“Enough, enough!” said the old man. “Return to your work: you need not disturb M. Noel; I can wait for him very well here.”
And satisfied with the reproof he had administered, he picked up the newspaper, and seated himself beside the fire, placing the candle near him so as to read with ease. A minute had scarcely elapsed when he in his turn bounded in his chair, and stifled a cry of instinctive terror and surprise. These were the first words that met his eye.
“A horrible crime has plunged the village of La Jonchere in consternation. A poor widow, named Lerouge, who enjoyed the general esteem and love of the community, has been assassinated in her home. The officers of the law have made the usual preliminary investigations, and everything leads us to believe that the police are already on the track of the author of this dastardly crime.”
“Thunder!” said old Tabaret to himself, “can it be that Madame Gerdy?—”
The idea but flashed across his mind; he fell back into his chair, and, shrugging his shoulders, murmured,—
“Really this affair of La Jonchere is driving me out of my senses! I can think of nothing but this Widow Lerouge. I shall be seeing her in everything now.”
In the mean while, an uncontrollable curiosity made him peruse the entire newspaper. He found nothing with the exception of these lines, to justify or explain even the slightest emotion.
“It is an extremely singular coincidence, at the same time,” thought the incorrigible police agent. Then, remarking that the newspaper was slightly torn at the lower part, and crushed, as if by a convulsive grasp, he repeated,—
“It is strange!”
At this moment the door of Madame Gerdy’s room opened, and Noel appeared on the threshold.