child’s nurse, and the man-servant or butler of M. Vilby: on the third storey and in the attics, a banker’s head-clerk, with his wife, her maid, and three young children—a journalist, a painter, and an actor, living together—a single young man, of no profession, (though calling himself a poet), supposed subject to harmless fits of lunacy, inhabiting an attic where he was known frequently to lock himself in. Of these there had perished—the old proprietor himself, M. Canrobert, in whose apartment the fire was supposed to have originated, since he warmed himself only in bed, while supping alone, by candle-light—and the portress, whose husband, luckily for him, had chanced to be absent on business of his master’s,—the remains of both being still distinguishable if only from the place of their discovery: the English lady, Madame Vilby—her infant, at first supposed to have been the one saved by the nurse, but found afterwards to have perished in her embrace, although the charred and mingled debris of the whole upper storeys fallen from above rendered it difficult to distinguish one mass of human substance from another: the man-servant of the English gentleman, at one time imagined identical with the person so active on the wall;—also others, above, who were enumerated. Then succeeded the depositions of the various individuals in evidence. “‘_Victorine Tronchet_, fille-de-chambre to the late Madame Vilby, declared, that before ten o’clock her mistress signified an intention to sit up for monsieur, who had gone to a theatre at some distance, and that she might retire. Retired to bed, accordingly, in a closet adjoining the nurse’s room—saw the nurse, as she thought, carry out the child as usual to her mistress—imagined, while half asleep, or dreamt, that her mistress herself afterwards passed through the room, stooped over the bed with the child in her arms, and disappeared. But knew nothing further until awoke by the suffocating vapours. Could read—but did not sit up in bed with a candle, perusing romances. There was a lamp always burning on the floor of the nurse’s room. Was not aware, that night, of the nurse having her own child in the house. Believed her mistress to be ignorant of it. Could not tell why her mistress did not herself suckle the child—knew nothing of such affairs. Did not know that Madame’s voice had been brilliant—had heard her mistress sing to a musical instrument, when M. Vilby was at home. M. Vilby had returned home that day, unexpectedly, from England. He went to the theatre, accompanied only by M. Adolphe, his servant—perhaps because Madame had a headache. They used frequently to go to the theatre. Had heard that a new actress of celebrity would perform. The man-servant, M. Adolphe, returned early with some message to Madame, and retired up the outside stairs to his attic at the top of the house.’”