Then the villagers put their heads together. Possibly the old turnpike-keeper was really ill. The more curious among the neighbours left the warm parlour of the inn, and tramped along the high-road in the biting east wind. They knocked at the door of the turnpike-keeper's little house, and tapped on the window shutters. Nothing could be heard but the sighing of the wind; and at last they turned away homewards. But next morning the milk-pitcher was still absent, and there was no smoke from the chimney. The village-elder was then informed. He ordered out the gendarme, and sent a locksmith to force the door. Half the village went after them and crowded round the turnpike-keeper's cottage, so that the gendarme had some trouble in keeping the women and children at a distance.
The village-elder banged on the door with his fist and rattled the handle. "Herr Vogt!" he cried, "Herr Vogt! open the door!" And again: "Herr Vogt! turnpike-keeper! open the door!" Then the gendarme, an old comrade in arms of the turnpike-keeper, called loudly; "August! open the door! or let us know if you are ill!"
All was silent. The shutters were closed; the whole house seemed asleep.
Only the lowing of the cows sounded from their stable, and the rattling of their chains, as if they had heard the cries that could not awaken their old master.
Then the village-elder turned to the locksmith: "We must break the door open."
The lock was soon forced, but the door would only open an inch or two; an iron bar had been fixed across it, but that was soon lifted.
A couple of young men were posted at the door to keep out the crowd, which thronged around the house in silent breathless curiosity.
The two officials stepped into the passage. The gendarme pushed the kitchen-door open; the room was cold as ice. On the hearth a handful of broken sticks had been placed, and the match-box lay beside them ready for kindling the fire.
The front room was darkened by the closed shutters, and a close smell as from a vault met them when the door was opened. There sat the turnpike-keeper at the table dead. His head had fallen forward; the body sat stiff and stark in the narrow arm-chair, and his hand, which had evidently been supporting his chin, was still raised, stiffened by the paralysis of death and by the icy cold. Papers of various kinds were spread out before the dead man: account-books, and gilt-edged testimonials dating from the turnpike-keeper's time in the army. Beside these were cardboard boxes filled with money, each neatly labelled: "Money for milk," "Money for corn," "Money for cattle." The old man had evidently taken them out of a cash-box which stood open before him, and at the bottom of which lay his medals and cross of honour.
The gendarme laid his hand on the shoulder of the dead man and said: "You were just looking at your cross again, old comrade, were you, and then you fell asleep?"