“I do not say that she actually fired the bullet.”
“What do you say?” demanded the justice, peremptorily.
“I—nothing at all, sir,” responded Léocadia, hurriedly and in surprise.
After they reached Barrau’s house Monsieur Bérard began to gaze attentively at the old woman’s face, that is to say, the face of Léocadia Faillot, who with Rosalie had followed the two officials back to the little cottage at the corner of the wood.
Léocadia Faillot was fifty-eight years old, but she might easily have been taken to be ten years older; for she belonged to that category of old maids who look as though they never had been young and pretty. Wicked little eyes, a short flat face covered with furrows and wrinkles, a head almost bald, and a long skinny neck were her principal features; while with these her character was in perfect accord.
The justice regarded her for some time in silence, and then asked Banastre who she was.
“Her name is Mademoiselle Faillot.”
“Ah, and what sort of a person is she?”
“I do not know exactly, but there are plenty who do. I would recommend you, among others, to go to a certain Andoche Grignon, a blacksmith by trade. He is generally drunk; but when he is sober, as he is to-day, he is not wanting in good sense.”
“You must point him out.”