"Yes, yes. He is dead—murdered. But it was not my father who did it. By all the blessed saints I swear it, M'nsieur. It was impossible. Only two minutes had he left me to go to the pantry when the English milord called him."
"And then?"
Olérie clasped her hands tightly.
"Oh, M'sieur, I was afraid, and—and I hid—whilst I listened. I—heard all. They told my father it—it was he who committed the murder, and locked him in an upper room. Afterwards they—they laughed and talked together. I—I do not altogether—comprehend, for it was not Breton tongue they talked; but it seemed that the—English milord will stay and—call himself M'nsieur le Marquis, whilst the other goes—to tell our people."
"And how know you this if they did not speak the Breton tongue?"
"M'nsieur, I went to an aunt in Paris when I was little. I stayed three—four years. I talked French."
"And it was French these others talked? How many were there?"
"Two, M'nsieur. One was the English milord. I did not see the face of the other."
"But he was French?"
"Yes, M'nsieur. Oh, M'nsieur, they will kill my father."