“He is not dead, but there is no hope of saving him,” he said, soberly. Catherine gave one heart-rending shriek and threw herself at the doctor’s feet. “Oh, save him! Save him, I beseech you!” she cried in anguish. “My poor woman, I am powerless. He can live but a few moments.” By this time the gendarmes had entered the yard and were seeking information. “There are only two men capable of killing Barrau,” said one red-haired old gossip who felt it her duty to say something. “Who are they?” “Why, Madame Barrau’s lovers, of course.” “You mean Firmin?” “Yes, and Bruno, too.” “What, young Bruno?” “Why not?” At this moment little Sidonie appeared. From the instant she learned of the crime she had been a prey to tormenting doubts. Bruno’s words on the day of the wedding recurred to her mind. “For her,” he had said, “I would be capable of anything--even of crime.” “Of crime,” repeated the lame girl, who, though she trembled like a leaf, possessed an unshaken love for Bruno. She arrived just in time to hear Bruno accused. A burning desire to defend him filled her soul, but another feeling kept her silent. The moment had not come to take up his defence. When the accusation became formal, then would be her time. The conversation was continued, everybody having a word to say on the subject. “Young Bruno,” said Suzanne the bride, “surely he is too honorable to have dreamed of such a thing. Oh, no!” “That is all very well to say,” returned the red-haired gossip, “but when a man is in love with a coquette, he sometimes comes pretty near being a villain.” “You are an old scandal-monger, Madame Calasse, permit me to say,” broke in Andoche, who had just returned from his tour of investigation. “Well, nobody asked your opinion, sir,” she retorted. “No: I give it unsolicited, and nobody here can prevent me, either.” “You scoundrel!” “You viper!” “Come, come,” interposed Sidonie, indignantly. “Don’t dispute in the presence of death. A poor soul is dying.” “Pooh, little simpleton! You are a great one to talk. You will have enough to do if _you_ stand up for Bruno.” “That is my affair,” replied Sidonie. Just then Barrau made a movement. In a sort of convulsion he turned upon his right side. For a moment the doctor seemed encouraged. “Perhaps he can name his murderer,” said the Chief of Police. “There is no need of that. We all know,” ejaculated one of the women. This statement was greeted with an indecent burst of laughter from Mademoiselle Faillot, who had come into the house, as it seemed, solely for the purpose of destroying by her innuendos the good impression which Catherine had created. But the Chief of Police, Monsieur Banastre, was a loyal, intelligent soldier, and was endowed with a tact rarely found among men. “My good woman,” said he to Rosalie, “it is for _us_ to find out the criminal. You need not play the spy.”