“He dared to do it, and yet he does not love her as I do. I would die for her,” he inwardly said. A consuming, all-absorbing passion, indeed, must have ruled him, that his mind should entertain such reflections. But how little reason was there for jealousy!
The gendarmes did not find Firmin at his house, but they were not surprised. A murderer who, after the deed was done, would quietly remain in his house to be arrested, would be a simpleton. Nevertheless, the crowd was disappointed.
Banastre was about to send Plagnolles to Quarré to telegraph to Avallon, when a little band of men halted in front of the house. Four stalwart fellows were carrying upon a stretcher the body of a man. A cry of surprise was uttered by more than one spectator, for the wounded man was none other than Firmin himself. And in what a state!
His muscles were drawn up in pain, and his face was the picture of defiant suffering. A clamor of voices arose.
“It is he!” cried the bystanders.
Banastre and Plagnolles at once established order, and Firmin was placed in the lower hall of his house.
What could have happened? How had Firmin been found, and how had he been wounded? All sorts of guesses were made by the curious crowd, and some most unreasonable ideas were suggested. Rosalie, as usual, had her say.
“Of course, Barrau defended himself, and Firmin must have received a blow in the legs or stomach,” she observed. Upon the same theme others expatiated.
“Or else,” put in Mathieu, “Firmin was ashamed of his cowardice day before yesterday, and, as it was moonlight, he proposed to fight it out, as Savin wished.”
“That must be it,” said Nicolas. “Savin was killed and Firmin is wounded.”