In many of the provinces of France the name of _chateau_ is given to almost any little country-house with a weathercock on its pointed roof. But Boiscoran was a real chateau. It had been built towards the end of the seventeenth century, in wretched taste, but massively, like a fortress. Its position is superb. It is surrounded on all sides by woods and forests; and at the foot of the sloping garden flows a little river, merrily splashing over its pebbly bed, and called the Magpie on account of its perpetual babbling. VII. It was seven o’clock when the carriage containing the justice drove into the courtyard at Boiscoran,--a vast court, planted with lime-trees, and surrounded by farm buildings. The chateau was wide awake. Before her house-door, the farmer’s wife was cleaning the huge caldron in which she had prepared the morning soup; the maids were going and coming; and at the stable a groom was rubbing down with great energy a thorough-bred horse. On the front-steps stood Master Anthony, M. de Boiscoran’s own man, smoking his cigar in the bright sunlight, and overlooking the farm operations. He was a man of nearly fifty, still very active, who had been bequeathed to his new master by his uncle, together with his possessions. He was a widower now; and his daughter was in the marchioness’ service. As he had been born in the family, and never left it afterwards, he looked upon himself as one of them, and saw no difference between his own interests and those of his master. In fact, he was treated less like a servant than like a friend; and he fancied he knew every thing about M. de Boiscoran’s affairs. When he saw the magistrate and the commonwealth attorney come up to the door, he threw away his cigar, came down quickly, and, bowing deeply, said to them with his most engaging smile,-- “Ah, gentlemen! What a pleasant surprise! My master will be delighted.” With strangers, Anthony would not have allowed himself such familiarity, for he was very formal; but he had seen M. Daubigeon more than once at the chateau; and he knew the plans that had been discussed between M. Galpin and his master. Hence he was not a little amazed at the embarrassed stiffness of the two gentlemen, and at the tone of voice in which the magistrate asked him,-- “Has M. de Boiscoran gotten up yet?” “Not yet,” he replied; “and I have orders not to wake him. He came home late last night, and wanted to make up this morning.” Instinctively the magistrate and the attorney looked away, each fearing to meet the other’s eyes. “Ah! M. de Boiscoran came home late last night?” repeated M. Galpin. “Towards midnight, rather after midnight than before.” “And when had he gone out?” “He left here about eight.” “How was he dressed?” “As usually. He had light gray trousers, a shooting-jacket of brown velveteen, and a large straw hat.” “Did he take his gun?” “Yes, sir.” “Do you know where he went?”