“It was three days ago,” said M. Fille. “I saw it with my own eyes. I had come to the Manor Cartier by the road, down the hill—Mont Violet—behind the house. I could see into the windows of the house. There was no reason why I should not see—there never has been a reason,” he added, as though to justify himself.
“Of course, of course, my friend. One’s eyes are open, and one sees what one sees, without looking for it. Proceed.”
“As I looked down I saw Madame with a man’s arms round her, and his lips to hers. It was not Jean Jacques.”
“Of course, of course. Proceed. What did you do?”
“I stopped. I fell back—”
“Of course. Behind a tree?”
“Behind some elderberry bushes.”
“Of course. Elderberry bushes—that’s better than a tree. I am very fond of elderberry wine when it is new. Proceed.”
The Clerk of the Court shrank. What did it matter whether or no the Judge liked elderberry wine, when the world was falling down for Jean Jacques and his Zoe—and his wife. But with a sigh he continued: “There is nothing more. I stayed there for awhile, and then crept up the hill again, and came back to my home and locked myself in.”
“What had you done that you should lock yourself in?”