But the valet turned toward him with an air which proved that he was well acquainted with the doctor’s servant, and, consequently, with all the secrets of the master’s life. “Call your own valet a scoundrel, if you choose,” he retorted, “but not me. Your duties here are over, aren’t they? So leave us to manage our own affairs. Thank heaven, I know what I’m talking about. Everybody knows that caution must be exercised in a dead man’s house, especially when that house is full of money, and when, instead of relatives, there are--persons who--who are there nobody knows how or why. In case any valuables were missed, who would be accused of taking them? Why, the poor servants, of course. Ah, they have broad shoulders! Their trunks would be searched; and even if nothing were found, they would be sent to prison all the same. In the meantime other people would escape with the booty. No, Lisette! No one will stir from this room until the arrival of the justice----” Madame Leon was bursting with rage. “All right!” she interrupted; “I’m going to send for the count’s particular friend, General----” “I don’t care a fig for your general.” “Wretch!” It was Mademoiselle Marguerite who put an end to this indecent dispute. Its increasing violence had aroused her from her stupor. Casimir’s impudence brought a flush to her forehead, and stepping forward with haughty resolution, she exclaimed: “You forget that one never raises one’s voice in the chamber of death.” Her words were so true, and her manner so majestic, that M. Casimir was silenced. Then, pointing to the door, she coldly added: “Go for the justice of the peace, and don’t set foot here again, except in his company.” He bowed, stammered an unintelligible apology, and left the room. “She always gets the best of me,” he growled, as he went downstairs. “But seals shall be put on everything.” When he entered the porter’s lodge, M. Bourigeau was just getting up, having slept all night, while his wife watched. “Quick,” ordered M. Casimir; “make haste and finish dressing, and run for the justice of the peace--we must have him here at once. Everything must be done regularly and in order, upstairs.” The concierge was in despair. “Heavens!” he exclaimed; “so the master’s dead! What a misfortune!” “You may well say so; and this is the second time such a thing has happened to me. I remember now what a shrewd fellow named Chupin once said to me. ‘If I were a servant,’ he remarked, ‘before entering a man’s service, I’d make him insure his life for my benefit in one of those new-fangled companies, so that I might step into a handsome fortune if he took it into his head to die.’ But make haste, Bourigeau.” “That’s a famous idea, but scarcely practicable,” growled the concierge. “I don’t know whether it is or not. But at all events I’m terribly annoyed. The count was giving me enormous wages, and I had got him nicely into my ways. Well, after all, I shall only have to begin again!”