'You have hit it; it is one of them that has done it; I'll put my hand into the fire else.'
'Whom do you suspect?'
'Jean Pierre and Vacherôt are both natives here. I have known them for twenty years, and would answer for them as I would for myself. There is no one, saving your presence, but that sulky Bonnemain who could have thought of such a thing.'
'Bonnemain!' repeated the old man, who seemed as if he was reflecting deeply upon something.
'Yes, he; I have always mistrusted that town fellow,' replied Piquet; 'beside, he spoils work so that I am ashamed of him. He calls himself a gardener, and cannot make a graft!'
'But,' said Monsieur Gorsay, who seemed to take a greater interest in this affair than might have been supposed, 'you have only suspicions, and it is necessary to have proofs.'
'Proofs! here is one that I think clear enough,' replied the gardener, taking from his pocket a little nail, which he held between his fore-finger and thumb; 'look at this new nail which I found under the green-house window. Nobody but Bonnemain has got such as these in his shoes, which he bought the other day at La Reole, and by my faith! there is one gone from the right foot; I noticed it yesterday when he took them off to go down into the fish-pond.'
'Have you mentioned this to any one?'
'No, no; I am not such a fool;' replied the gardener, with a knowing air; 'I wished first to take your advice on the subject.'
'You have acted very prudently, Piquet. Say nothing of this until you hear farther from me; and when you see Bonnemain, send him to me: I will make him speak, I warrant you.'