The judge of instruction stopped M. Plantat with a motion of his hand.
"Do you know," asked he, "whether the rendezvous at the Hotel Belle
Image had ceased?"
"I suppose so, sir; I think so."
"I am almost sure of it," said Dr. Gendron. "I have often heard it said—they know everything at Corbeil—that there was a heated explanation between M. de Tremorel and the pretty Parisian lady. After this quarrel, they were no longer seen at the Belle Image."
The old justice of the peace smiled.
"Melun is not at the end of the world," said he, "and there are hotels at Melun. With a good horse, one is soon at Fontainebleau, at Versailles, even at Paris. Madame de Tremorel might have been jealous; her husband had some first-rate trotters in his stables."
Did M. Plantat give an absolutely disinterested opinion, or did he make an insinuation? The judge of instruction looked at him attentively, to reassure himself, but his visage expressed nothing but a profound serenity. He told the story as he would any other, no matter what.
"Please go on, Monsieur," resumed M. Domini.
"Alas!" said M. Plantat, "nothing here below is eternal, not even grief. I know it better than anybody. Soon, to the tears of the first days, to violent despair, there succeeded, in the count and Madame Bertha, a reasonable sadness, then a soft melancholy. And in one year after Sauvresy's death Monsieur de Tremorel espoused his widow."
During this long narrative the mayor had several times exhibited marks of impatience. At the end, being able to hold in no longer, he exclaimed: