Just then Barrau made a movement. In a sort of convulsion he turned upon his right side.
For a moment the doctor seemed encouraged.
“Perhaps he can name his murderer,” said the Chief of Police.
“There is no need of that. We all know,” ejaculated one of the women.
This statement was greeted with an indecent burst of laughter from Mademoiselle Faillot, who had come into the house, as it seemed, solely for the purpose of destroying by her innuendos the good impression which Catherine had created.
But the Chief of Police, Monsieur Banastre, was a loyal, intelligent soldier, and was endowed with a tact rarely found among men.
“My good woman,” said he to Rosalie, “it is for us to find out the criminal. You need not play the spy.”
“What!” gasped Léocadia, “you do not care for our information, then? Why, the police are supposed to protect——”
“Mademoiselle,” interrupted Banastre, “do not waste your eloquence upon me. Rosalie wishes to imply that the presumable assassin is Firmin, the valet.”
“Certainly,” Léocadia answered.