They reached Alencon in time for lunch.  When they had done, they went to the chief post-office.  Nobody knew the name of Langernault there.  Besides, Damigni had its own post-office, though the presumption was that M. Langernault had his letters addressed poste restante at Alencon.

Don Luis and Mazeroux went on to the village of Damigni.  Here again the postmaster knew no one of the name of Langernault; and this in spite of the fact that Damigni contained only about a thousand inhabitants.

“Let’s go and call on the mayor,” said Perenna.

At the mayor’s Mazeroux stated who he was and mentioned the object of his visit.  The mayor nodded his head.

“Old Langernault?  I should think so.  A decent fellow:  used to run a business in the town.”

“And accustomed, I suppose, to fetch his letters at Alencon post-office?”

“That’s it, every day, for the sake of the walk.”

“And his house?”

“Is at the end of the village.  You passed it as you came along.”

“Can we see it?”

“Well, of course ... only—­”

“Perhaps he’s not at home?”

“Certainly not!  The poor, dear man hasn’t even set foot in the house since he left it the last time, four years ago!”

“How is that?”

“Why, he’s been dead these four years!”

Don Luis and Mazeroux exchanged a glance of amazement.

“So he’s dead?” said Don Luis.

“Yes, a gunshot.”

“What’s that!” cried Perenna.  “Was he murdered?”

“No, no.  They thought so at first, when they picked him up on the floor of his room; but the inquest proved that it was an accident.  He was cleaning his gun, and it went off and sent a load of shot into his stomach.  All the same, we thought it very queer in the village.  Daddy Langernault, an old hunter before the Lord, was not the man to commit an act of carelessness.”

“Had he money?”

“Yes; and that’s just what clinched the matter:  they couldn’t find a penny of it!”

Don Luis remained thinking for some time and then asked: 

“Did he leave any children, any relations of the same name?”

“Nobody, not even a cousin.  The proof is that his property—­it’s called the Old Castle, because of the ruins on it—­has reverted to the State.  The authorities have had the doors of the house sealed up, and locked the gate of the park.  They are waiting for the legal period to expire in order to take possession.”

“And don’t sightseers go walking in the park, in spite of the walls?”

“Not they.  In the first place, the walls are very high.  And then—­and then the Old Castle has had a bad reputation in the neighbourhood ever since I can remember.  There has always been a talk of ghosts:  a pack of silly tales.  But still—­”

Perenna and his companion could not get over their surprise.

“This is a funny affair,” exclaimed Don Luis, when they had left the mayor’s.  “Here we have Fauville writing his letters to a dead man—­and to a dead man, by the way, who looks to me very much as if he had been murdered.”