Being summoned, Dr. Morris declared and demonstrated, without any hesitation, that the accident must have taken place on the previous evening. And so Firmin was declared innocent, absolutely innocent, and was no longer of special interest to the crowd.
Thus evidently thought Jeannille Marselon, for no sooner had the doctor spoken than she left, without having opened her mouth. Curiosity led her to Barrau’s house, where the attention of the gendarmes would now probably be directed. The crowd there was still great, for nearly every moment some new-comer appeared, and although a large number had followed the gendarmes to Firmin’s house, yet there was no lack of people about poor Catherine’s. Jeannille Marselon, with that tranquil and patient manner of people who act without speaking, glided quietly into the room and took her place in the front rank of spectators. Apparently it was of interest to her to see; for when she approached the body she arranged her dress, adjusted her cap, and took up her position with her penetrating gaze fixed upon Savin’s face. Then she studied Catherine’s countenance, which was troubled and remorseful.
At first, Catherine did not notice Jeannille, but in a few minutes she raised her eyes and perceived the stern, silent old woman watching her. A vague uneasiness seized her. While the woman scanned her countenance, Catherine dropped her eyes. Again something constrained her to look up. The same steady gaze met her eyes. It was insufferable. She rose, advanced a few steps, and then turned her back upon the woman, but she still felt that awful look penetrating her inward self. She could endure it no longer. A vivid red mounted to her forehead, and she in turn gazed into Jeannille’s eyes defiantly. But only for an instant. She put her hand to her cheek. The remembrance of the five bloody fingers made her start aghast. Could it be that the tell-tale marks were still upon her face? Terror chilled the blood in her veins. The flesh seemed to burn in her cheek. It must be—the marks remained visible. That hand! that dreadful hand! Oh, how could she escape it? She covered her face with her hand. The illusion grew so strong she fancied she felt the warm blood oozing through her fingers. A desolate cry escaped her lips. “I am lost,” she inwardly cried. “I am lost, and those people are torturing me! That hand! that hand!”
She examined the faces surrounding her. No; all looked kindly and sympathetic. Jeannille alone remained unfathomable—her terrible eyes fixed upon Catherine’s features. Unable to bear it, Catherine ascended the stairs and rushed to the mirror. Nothing! The skin was fair as ever. Not a trace of blood was there.
Descending she again kneeled by her husband’s body, but her own was shaken by convulsions. She concealed her cheek with her hand, as though afraid the blood-stains would again become visible. Soon the gendarmes reappeared, this time accompanied by the justice of the peace, Monsieur Bérard.
Firmin had triumphantly established his innocence, and Banastre had said to him, a trifle naïvely: “Ah, well, you can boast of having had a rare escape by so opportunely breaking your leg; otherwise you would now be on the way to Auxerre prison. Everybody was of one mind in accusing you.”
“If Firmin is not guilty,” said the justice of the peace, addressing Banastre, as they were proceeding to Savin’s house, “who is? That is the question.”
The Chief of Police only replied by a shrug of the shoulders.
“Have you received no hints which might put you on the track?”
Léocadia Faillot, at that moment, passed by with Rosalie. Monsieur Bérard’s question impressed her.