Catherine's coquetries

At three o’clock the officers, prisoners, and onlookers arrived at St. Benoit, and the examination soon commenced. It was his first criminal case, and the magistrate began proceedings by questioning everybody right and left in regard to the affair. Jacques Percier related the walnut grove incident. Mademoiselle Faillot was asked her opinion of the mystery, and Andoche was interrogated.

“It is as clear as day,” said the magistrate. The two prisoners were then closely questioned. Bruno confessed that he was guilty of the crime, and Catherine did not deny the statement.

“Nothing plainer,” said the magistrate, at last, to the justice.

“Permit me to say that one thing mystifies me,” returned the justice. “More than one-half the peasants declare the young man innocent.”

“Just so, my dear justice. But nevertheless he is guilty.”

“And the gamekeeper’s wife herself has intimated that we must not believe him.”

“Yes, I know that. But she is driven to an extremity by her love for the unfortunate fellow. That is the most interesting part of the affair.”

“But, on the other hand, Bruno declares that Madame Barrau knows nothing that he did.”

“Of course. They are bent on shielding each other. That proves they are both guilty. Well, we must take them to Avallon.—Banastre, will you see to the conveyance? What time is it now?”

He consulted his watch.

“Ten minutes of four. We must be off in half an hour.”

Banastre went in quest of a vehicle for the prisoners, and the others waited for further developments.

Andoche wondered why the officers did not visit the scene of the murder, and so expressed himself.

“Well, what would they see?” disagreed old Mathieu. “The snow has enveloped everything.”

Twenty minutes later the conveyance was ready, and Banastre entered the court-room with handcuffs. Those who happened to look at Jeannille Marselon at that moment saw a strange agitation written on her features. On seeing the manacles Bruno made a gesture of revolt. The exclamation, “I am innocent,” rose to his lips. Jeannille regarded him with a troubled expression. Then she gazed toward the road leading to Vaumarin, her long fingers moved convulsively. Nervously she directed her steps toward Andoche, the blacksmith.

“I wish to speak to the justice,” she said, simply.

For more than a year Jeannille had not addressed a living person, save Sidonie. Her remark created a sensation.

“Jeannille wants to speak, Jeannille wants to speak,” all cried in concert. Every one eagerly awaited her next words. She must have something decisive to say or she would not open her mouth, they reasoned.

Andoche whispered to the young magistrate, and then Monsieur Bérard explained that “Aunt” Jeannille was a strange woman, who had not spoken aloud for months. Out of curiosity the magistrate decided to let her speak.

“You have something of importance to communicate,” he said to her.

Jeannille looked at him for a moment and then turned her face toward the forest.

“Here comes Jean—L’Ours,” she said.

For a moment they thought she must be mad. But every one was curious. Half the inhabitants of the town, at least, were willing to believe that L’Ours must have been born for the sole purpose of saving Bruno from peril. Consequently to them the arrival of Jean Manant meant but one thing—Bruno should be saved.

A few moments previous to his emerging from the forest L’Ours had awakened Sidonie, and she, now entirely rested, had urged him to go on and let her follow slowly. This he did, and with giant strides he soon came in sight of the conveyance all ready to take to Avallon Bruno, who stood on the doorstep in custody of a gendarme, with an excited crowd around him. In another moment he stood beside Monsieur Bérard, to whom he said: “You must not imprison that man!”

“Why? What have you to say about it?”

“I come to prove to you that Bruno is innocent of this crime, and I am convinced that you will set him at liberty.”

The aspect of Jean Manant was not calculated to gain confidence. His dark, swarthy skin, keen black eyes, and brawny arms did not fascinate the average person. And the magistrate was not prepossessed in his favor.

“Listen,” said L’Ours. “I am not here to make trouble. But I must defend young Bruno. Neither you nor your gendarmes can take him away if I say he shall not go.”

“Insolent——”

“No, I am not insolent, Monsieur. It is the truth. Ask anybody here. Ask Andoche, for instance.”

Andoche, leaning toward Monsieur Bérard, said: “A blow from his fist would prostrate any man here. No one would dare stand up against him.”

“Yes, yes; but what are his intentions?”

“We shall see presently.”

Not considering it necessary to discuss with the justice, L’Ours now turned to Bruno, and putting his hand on the latter’s shoulder, said: “Do you pretend that you killed the gamekeeper?”

