"Were they rich?"
"Yes; they must have had, together, more than a hundred thousand francs income—oh, yes, much more; for within five or six months the count, who had not the bucolic tastes of poor Sauvresy, sold some lands to buy consols."
"Have they been married long?"
M. Courtois scratched his head; it was his appeal to memory.
"Faith," he answered, "it was in September of last year; just six months ago. I married them myself. Poor Sauvresy had been dead a year."
The judge of instruction looked up from his notes with a surprised air.
"Who is this Sauvresy," he inquired, "of whom you speak?"
Papa Plantat, who was furiously biting his nails in a corner, apparently a stranger to what was passing, rose abruptly.
"Monsieur Sauvresy," said he, "was the first husband of Madame de
Tremorel. My friend Courtois has omitted this fact."
"Oh!" said the mayor, in a wounded tone, "it seems to me that under present circumstances—"