“What!” gasped Léocadia, “you do not care for our information, then? Why, the police are supposed to protect----” “Mademoiselle,” interrupted Banastre, “do not waste your eloquence upon me. Rosalie wishes to imply that the presumable assassin is Firmin, the valet.” “Certainly,” Léocadia answered. “Ah, well, as yet we do not know. Everybody says it, doubtless everybody thinks it, but I should prefer to hear from the wounded man.” “From the dead!” solemnly remarked Dr. Morris. The two men made a military salute, and the people superstitiously crossed themselves. Catherine, at the dead man’s side, was weeping bitterly, and praying with a fervor of which she had felt incapable eight days before. It was a sad scene, but Banastre perceived what it was his duty to do. “Show me the home of Firmin Valeau,” he sternly ordered. Little Sidonie came forward and pointed out the way. “You see the little red roof there--quite new?” she asked. “Is that it?” “Yes, Monsieur.” “Thanks, little one.--Come, Plagnolles, we must go.” With regular tread they started down the slope, followed by many curious peasants. Now that Savin was dead, why should they remain longer here? But by the time the chief and his assistant entered the little enclosure of which Firmin was proprietor, many had lingered behind to discuss the crime by themselves, and to express their opinions without fear of reprimand. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XV. WHO IS GUILTY? As soon as Savin’s death was announced, Bruno resolved at once to keep away from the house. From the fact that he would be forced, perhaps, to exchange glances with Catherine, he feared lest he might involuntarily accuse her of the deed by a facial tremor or an uncontrollable gesture. But the suspense of waiting for the news at home was maddening. His imagination caused him to suffer the greatest anxiety, and the poor fellow started at every sound, expecting to see Catherine led away by the gendarmes, followed by a mob of curiosity-seekers and mockers. A tender pity filled his heart. What could he do to save her? That was his one thought as he stood by the window. He remembered having read in the journals how under such circumstances the mob sometimes tried to stone the prisoner. At this idea the blood leaped to his face and his look became savage. To run madly to her assistance was the one wish of his heart, but reason checked him. And then, how could he forsake Mother Mathurine? Soon, however, he saw the gendarmes take the road leading to his cottage. They knew of his love for Madame Barrau. Perhaps he was suspected and would be arrested. Cold beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, but he nevertheless experienced a sense of joy. To sacrifice himself for Catherine was perhaps the only manner in which he could prove his love--a joy truly, but a joy half stifled by a revulsion of horror. Such infamy was unworthy of him.