"I can't understand it," muttered he; "a murder in my commune! a commune where, in the memory of men, no crime has been committed!"
And he directed a suspicious glance toward the two Bertauds. The road which led toward the chateau of M. de Tremorel was an unpleasant one, shut in by walls a dozen feet high. On one side is the park of the Marchioness de Lanascol; on the other the spacious garden of Saint Jouan. The going and coming had taken time; it was nearly eight o'clock when the mayor, the justice, and their guides stopped before the gate of M. de Tremorel.
The mayor rang. The bell was very large; only a small gravelled court of five or six yards separated the gate from the house; nevertheless no one appeared.
The mayor rang more vigorously, then with all his strength; but in vain.
Before the gate of Mme. de Lanascol's chateau, nearly opposite, a groom was standing, occupied in cleaning and polishing a bridle-bit. "It's of no use to ring, gentlemen," said this man; "there's nobody in the chateau."
"How! nobody?" asked the mayor, surprised.
"I mean," said the groom, "that there is no one there but the master and mistress. The servants all went away last evening by the 8.40 train to Paris, to the wedding of the old cook, Madame Denis. They ought to return this morning by the first train. I was invited myself—"
"Great God!" interrupted M. Courtois, "then the count and countess remained alone last night?"
"Entirely alone, Monsieur Mayor."
"It is horrible!"