The justice made inquiries. The crowd, led by Léocadia, demanded that some one should be selected as the culprit. Bruno, for that purpose, seemed as good as any one to them. Monsieur Bérard heard many accusations, and then, after consulting with Banastre, determined to go to Mother Mathurine’s cottage. A crowd of people followed, and upon reaching the house they found Bruno in his room, looking the image of woe. “He was hiding,” sneered some one. They conveyed him to the gamekeeper’s house. “You are accused,” said the justice, “of having killed Savin Barrau.” At these words a sigh of relief burst from Bruno’s lips. “Yes, Monsieur, I killed him.” The moment’s ensuing silence was broken by two voices--Catherine’s and Sidonie’s. “It is not true! It is not true!” But it was the little lame girl who continued: “Do not listen, Monsieur, do not listen! He is not capable of it, I assure you. The boy is mad. I will tell you why he accuses himself.” Sidonie spoke with a nervous volubility. Her timidity had fled; her love alone remained invincible. Bruno, however, maddened by her interference, persisted that he was guilty. “I tell you I _am_ guilty. Be quiet, Sidonie. Why do you defend me? What do you know about it?” The justice gazed intently at Bruno. Jeannille Marselon also closely scrutinized him, and for a moment appeared surprised. The crowd, for a brief interval stupefied, soon recovered itself, and tongues began wagging faster than ever. “What did I tell you?” exclaimed Léocadia and Rosalie. “I have suspected Bruno all along,” said another. Banastre did not for an instant turn his eyes away from Bruno’s face. He was puzzled. It scarcely seemed possible that one with such a frank and guileless countenance could commit such a heinous crime. “It must have been one of the two--Firmin or Bruno,” continued Léocadia. “For Heaven’s sake, be quiet!” cried Sidonie. “Why should I?” returned Mademoiselle Faillot. “It is you who ought to go and hide yourself. Perhaps you dare say you love him, eh? He’s a fine lover.” “Yes, I do love him. God bless him!” exclaimed Sidonie, with a look of utter devotion. “I congratulate you. Unfortunately, however, it is Catherine Barrau that _he_ loves, and he has done this deed to please _her_.” “That is a falsehood, you slanderer!” “You shall pay for this,” snarled Léocadia. “We shall see,” retorted the lame girl. “Silence!” shouted Monsieur Bérard, authoritatively. “I cannot permit such wrangling. Keep still, every one of you, and remember that to accuse a man of murder may cost you dear.” “Well, I never saw such a man as that justice,” growled Léocadia. Monsieur Bérard overheard these words. “Bring that woman here,” he said to Banastre. Protesting and crying, she was brought forward. Leading her by the arm, Banastre placed her before the justice. “What is your name?” he asked. “Léocadia Faillot.” “Your age? No lying!” “Fifty-eight.” “Married or single?” “Single.”