“Yes; it was I,” replied Bruno, this time less resolutely.

“Well, my boy, you are lying—that is all.”

“Jean! Leave me!” gasped Bruno.

“No, I will not leave you.” Then to the officers he added: “Messieurs, it will be worth your while to listen to me.”

“Gendarmes, we must enforce the law.”

L’Ours cast upon the young magistrate a look of contempt, but the gendarmes came forward.

“Ah, pardon me! You refuse, then. Very well.”

And he assumed a fearlessly defensive attitude.

“But no!” he exclaimed, an instant afterward. “You represent justice. Then be just. Your duty is to listen. If you refuse to do so, there is no justice in you.”

“Jean,” interrupted Bruno, “I pray you, be silent.”

“Anything but that, my son. You must hear me speak. I ask only five minutes.”

Bruno did not know what Jean meant to say, but he shared in the belief that Jean would save him in spite of himself. He feared that Jean would throw all the responsibility of the crime on Catherine’s shoulders.

“Bruno pretends that he assassinated Monsieur Barrau last night,” pursued Jean Manant.

“Yes, yes,” broke in Bruno, testily.

“Well, then let him reply to three questions that I shall put. At what hour did he commit the crime?”

“At five o’clock in the morning.”

“Very well. With what weapon?”

“With my gun, Monsieur.”

“Very well. In what part of the wood?”

At this question Bruno hesitated. He but vaguely knew from hearsay the spot where Savin had fallen. But, as we have seen, neither he nor any one else but Andoche could have said positively where the crime had been committed. Bruno, who had supposed that merely his confession would be sufficient, did not know at first what to reply. But he did not dare to hesitate long.

“About two hundred feet from here,” he said, with affected calmness.

“You must lead us to the spot.”

“Quite true,” assented the magistrate. “Yes, you must conduct us there.”

The officers had not bothered about going to the spot because the dying man had been found on his own doorsteps. And in this respect they had erred. Everybody at first had regarded Firmin as the assassin, but after Bruno’s confession they concluded that they must have been mistaken. Jean’s questions, however, again shifted the evidence from Bruno to Firmin. Among a few the suspicion occurred that L’Ours had asked Bruno to point out the place in the wood in order to save him. Once in the depths of the forest, he might easily find means to free Bruno from his captors and hide him in safety.

Bruno, resolved not to betray any embarrassment or confusion, answered that he would conduct them to the spot. Thereupon he started for the wood, followed by all, and when he had reached the fork in the road he quickly turned down the path to the right. At this juncture Andoche tapped him on the shoulder, saying: “You need go no farther, Bruno: you are not the man who did this deed.”

“Ah, then you are convinced?” said L’Ours.

“What do you mean?” demanded Bruno, with a ferocious scowl.

“This morning, Monsieur Bérard, when you questioned me,” went on the blacksmith, “I told you that I knew nothing. But now I can affirm that Bruno did not kill Monsieur Savin.”

“Why?”

“Because he does not know where the crime was committed.”

“And do you know?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“This morning after reaching here I followed the traces of blood from Savin’s wound, and finally I came to the place where he received the fatal shot.”

“Andoche speaks in this manner,” sneered Bruno, “because the snow now has obliterated all marks.”

“Well, show us the spot where the bullet was fired,” said Jean Manant.

Going about twenty paces farther, at random, Bruno stopped.

“Here is the spot,” he boldly asserted.

“What stupidity,” muttered Léocadia Faillot to herself. “Why can’t they believe a man when he declares himself guilty? What a set of dunces! If I were the justice, do you think I would listen to that bear of a Manant or that soak of an Andoche?”

“My child,” said a deep voice behind her, “don’t be so positive of that.”

It was Jeannille Marselon who spoke, and this was the third time she had opened her mouth to-day. Léocadia answered her with an insolent smile.

Meanwhile Bruno was requested to recount the circumstances of the murder. Then in truth he faltered, realizing how difficult it was to pass himself off for an assassin. So many wretched beings find it impossible to prove their innocence; and behold, here was a man vainly endeavoring to prove his guilt!

“It would be far easier, my boy, to establish your innocence,” said Jean Manant, ironically.

