A track of blood led towards the house from that spot.
We shouted: no answer.
"We must go in," said the inspector.
We went in, and we found Choron stretched on the floor, near his bed, the bed-clothes still gripped between his clasped fingers.
Upon a little table by his bed stood two bottles of white wine—one empty, the other opened and begun. A large wound was in his left side, which his favourite dog was licking.
He was still warm, and could not have been dead above ten minutes.
This is what had happened; we learnt next day from a postman from a neighbouring village, who had almost seen what had occurred.
We have spoken of Choron's jealousy of his wife, and, although nothing justified this jealousy, as the inspector had told me, it had increased as time went on.
He had taken advantage of a splendid moon to set out at one o'clock in the morning to turn out a couple of wolves which he knew were round about.
A quarter of an hour after his departure a messenger came to tell his wife that her father had been struck with apoplexy, and asked to see her before he died.