“Give it to me.”
Lerouge took from his coat pocket an old parchment pocket-book, fastened with a leather thong, and withdrew from it a paper yellowed by age and carefully sealed.
“Here it is,” said he. “The paper hasn’t been opened since that accursed night.”
And, in fact, when the magistrate unfolded it, some dust fell out, which had been used to keep the writing, when wet, from blotting.
It was really a brief description of the scene, described by the old sailor. The four signatures were there.
“What has become of the witnesses who signed this declaration?” murmured the magistrate, speaking to himself.
Lerouge, who thought the question was put to him, replied, “Germain is dead. I have been told that he was drowned when out rowing. Claudine has just been assassinated; but the other nurse still lives. I even know that she spoke of the affair to her husband, for he hinted as much to me. His name is Brosette, and she lives in the village of Commarin itself.”
“And what next?” asked the magistrate, after having taken down the name and address.
“The next day, sir, Claudine managed to pacify me, and extorted a promise of secrecy. The child was scarcely ill at all; but he retained an enormous scar on his arm.”
“Was Madame Gerdy informed of what took place?”