“Leave me, L’Ours,” returned Bruno, with vehemence. “Do not trouble me any more. Do you think I find it an agreeable duty to confess myself a criminal?”

“You are no criminal.—Am I not right, Sidonie?”

The little cripple answered with a sigh. Her tears made a greater impression upon Bruno than had all the preceding objurgations. The evidence that he was causing her torment, as well as the thought that she was wasting her love on him, stung his feelings. He who could not see a woman or child in danger without rushing to the rescue was now moved by the poor girl’s sorrow. But he soon rallied, and turning he said: “I stood here, and the keeper came from that direction. I took aim——”

Here he paused. Courage failed him. If they had accepted his word and taken him to prison, all would have been well. But to rack his brains to prove his guilt, that was another matter. To devise an infamous scheme to criminate himself before his friends as well as his enemies, that was too much. Speech deserted him.

“Come,” said L’Ours, “you do not know how to finish.—Monsieur Bérard, send a gendarme for Bruno’s gun, and you will see that it did not serve him last night.”

Plagnolles was despatched on the errand. L’Ours turned to the blacksmith.

“Andoche, you will show us where the crime was committed. Come, let us see.”

Whereat the young magistrate exclaimed: “Who is conducting these proceedings?”

“Monsieur, I command no one. Andoche is a friend. I ask him to show me the place.”

“Well.”

“Oh, you are not obliged to come with us. But there is no law to prevent me from going.”

The young magistrate could see that he was losing ground. The case was slipping out of his hands. Besides, L’Ours exerted an influence over the peasants around him. Upon first seeing him they became confident that he would save his protégé. And matters had so developed that he had nearly gained his point. Nearly everybody regarded Jean Manant with a mingled feeling of fear and admiration. He was the soul of justice, and he played a noble part in probing the crime to the depths. Taking Andoche’s arm he begged him to come. The blacksmith led him down the path to the left of the fork in the road, and then about four hundred yards into the forest. There he pointed out the broken and hanging branches which he had discovered in the morning.

“Certainly it is now easy to perceive how the deed was done,” said L’Ours. “The gamekeeper approached from the right, and the assassin stood here——”

Jean in his enthusiasm leaped upon a little snow-bank, as he supposed, but his foot struck against something hard and he slipped. At the same instant a groan as it were from the bowels of the earth was heard. This created a terrible commotion, and some of the spectators in their fear made the sign of the cross. While the others were betraying their alarm, Andoche leaned over the place where the sound was heard. He and Jean together pushed away the snow, and a terrible sight met their gaze. There lay extended upon the ground a man, cold and rigid; while lying on his chest was a huge dog that held him by the throat, his teeth fastened on each side of the windpipe. The strangled man evidently had struggled to free himself, but failing in this he had concentrated his forces in a terrible embrace to throttle his enemy. But the dog was not a coward, and he had preferred to die rather than leave his master unavenged. For the dog was Savin’s brave Patachaud.

The man whom he had killed had not relaxed his hold, and the courageous beast was nearly choked when L’Ours providentially stepped upon the snow-bank.

“Who is it?” cried Sidonie. “Tell us.”

“It is clear that Patachaud has defended his master, and that the dead man was the murderer.”

Andoche tried to cover the dead man’s face, but he was too late. Léocadia Faillot uttered a cry.

It was Fadard.

A profound, stifling silence ensued. All felt that it was the duty of the magistrate to draw deductions. Finally he spoke.

“Is this not the man we questioned this morning?”

“Yes, Monsieur. It is Fadard.”

“He must, then, be the assassin.”

“No!” cried Léocadia, “no, Monsieur. He is a relative of mine. I know him intimately.”

“Nevertheless, the gamekeeper’s dog has choked him to death, to avenge his master.”

“The keeper’s dog,” ranted the woman, “was mad, and threw himself at the neck of my cousin, who was the first person the cur happened to meet.”

While Léocadia was speaking the released Patachaud, once more on his feet, made for the house of his master at a limping pace.

Mademoiselle Faillot continued to defend Fadard with violent energy. With a savage movement she pushed away the blacksmith, and falling on her knees beside the dead man lifted his head on her lap and called him tenderly by name. Every one was astounded at her affectionate demonstrations. A strange tenderness was to be detected in her voice and manner, foreign to Léocadia’s character.

