Firmin had triumphantly established his innocence, and Banastre had said to him, a trifle naïvely: “Ah, well, you can boast of having had a rare escape by so opportunely breaking your leg; otherwise you would now be on the way to Auxerre prison. Everybody was of one mind in accusing you.” “If Firmin is not guilty,” said the justice of the peace, addressing Banastre, as they were proceeding to Savin’s house, “who is? That is the question.” The Chief of Police only replied by a shrug of the shoulders. “Have you received no hints which might put you on the track?” Léocadia Faillot, at that moment, passed by with Rosalie. Monsieur Bérard’s question impressed her. “For my part,” she said to her companion, in a voice sufficiently loud for Banastre and Bérard to hear, “I believe that if Firmin did not kill the gamekeeper, it was not because he did not want to do it.” “Why?” asked Rosalie. “Well, he probably set out for that purpose.” “Take care, Mam’selle Léocadia, somebody might hear you.” “Well, I should like to know what he was doing behind the rocks of Trinquelin at eleven o’clock at night.” “Good heavens, yes!” “He had a gun, and _I_ believe he was lying in wait for the gamekeeper when his leg gave out. I tell you that was it.” “All the same, it has been proven that it could not have been Firmin.” “Very true. But do you suppose that Firmin, who allowed himself to be boxed on the ears once before by Savin, like the coward that he is, would have had the courage to deal this blow unless somebody had goaded him on?” Rosalie lowered her voice considerably: “Do you mean Catherine?” “To be sure.” “Well, I did think so.” “You know she is a D’Angerolles. They say that murder was in the family.” “Born in the blood, I suppose.” “_Mon Dieu!_ yes.” “Do the papers say so?” “Yes, and the books, too. I have read them myself.” “Holy Virgin!” Rosalie was overpowered by this idea, and Monsieur Bérard, though rather disgusted by Léocadia’s manner, nevertheless made a note of it. “That is no proof, however, that she is guilty.” “I do not say that she actually fired the bullet.” “What do you say?” demanded the justice, peremptorily. “I--nothing at all, sir,” responded Léocadia, hurriedly and in surprise. After they reached Barrau’s house Monsieur Bérard began to gaze attentively at the old woman’s face, that is to say, the face of Léocadia Faillot, who with Rosalie had followed the two officials back to the little cottage at the corner of the wood. Léocadia Faillot was fifty-eight years old, but she might easily have been taken to be ten years older; for she belonged to that category of old maids who look as though they never had been young and pretty. Wicked little eyes, a short flat face covered with furrows and wrinkles, a head almost bald, and a long skinny neck were her principal features; while with these her character was in perfect accord. The justice regarded her for some time in silence, and then asked Banastre who she was.