“Certainly,” said M. Seneschal, “M. de Boiscoran’s innocence will be promptly established. Nevertheless, the suspicion will remain. And our people are so constituted, that this suspicion will overshadow his whole life. Twenty years hence, they will meet him, and they will say, ‘Oh, yes! the man who set Valpinson on fire!’” It was not M. Galpin this time who replied, but the commonwealth attorney. He said sadly,-- “I cannot share your views; but that does not matter. After what has passed, our friend, M. Galpin cannot retrace his steps: his duty makes that impossible, and, even more so, what is due to the accused. What would all these people say, who have heard Cocoleu’s deposition, and the evidence given by the witnesses, if the inquiry were stopped? They would certainly say M. de Boiscoran was guilty, but that he was not held responsible because he was rich and noble. Upon my honor I believe him to be innocent. But precisely because this is my conviction, I maintain that his innocence must be clearly established. No doubt he has the means of doing so. When he met Ribot, he told him he was on his way to see somebody at Brechy.” “But suppose he never went there?” objected M. Seneschal. “Suppose he did not see anybody there? Suppose it was only a pretext to satisfy Ribot’s impertinent curiosity?” “Well, then, he would only have to tell the truth in court. And look! Here’s an important proof which almost by itself relieves M. de Boiscoran. Would he not have loaded his gun with a ball, if he should ever have really thought of murdering the count? But it was loaded with nothing but small-shot.” “And he would never have missed me at ten yards’ distance,” said the count. Suddenly somebody was heard knocking furiously at the door. “Come in!” cried M. Seneschal. The door opened and three peasants appeared, looking bewildered, but evidently well pleased. “We have just,” said one of them, “found something curious.” “What?” asked M. Galpin. “It looks very much like a case; but Pitard says it is the paper of a cartridge.” Count Claudieuse raised himself on his pillows, and said eagerly,-- “Let me see! I have during these last days fired several times quite near to the house to frighten the birds away that eat my fruit. I want to see if the paper is mine.” The peasant gave it to him. It was a very thin lead form, such as contain the cartridges used in American breech-loading guns. What was singular was that it was blackened by burnt powder; but it had not been torn, nor had it blazed up in the discharge. It was so perfectly uninjured, that one could read the embossed letters of the name of the manufacturer, Clebb. “That cartridge never belonged to me,” said the count. But as he uttered these words he turned deadly pale, so pale, that his wife came close to him, and looked at him with a glance full of terrible anguish. “Well?” He made no reply.