“What’s the matter with him?” asked Peyrade.
“It’s his head—he pitched down hard on the ground,” replied the boy. “For a gindarme who knows how to ride it was bad luck—I suppose the horse stumbled. He’s got a hole—my! as big as your fist—in the back of his head. Seems as if he must have hit some big stone, poor man! He may be a gindarme, but he suffers all the same—you’d pity him.”
The captain of the gendarmerie now arrived and dismounted in the courtyard. Corentin threw up the window, not to lose time.
“What has been done?”
“We are back like the Dutchmen! We found nothing but five dead horses, their coats stiff with sweat, in the middle of the forest. I have kept them to find out where they came from and who owns them. The forest is surrounded; whoever is in it can’t get out.”
“At what hour do you suppose those horsemen entered the forest?”
“About half-past twelve.”
“Don’t let a hare leave that forest without your seeing it,” whispered Corentin. “I’ll station Peyrade at the village to help you; I am going to see the corporal myself—Go to the mayor’s house,” he added, still whispering, to Peyrade. “I’ll send some able man to relieve you. We shall have to make use of the country-people; examine all faces.” He turned towards the family and said in a threatening tone, “Au revoir!”
No one replied, and the two agents left the room.
“What would Fouche say if he knew we had made a domiciliary visit without getting any results?” remarked Peyrade as he helped Corentin into the osier vehicle.