“But, father—­”

“If we go and inform Monsieur Courtois, he will ask us how and why we came to be in Monsieur de Tremorel’s park to find this out.  What is it to you, that the countess has been killed?  They’ll find her body without you.  Come, let’s go away.”

But Philippe did not budge.  Hanging his head, his chin resting upon his palm, he reflected.

“We must make this known,” said he, firmly.  “We are not savages; we will tell Monsieur Courtois that in passing along by the park in our boat, we perceived the body.”

Old Jean resisted at first; then, seeing that his son would, if need be, go without him, yielded.

They re-crossed the ditch, and leaving their fishing-tackle in the field, directed their steps hastily toward the mayor’s house.

Orcival, situated a mile or more from Corbeil, on the right bank of the Seine, is one of the most charming villages in the environs of Paris, despite the infernal etymology of its name.  The gay and thoughtless Parisian, who, on Sunday, wanders about the fields, more destructive than the rook, has not yet discovered this smiling country.  The distressing odor of the frying from coffee-gardens does not there stifle the perfume of the honeysuckles.  The refrains of bargemen, the brazen voices of boat-horns, have never awakened echoes there.  Lazily situated on the gentle slopes of a bank washed by the Seine, the houses of Orcival are white, and there are delicious shades, and a bell-tower which is the pride of the place.  On all sides vast pleasure domains, kept up at great cost, surround it.  From the upper part, the weathercocks of twenty chateaux may be seen.  On the right is the forest of Mauprevoir, and the pretty country-house of the Countess de la Breche; opposite, on the other side of the river, is Mousseaux and Petit-Bourg, the ancient domain of Aguado, now the property of a famous coach-maker; on the left, those beautiful copses belong to the Count de Tremorel, that large park is d’Etiolles, and in the distance beyond is Corbeil; that vast building, whose roofs are higher than the oaks, is the Darblay mill.

The mayor of Orcival occupies a handsome, pleasant mansion, at the upper end of the village.  Formerly a manufacturer of dry goods, M. Courtois entered business without a penny, and after thirty years of absorbing toil, he retired with four round millions of francs.

Then he proposed to live tranquilly with his wife and children, passing the winter at Paris and the summer at his country-house.

But all of a sudden he was observed to be disturbed and agitated.  Ambition stirred his heart.  He took vigorous measures to be forced to accept the mayoralty of Orcival.  And he accepted it, quite in self-defence, as he will himself tell you.  This office was at once his happiness and his despair; apparent despair, interior and real happiness.

It quite befits him, with clouded brow, to rail at the cares of power; he appears yet better when, his waist encircled with the gold-laced scarf, he goes in triumph at the head of the municipal body.