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is it?”

      With an air of indifference, M. de Boiscoran pointed at it in the corner of the fireplace, and said,—

      “There it is!”

      M. Galpin took it up quickly. It was a superb weapon, double-barrelled, of unusually fine make, and very elegant. On the beautifully carved woodwork the manufacturer’s name, Clebb, was engraven.

      “When did you last fire this gun?” asked the magistrate.

      “Some four or five days ago.”

      “What for?”

      “To shoot some rabbits who infested my woods.”

      M. Galpin raised and lowered the cock with all possible care: he noticed that it was the Remington patent. Then he opened the chamber, and found that the gun was loaded. Each barrel had a cartridge in it. Then he put the gun back in its place, and, pulling from his pocket the leaden cartridge-case which Pitard had found, he showed it to M. de Boiscoran, and asked him,—

      “Do you recognize this?”

      “Perfectly!” replied the other. “It is a case of one of the cartridges which I have probably thrown away as useless.”

      “Do you think you are the only one in this country who has a gun by this maker?”

      “I do not think it: I am quite sure of it.”

      “So that you must, as a matter of course, have been at a spot where such a cartridge-case as this has been found?”

      “Not necessarily. I have often seen children pick up these things, and play with them.”

      The clerk, while he made his pen fly across his paper, could not resist the temptation of making all kinds of faces. He was too well acquainted with lawyers’ tactics not to understand M. Galpin’s policy perfectly well, and to see how cunningly it was devised to make every fact strengthen the suspicion against M. de Boiscoran.

      “It is a close game,” he said to himself.

      The magistrate had taken a seat.

      “If that is so,” he began again, “I beg you will give me an account of how you spent the evening after eight o’clock: do not hurry, consider, take your time; for your answers are of the utmost importance.”

      M. de Boiscoran had so far remained quite cool; but his calmness betrayed one of those terrible storms within, which may break forth, no one knows when. This warning, and, even more so, the tone in which it was given, revolted him as a most hideous hypocrisy. And, breaking out all of a sudden, he cried,—

      “After all, sir, what do you want of me? What am I accused of?”

      M. Galpin did not stir. He replied,—

      “You will hear it at the proper time. First answer my question, and believe me in your own interest. Answer frankly. What did you do last night?”

      “How do I know? I walked about.”

      “That is no answer.”

      “Still it is so. I went out with no specific purpose: I walked at haphazard.”

      “Your gun on your shoulder?”

      “I always take my gun: my servant can tell you so.”

      “Did you cross the Seille marshes?”

      “No.”

      The magistrate shook his head gravely. He said,—

      “You are not telling the truth.”

      “Sir!”

      “Your boots there at the foot of the bed speak against you. Where does the mud come from with which they are covered?”

      “The meadows around Boiscoran are very wet.”

      “Do not attempt to deny it. You have been seen there.”

      “But”—

      “Young Ribot met you at the moment when you were crossing the canal.”

      M. de Boiscoran made no reply.

      “Where were you going?” asked the magistrate.

      For the first time a real embarrassment appeared in the features of the accused,—the embarrassment of a man who suddenly sees an abyss opening before him. He hesitated; and, seeing that it was useless to deny, he said,—

      “I was going to Brechy.”

      “To whom?”

      “To my wood-merchant, who has bought all this year’s wood. I did not find him at home, and came back on the high road.”

      M. Galpin stopped him by a gesture.

      “That is not so,” he said severely.

      “Oh!”

      “You never went to Brechy.”

      “I beg your pardon.”

      “And the proof is, that, about eleven o’clock, you were hurriedly crossing the forest of Rochepommier.”

      “I?”

      “Yes, you! And do not say No; for there are your trousers torn to pieces by the thorns and briers through which you must have made your way.”

      “There are briers elsewhere as well as in the forest.”

      “To be sure; but you were seen there.”

      “By whom?”

      “By Gaudry the poacher. And he saw so much of you, that he could tell us in what a bad humor you were. You were very angry. You were talking loud, and pulling the leaves from the trees.”

      As he said so, the magistrate got up and took the shooting-jacket, which was lying on a chair not far from him. He searched the pockets, and pulled out of one a handful of leaves.

      “Look here! you see, Gaudry has told the truth.”

      “There are leaves everywhere,” said M. de Boiscoran half aloud.

      “Yes; but a woman, Mrs. Courtois, saw you come out of the forest of Rochepommier. You helped her to put a sack of flour on her ass, which she could not lift alone. Do you deny it? No, you are right; for, look here! on the sleeve of your coat I see something white, which, no doubt, is flour from her bag.”

      M. de Boiscoran hung his head. The magistrate went on,—

      “You confess, then, that last night, between ten and eleven you were at Valpinson?”

      “No, sir, I do not.”

      “But this cartridge-case which I have just shown you was picked up at Valpinson, close by the ruins of the old castle.”

      “Well, sir, have I not told you before that I have seen a hundred times children pick up these cases to play with? Besides, if I had really been at Valpinson, why should I deny it?”

      M. Galpin rose to his full height, and said in the most solemn manner,—

      “I am going to tell you why! Last night, between ten and eleven, Valpinson was set on fire; and it has been burnt to the ground.”

      “Oh!”

      “Last night Count Claudieuse was fired at twice.”

      “Great God!”

      “And it is thought, in fact there are strong reasons to think, that you, Jacques de Boiscoran, are the incendiary and the assassin.”

      IX.

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      M. de Boiscoran looked around him like a man who has suddenly been seized with vertigo, pale,

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