“But,” returned Father Collas, with a sensible exhibition of incredulity, “Monsieur Barrau having been a gamekeeper, it is more than possible that a poacher----” “A poacher?” interrupted Léocadia. “Who? Do you know any one in this community capable of such a misdemeanor? Pray enlighten us.” This outburst of taunting opposition prompted Father Collas to beat a hasty retreat, and no one seemed equal to the task of answering it. All sorts of reports concerning Catherine were voiced abroad, and alas! how few were her defenders. Like a flock of sheep the majority followed their leader, and accordingly, when Monsieur Bérard questioned some of them, they echoed Léocadia’s opinions. One man, however, had the courage of his own convictions, and that man was Andoche Grignon, the blacksmith. “Monsieur Bérard, I cannot say anything about it,” said he. “Why?” “Because I do not know any more than the rest.” “Still you know that Madame Barrau has been a coquette; that she has flirted a good deal.” “That is to say, she has been fond of amusing herself, yes. But I have known a great many women given to coquetry, and yet who would go no further.” “So you believe the woman is innocent?” “No, sir, I do not say so, but simply that I believe nothing.” “You have no opinion to give, then. Well, you must admit that she lived at enmity with her husband for five months.” “That is no proof. Here I have lived for seven years unhappily with my wife--Madame Grignon. She is no angel either. But she never killed me.” “Well, one thing is certain: Savin Barrau has been murdered.” “Yes; and this morning, had you asked my opinion, I should not have hesitated to accuse Firmin. And you see I would have been wrong. At all events, Madame Barrau did not pull the trigger.” “I agree with you.” “But who did?” pursued Andoche, meditatively. “Do you know Léocadia Faillot, by the way?” “The universal legatee? Oh, yes.” “Why do you call her that?” “It is a title I have given her, because she inherits something from everybody.” “What do you think of her?” “Between ourselves, she is a meddlesome old woman.” “In what way?” “When a good man or woman in the village is about to die, Mademoiselle Faillot always appears upon the scene, and makes herself so useful that the poor dying one offers her some token of appreciation, which she accepts, and the moment all is over her tongue begins to wag as usual, maligning the dead as well as the living.” Monsieur Bérard smiled. “So I call her the universal legatee. For the last twenty-five years she has performed ministrations for the dying. In this way she has earned her living, and to-day, were it not for Fadard, she would be a rich woman.” “Fadard? Who is he?” “You must know him. The young man who looks like an old man.” “Oh, yes, I know him. Is he here?” “No, I have not seen him to-day.” “Is he a relative of Mademoiselle Faillot?” “Her cousin, so she says,” replied Andoche, with a funny little gesture.