With regular tread they started down the slope, followed by many curious peasants. Now that Savin was dead, why should they remain longer here?
But by the time the chief and his assistant entered the little enclosure of which Firmin was proprietor, many had lingered behind to discuss the crime by themselves, and to express their opinions without fear of reprimand.
CHAPTER XV.
WHO IS GUILTY?
As soon as Savin’s death was announced, Bruno resolved at once to keep away from the house. From the fact that he would be forced, perhaps, to exchange glances with Catherine, he feared lest he might involuntarily accuse her of the deed by a facial tremor or an uncontrollable gesture. But the suspense of waiting for the news at home was maddening. His imagination caused him to suffer the greatest anxiety, and the poor fellow started at every sound, expecting to see Catherine led away by the gendarmes, followed by a mob of curiosity-seekers and mockers. A tender pity filled his heart. What could he do to save her? That was his one thought as he stood by the window.
He remembered having read in the journals how under such circumstances the mob sometimes tried to stone the prisoner. At this idea the blood leaped to his face and his look became savage. To run madly to her assistance was the one wish of his heart, but reason checked him. And then, how could he forsake Mother Mathurine?
Soon, however, he saw the gendarmes take the road leading to his cottage. They knew of his love for Madame Barrau. Perhaps he was suspected and would be arrested. Cold beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, but he nevertheless experienced a sense of joy. To sacrifice himself for Catherine was perhaps the only manner in which he could prove his love—a joy truly, but a joy half stifled by a revulsion of horror. Such infamy was unworthy of him.
At this moment old Jeannille Marselon, his neighbor, appeared solemnly upon the doorstep. With closed lips, crossed hands, and stern eyes she stood watching the agents of justice as they approached. Then she fixed her melancholy eyes on Bruno. Nothing was more embarrassing than a penetrating glance from the eye of old Jeannille. Bruno felt his lids contract a little under the intense look she gave him, and he could well understand how he would be trembling now had he been guilty of the crime. She lingered for a moment, and then with a steady gait started to join the little procession, which had stopped in front of Firmin’s cottage.
Upon discovering that suspicion had fallen upon the valet a strange feeling of disappointment took possession of Bruno. In a burst of jealousy he reproached himself for not having attracted the suspicion of which Firmin was the object.