“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.