And over Joseph's lips, and in his eyes, there plays a terrifying smile, which really has the swift, short flashes of a knife. I believe that this man is the devil.
The murder of the little Claire continues to be the all-absorbing topic, and to excite the curiosity of the town. They fight for the local and Paris newspapers that give the news. The "Libre Parole" accuses the Jews squarely and by wholesale, and declares that it was a "ritual murder." The magistrates have visited the spot, made inquiries and examinations, and questioned many people. Nobody knows a thing. Rose's charge, which has been circulating, has been met everywhere with an incredulous shrug of the shoulders. Yesterday the police arrested a poor peddler, who had no trouble in proving that he was not in the vicinity at the time of the crime. The father, to whom public rumor pointed, has been exonerated. Moreover, he bears an excellent reputation. So nowhere is there any clue to put justice on the track of the guilty. It seems that this crime excites the admiration of the magistrates, and was committed with a surprising skill,—undoubtedly by professionals, by Parisians. It seems also that the prosecuting attorney is pushing the affair in a very tame fashion and for the sake of form. The murder of a poor little girl is not a very interesting matter. So there is every reason to believe that no clue will ever be found, and that the case will soon be pigeon-holed, like so many others that have not told their secret.
I should not wonder if Madame believed her husband guilty. That is really comical, and she ought to know him better. She has behaved very queerly ever since the news. She has ways of looking at Monsieur that are not natural. I have noticed that during meals, whenever the bell rings, she gives a little start.
After breakfast to-day, as Monsieur manifested an intention of going out, she prevented him.
"Really, you may as well remain here. Why do you need to be always going out?"
She even walked with Monsieur for a full hour in the garden. Naturally Monsieur perceives nothing; he does not lose a mouthful of food or a puff of tobacco-smoke. What a stupid blockhead!
I had a great desire to know what they could be saying to each other when they were alone,—the two of them. Last night, for more than twenty minutes, I listened at the door of the salon. I heard Monsieur crumpling a newspaper. Madame, seated at her little desk, was casting up her accounts.
"What did I give you yesterday?" Madame asked.