From the day when a legal investigation commenced, he did not sleep, and he employed every means to discover the truth.  Yet he was not regarded as a good judge of instruction; to contend by tricks with a prisoner was repugnant to him; to lay a snare for a rogue he thought debasing; in short, he was obstinate—­obstinate to foolishness, sometimes to absurdity; even to denying the existence of the sun at mid-day.

The mayor and Papa Plantat hastened to meet M. Domini.  He bowed to them gravely, as if he had not known them, and presenting to them a man of some sixty years who accompanied him: 

“Messieurs,” said he, “this is Doctor Gendron.”

Papa Plantat shook hands with the doctor; the mayor smiled graciously at him, for Dr. Gendron was well-known in those parts; he was even celebrated, despite the nearness of Paris.  Loving his art and exercising it with a passionate energy, he yet owed his renown less to his science than his manners.  People said:  “He is an original;” they admired his affectation of independence, of scepticism, and rudeness.  He made his visits from five to nine in the morning—­all the worse for those for whom these hours were inconvenient.  After nine o’clock the doctor was not to be had.  The doctor was working for himself, the doctor was in his laboratory, the doctor was inspecting his cellar.  It was rumored that he sought for secrets of practical chemistry, to augment still more his twenty thousand livres of income.  And he did not deny it; for in truth he was engaged on poisons, and was perfecting an invention by which could be discovered traces of all the alkaloids which up to that time had escaped analysis.  If his friends reproached him, even jokingly, on sending away sick people in the afternoon, he grew red with rage.

“Parbleu!” he answered, “I find you superb!  I am a doctor four hours in the day.  I am paid by hardly a quarter of my patients—­ that’s three hours I give daily to humanity, which I despise.  Let each of you do as much, and we shall see.”

The mayor conducted the new-comers into the drawing-room, where he installed himself to write down the results of his examination.

“What a misfortune for my town, this crime!” said he to M. Domini.  “What shame!  Orcival has lost its reputation.”

“I know nothing of the affair,” returned the judge.  “The gendarme who went for me knew little about it.”

M. Courtois recounted at length what his investigation had discovered, not forgetting the minutest detail, dwelling especially on the excellent precautions which he had had the sagacity to take.  He told how the conduct of the Bertauds had at first awakened his suspicions; how he had detected them, at least in a pointblank lie; how, finally, he had determined to arrest them.  He spoke standing, his head thrown back, with wordy emphasis.  The pleasure of speaking partially rewarded him for his recent distress.