"Conduct us to the place where you saw the body," said he to Bertaud.
But Papa Plantat intervened.
"It would be wiser, I think," he objected, "and more methodical, to begin by going through the house."
"Perhaps—yes—true, that's my own view," said the mayor, grasping at the other's counsel, as a drowning man clings to a plank. And he made all retire excepting the brigadier and the valet de chambre, the latter remaining to serve as guide. "Gendarmes," cried he to the men guarding the gate, "see to it that no one goes out; prevent anybody from entering the house, and above all, let no one go into the garden."
Then they ascended the staircase. Drops of blood were sprinkled all along the stairs. There was also blood on the baluster, and M. Courtois perceived, with horror, that his hands were stained.
When they had reached the first landing-stage, the mayor said to the valet de chambre:
"Tell me, my friend, did your master and mistress occupy the same chamber?"
"Yes, sir."
"And where is their chamber?"
"There, sir."
As he spoke, the valet de chambre staggered back terrified, and pointed to a door, the upper panel of which betrayed the imprint of a bloody hand. Drops of perspiration overspread the poor mayor's forehead. He too was terrified, and could hardly keep on his feet. Alas, authority brings with it terrible obligations! The brigadier, an old soldier of the Crimea, visibly moved, hesitated.