“I am sorry it gives you pain, Mademoiselle,” said Jean Manant, “but he is Monsieur Barrau’s murderer.”

“I tell you he is not,” cried the grief-stricken woman, facing Jean with a glare of hatred.

“I have my revenge sooner than I expected,” said Sidonie, inaudibly.

“The dog must have been mad. My poor Cyprien! And then to have killed Savin, he must have had a weapon,” continued Léocadia. “He had no gun, you see.”

“We must prove that,” said L’Ours. They hunted around in the snow and soon produced a Lefancheux rifle.

“But that is Barrau’s,” urged Mademoiselle Faillot.

“Very likely,” said Jean, again making a search, this time assisted by Banastre among others.

Sidonie was triumphant, and Bruno now dared to hope that Catherine’s innocence would be established as well as his own. Tears of joy sprang to his eyes. All were now searching for the weapon through which Barrau had lost his life. Presently the gendarme Plagnolles returned with Bruno’s gun. It was a primitive weapon, both as to appearance and use, and under the breech the copper cap was covered with verdigris. It was not necessary for a man to be a connoisseur to observe that this weapon had been idle for more than a month.

“The young man has deceived us,” said the magistrate. “This gun has not been used recently.”

“Ah, here it is,” exclaimed Jean Manant, at this juncture, bringing to light another rifle. This was not so old as Bruno’s, but there was nothing modern about it. Jean Manant quickly detected that one of the cartridges was missing. It became more and more evident that Fadard was the guilty man.

“Monsieur Morris extracted the lead from poor Barrau’s chest, this morning,” said Sidonie. “Let us compare its size with that of the cartridges in the gun just found.”

“A good notion, little one,” said Jean, suiting the action to the word. The bullet taken from Savin’s body exactly fitted the cartridge in the barrel of Fadard’s rifle, and his guilt was now fully established.

Léocadia alone attempted to explain the case differently.

“But Savin Barrau forced Firmin to fight with him. Why may he not have pushed Fadard to the wall and made him fire in self-defence?”

“Impossible! Savin was close to the muzzle of the gun that shot him.”

Mademoiselle Faillot reflected for a moment and then scrutinized the oak-tree which had been slightly blazed by the shot.

“Pardon me, but between the point where my cousin stood and this spot there must have been quite a distance. It was dark. The two adversaries may have found themselves all at once in close proximity, and Savin may have hidden behind the bushes. Then——”

As she spoke she shook the tree with a feverish hand, and the snow fluttered down, revealing at the fork of one of the branches a bit of half-burned paper. The magistrate stepped forward and took it.

“It is the other wad,” said Andoche. “See, it exactly corresponds with the one I just took out.”

All was now conclusively proven. The magistrate handed Andoche the two wads, who in turn gave them to Jean Manant to adjust, when Rosalie, who was looking over his shoulder, remarked that the two fragments of paper looked like parts of a letter, and that the handwriting was Léocadia’s.

“Look! There near the burned part it is signed.”

Jean could not resist the temptation to look. Léocadia, having heard Rosalie’s remark, advanced to seize the paper; but Jean, divining her intention, quickly turned it over to the magistrate.

“Monsieur,” he said, “this paper should be seen by you.”

After silently perusing the scrap, the magistrate turned to the wretched woman.

“This man,” said he, pointing to Fadard’s body, “was then your son.”

Léocadia gave one cry of baffled rage, as she stared at the mocking faces of the crowd around her. The reason for her persistent defence was now understood, and her grief was indeed unfeigned.

When it became known that Léocadia was the mother of Fadard, there was great excitement in St. Benoit. She had posed long as a virtuous woman, and always had been the first to cast a stone at her fallen sisters. And now to know that she was a declassée piqued their dull faculties of discernment. Some in their spite seized stones and would have hurled them at her, had not compassion for her grief deterred them. After all, she manifested the possession of a mother’s heart in her bosom. That was, perhaps, her only virtue. And as she prostrated herself by the side of her dead son, they turned away, silent in the presence of such anguish.

On the way back to the cottage traces of blood were found here and there.

“Madame Catherine is innocent at last,” cried Bruno, unable longer to restrain himself, as they neared the house. “Thank God! she is innocent.”

Sidonie heard these words and staggered as though struck to the heart. No word of gratitude for her noble effort to save him crossed his lips. His one thought was for Catherine.