. Seneschal had never been so terribly
shocked. He lost his head, just as he did on that unlucky day, when, all
of a sudden, nine hundred militia-men fell upon him, and asked to be
fed and lodged. Without his wife’s help he would never have been able to
dress himself. Still he was ready when his servant returned.
The good fellow had done all he had been told to do, and at that moment
the beat of the drum was heard in the upper part of the town.
“Now, put the horse in,” said M. Seneschal: “let me find the carriage at
the door when I come back.”
In the streets he found all in an uproar. At every window a head popped
out, full of curiosity or terror; on all sides house doors were opened,
and promptly closed again.
“Great God!” he thought, “I hope I shall find Daubigeon at home!” M.
Daubigeon, who had been first in the service of the empire, and then in
the service of the republic, was one of M. Seneschal’s best friends.
He was a man of about forty years, with a cunning look in his eye, a
permanent smile on his face, and a confirmed bachelor, with no small
pride in his consistency. The good people of Sauveterre thought he did
not look stern and solemn enough for his profession. To be sure he was
very highly esteemed; but his optimism was not popular; they reproached
him for being too kind-hearted, too reluctant to press criminals whom he
had to prosecute, and thus prone to encourage evil-doers.
He accused himself of not being inspired with the “holy fire,” and, as
he expressed it in his own way, “of robbing Themis of all the time he
could, to devote it to the friendly Muses.” He was a passionate lover of
fine books, rare editions, costly bindings, and fine illustrations; and
much the larger part of his annual income of about ten thousand francs
went to buying books. A scholar of the old-fashioned type, he professed
boundless admiration for Virgil and Juvenal, but, above all, for Horace,
and proved his devotion by constant quotations.
Roused, like everybody else in the midst of his slumbers, this excellent
man hastened to put on his clothes, when his old housekeeper came in,
quite excited, and told him that M. Seneschal was there, and wanted to
see him.
“Show him in!” he said, “show him in!”