“Find him?” was the answer, “why, he left Monsieur Hochon’s at daybreak.”

A Knight of Idleness ran off at once to Monsieur Mouilleron.  The crowd increased; and the tumult became threatening.  Excited groups filled up the whole of the Grande-Narette.  Others stationed themselves before the church of Saint-Jean.  An assemblage gathered at the porte Vilatte, which is at the farther end of the Petite-Narette.  Monsieur Lousteau-Prangin and Monsieur Mouilleron, the commissary of police, the lieutenant of gendarmes, and two of his men, had some difficulty in reaching the place Saint-Jean through two hedges of people, whose cries and exclamations could and did prejudice them against the Parisian; who was, it is needless to say, unjustly accused, although, it is true, circumstances told against him.

After a conference between Max and the magistrates, Monsieur Mouilleron sent the commissary of police and a sergeant with one gendarme to examine what, in the language of the ministry of the interior, is called “the theatre of the crime.”  Then Messieurs Mouilleron and Lousteau-Prangin, accompanied by the lieutenant of gendarmes crossed over to the Hochon house, which was now guarded by two gendarmes in the garden and two at the front door.  The crowd was still increasing.  The whole town was surging in the Grande rue.

Gritte had rushed terrified to her master, crying out:  “Monsieur, we shall be pillaged! the town is in revolt; Monsieur Maxence Gilet has been assassinated; he is dying! and they say it is Monsieur Joseph who has done it!”

Monsieur Hochon dressed quickly, and came downstairs; but seeing the angry populace, he hastily retreated within the house, and bolted the door.  On questioning Gritte, he learned that his guest had left the house at daybreak, after walking the floor all night in great agitation, and had not yet come in.  Much alarmed, he went to find Madame Hochon, who was already awakened by the noise, and to whom he told the frightful news which, true or false, was causing almost a riot in Issoudun.

“He is innocent, of course,” said Madame Hochon.

“Before his innocence can be proved, the crowd may get in here and pillage us,” said Monsieur Hochon, livid with fear, for he had gold in his cellar.

“Where is Agathe?”

“Sound asleep.”

“Ah! so much the better,” said Madame Hochon.  “I wish she may sleep on till the matter is cleared up.  Such a shock might kill the poor child.”

But Agathe woke up and came down half-dressed; for the evasive answers of Gritte, whom she questioned, had disturbed both her head and heart.  She found Madame Hochon, looking very pale, with her eyes full of tears, at one of the windows of the salon beside her husband.

“Courage, my child.  God sends us our afflictions,” said the old lady.  “Joseph is accused—­”

“Of what?”

“Of a bad action which he could never have committed,” answered Madame Hochon.