'Well, well, don't waste time in apologising!' cried the commissary angrily. 'We've got no time for that! It's already a quarter-past five. Let us get hold of our man as quickly as possible. We must be on our way back in another ten minutes.'
Generally speaking, Gilquin was a good-natured individual. He prided himself upon the urbanity with which he discharged his official duties. That day he had even arranged an elaborate scheme, by which he hoped to spare Madame Correur's brother any violent emotion. It had been his intention to enter the house alone, while the gendarmes waited with the carriage near the garden-gate, in a little lane which looked on to the open country. But his three hours' waiting at the Golden Lion had so exasperated him that he forgot all these fine precautions. He walked through the village, and rang loudly at the street-door of the notary's house. One of the gendarmes was posted at this door, and the other was directed to go round and keep a watch on the garden-wall. The corporal went in with the commissary. Ten or a dozen scared villagers watched them from a distance.
The servant who opened the door was seized with childish terror at the sight of the uniforms, and rushed away, crying at the top of her voice: 'Madame! Madame! Madame!'
A short plump woman, whose face maintained an expression of perfect calm, came slowly down the staircase.
'Madame Martineau, I presume?' said Gilquin rapidly. 'I have a painful duty to perform, madame. I have come to arrest your husband.'
Madame Martineau clasped her short hands, while her pale lips began to quiver. But she uttered no cry. She remained standing on the bottom step, blocking the way with her skirts. Then she asked Gilquin to show her his warrant, and required explanations, doing all she could to cause a delay.
'Be careful! He'll slip through our fingers if we don't mind,' the corporal murmured in the commissary's ear.
Madame Martineau probably heard this remark, for she looked at the two men with her calm eyes, and said: 'Come upstairs, gentlemen.'
She went up in front of them and took them into a room, in the middle of which stood M. Martineau in his dressing gown. Upon hearing the servant's cries of alarm he had risen from the arm-chair in which he spent most of his time. He was very tall; his hands seemed quite dead; his face was as pale as wax; and only his eyes—dark, soft, and yet determined eyes—appeared to retain any life. Madame Martineau pointed to him in silence.
'I regret to say, sir,' began Gilquin, 'that I have a painful duty to perform.'