The mayor thought that having succeeded in escaping from the hands of the murderers, she had fled wildly. They had pursued her, had caught up with her there, and she had fallen to rise no more. This version explained the traces of the struggle. It must have been the count's body that they had dragged across the lawn.
M. Courtois talked excitedly, trying to impose his ideas on the justice. But M. Plantat hardly listened; you might have thought him a hundred leagues from Valfeuillu; he only responded by monosyllables—yes, no, perhaps. And the worthy mayor gave himself great pains; he went and came, measured steps, minutely scrutinized the ground.
There was not at this place more than a foot of water. A mud-bank, upon which grew some clumps of flags and some water-lilies, descended by a gentle decline from the bank to the middle of the river. The water was very clear, and there was no current; the slippery and slimy mire could be distinctly seen.
M. Courtois had gone thus far in his investigations, when he was struck by a sudden idea.
"Bertaud," said he, "come here."
The old poacher obeyed.
"You say that you saw the body from your boat?"
"Yes, Monsieur Mayor."
"Where is your boat?"
"There, hauled up to that field."