"What is she doing?" said he. "The poor child has forgotten my breakfast; I suppose she has also slept late."
He opened the door; the snow was not falling quite so thick and fast, and the sky appeared less sombre.
He left the house, and went to the sheepfold, to see what had become of his idiotic niece.
Alas! If you have listened to me until now, you can well guess what had taken place in that gloomy night! And yet, upon entering the enclosure, nothing at first foreboded the misfortune which was about to startle the good game-keeper. The sheep bleated and tumbled pell-mell, climbing on one another's backs, browsing contentedly upon the hay scattered here and there; but down at the end of the sheepfold, in a little corner, poor Barbette was extended, stark dead and already cold, the mouth half-opened and the face rigid from its terrible struggle. Close to her, with his head laid across her feet, her dog also slept, never more to be awakened.
It was evident the innocent child had suffered fearfully. Her poor body seemed longer by three inches than before, as though the limbs had been stretched in her dreadful death-struggle. Her little, shrivelled hands still clutched bunches of wool that she must have torn from the sheep in her agony. With all that, she looked tranquil and at peace, as if an angel of the good God had come at the supreme moment to bear away her soul, exempt from sin.
Michou fell on his knees beside the little dead body. He tried to raise her, but she was so stiff he had to move her like a wooden statue. Certainly, many hours must have elapsed since her death; the dog, also, was frozen to the touch, and as hard as stone. There was no doubt these two creatures, so attached to each other during life, had met together a violent death. Nothing more remained to be done but to make the necessary declarations and hold the inquest usual in such cases. The good man bent over the agonized face of the child a few minutes; one or two tears fell upon his gray beard, and, while wiping them off with his coat-sleeve, he recited a Pater and a De Profundis; then he brought several planks and bundles of straw, which he placed around the poor corpse, so that the sheep should not injure it while playing around. He left the dog lying on the feet of his mistress, Barbette; and mere creature, without soul, as the good God had made him, he deserved this respect, having died faithful as he had lived.
Jacques Michou left the sheepfold, his otter-skin cap in his hand, and on the threshold turned again and made another sign of the cross. His old heart was heavy with pain from the shock; but he did not dream for an instant of what we know, and at that you must not be too much astonished. The good man was perfectly honest, and could not at first conjecture that a great crime had caused this extraordinary death. He rather imagined that Barbette, who had been given to wandering around like all innocents, had gathered some poisonous weed, or drank by mistake from a vessel in which remedies were prepared for the sheep when afflicted with the mange, which are always composed of a decoction of tobacco or other noxious preparation; which cures, if applied externally, but is certain death when taken internally, if the directions are not followed. Thus plunged in sad and bitter meditation, he arrived, almost before he knew it, at the village of Val-Saint, and thought to continue still further, to warn Dr. Aubry. "He will be able to tell me," thought he; "with his learning he can say what killed the poor child."
Just then he raised his head, and saw that he was before the notary's house, and recognized the doctor's horse and wagon before the door.
"This is lucky!" thought he. "I will find out all the sooner."
He entered without having to knock, probably because M. Aubry, who was always absent-minded, had neglected to close the door, ordinarily shut tight; so that the game-keeper found himself standing in the middle of Perdreau's dining-room before any one had given notice of his entrance.