shall be made to discover the body of the murdered man; for though I firmly believe that you have discovered the assassin, yet there are no proofs.  For you, lieutenant, though pardoned, you are not guiltless.  Listen!’ said the old man, turning to his son and to Etienne Pasquier, ’you are both destined to wear the toga of justice—­you, Emerie, perhaps to succeed me; and you, Etienne Pasquier, probably to distinguish yourself in the judgment-seat at Paris, or some foreign court.  Remember that none may do evil that good may come!  Above all, a judge should not seek to discover the truth by means of a lie, and do himself what he punishes in others.  Such means are unworthy of a magistrate.’

Three weeks from that time there was great excitement in the village of Argenteuil.  The inhabitants had suspended their labours, quitted their houses, and gathered together about the door of the Hotel du Heaume.  By their earnest conversation among themselves, and their eager questioning of those who came out of the hotel, it was clear that something unwonted was going forward there.  In short, the large room of the hotel was for this day transformed into a justice-chamber, where Laurence Bigot, assisted by the magistrate of Argenteuil, questioned numerous witnesses about the murder of Zambelli.

How many efforts had this zealous judge made since he quitted Rouen on his search for the traces of the crime!  He visited many villages, questioned numerous officers of police; but all in vain.  When he was about to return, in despair of accomplishing his object, he was informed that, some months before, a corpse had been discovered hid in a vineyard near Argenteuil.  Bigot hastened thither, and the state of preservation of the remains enabled him, on viewing the body, to decide clearly that it was that of Zambelli, according as he had been described by Cornelius his brother.

The magistrate began to read the evidence aloud, when he was interrupted by a piercing cry; and a blind man, whom no one had as yet perceived, presented himself before the assembly.  It was old Gervais, a wandering beggar, born in the neighbourhood, well known, and much liked.  When his way led through Argenteuil, he was always admitted to the hotel, and having arrived that day, he had seated himself unnoticed, in his usual place in the chimney-corner.  He had sprung forward with a loud cry when, in listening as the magistrate read, he heard of a corpse being discovered among the vines.  But what could a blind man, and one so long absent from Argenteuil, have to communicate?  Laurence Bigot regarded with a kind of respect the serene and venerable countenance of the old beggar.

‘Unfortunate man,’ said he, ‘what can you have to tell us?’

But after his first involuntary movement, the blind man.  Appeared embarrassed and undecided.  ‘Ah, my lord,’ said he, ’may I speak without danger of my life?’ and he turned his white head on every side with a terrified air.