“That may be.” “And has he never mentioned the lady again?” “Never.” At this moment M. de Chandore’s cough was heard in the hall,--that cough which men affect when they wish to announce their coming. Immediately afterwards he reappeared; and M. Folgat said to him, to show that his presence was no longer inconvenient,-- “Upon my word, sir, I was just on the point of going in search of you, for fear that you felt really unwell.” “Thank you,” replied the old gentleman, “the fresh air has done me good.” He sat down; and the young advocate turned again to Anthony, saying,-- “Well, let us go on. How was he the day before the fire?” “Just as usual.” “What did he do before he went out?” “He dined as usual with a good appetite; then he went up stairs and remained there for an hour. When he came down, he had a letter in his hand, which he gave to Michael, our tenant’s son, and told him to carry it to Sauveterre, to Miss Chandore.” “Yes. In that letter, M. de Boiscoran told Miss Dionysia that he was retained here by a matter of great importance.” “Ah!” “Have you any idea what that could have been?” “Not at all, sir, I assure you.” “Still let us see. M. de Boiscoran must have had powerful reasons to deprive himself of the pleasure of spending the evening with Miss Dionysia?” “Yes, indeed.” “He must also have had his reasons for taking to the marshes, on his way out, instead of going by the turnpike, and for coming back through the woods.” Old Anthony was literally tearing his hair, as he exclaimed,-- “Ah, sir! These are the very words M. Galpin said.” “Unfortunately every man in his senses will say so.” “I know, sir: I know it but too well. And Master Jacques himself knew it so well that at first he tried to find some pretext; but he has never told a falsehood. And he who is such a clever man could not find a pretext that had any sense in it. He said he had gone to Brechy to see his wood-merchant”-- “And why should he not?” Anthony shook his head, and said,-- “Because the wood-merchant at Brechy is a thief, and everybody knows that master has kicked him out of the house some three years ago. We sell all our wood at Sauveterre.” M. Folgat had taken out a note-book, and wrote down some of Anthony’s statements, preparing thus the outline of his defence. This being done, he commenced again,-- “Now we come to Cocoleu.” “Ah the wretch!” cried Anthony. “You know him?” “How could I help knowing him, when I lived all my life here at Boiscoran in the service of master’s uncle?” “Then what kind of a man is he?” “An idiot, sir or, as they here call it, an innocent, who has Saint Vitus dance into the bargain, and epilepsy moreover.” “Then it is perfectly notorious that he is imbecile?” “Yes, sir, although I have heard people insist that he is not quite so stupid as he looks, and that, as they say here, he plays the ass in order to get his oats”-- M. de Chandore interrupted him, and said,--