“Poor Catherine! Poor little woman!” he cried, in his grief. He did not doubt that she was the cause of Savin’s death, and he was utterly wretched in the consciousness that his love for her neither increased nor diminished with this discovery.
From all sides rose one cry. All were unanimous in their decision: “Firmin is the guilty man.”
When the doctor examined Savin, all looked anxiously for his verdict. At last it came:
“He is not dead, but there is no hope of saving him,” he said, soberly.
Catherine gave one heart-rending shriek and threw herself at the doctor’s feet.
“Oh, save him! Save him, I beseech you!” she cried in anguish.
“My poor woman, I am powerless. He can live but a few moments.”
By this time the gendarmes had entered the yard and were seeking information.
“There are only two men capable of killing Barrau,” said one red-haired old gossip who felt it her duty to say something.
“Who are they?”