Everybody was sound asleep at the mayor’s when the two Bertauds rapped the heavy knocker of the door.  After a moment, a servant, half asleep, appeared at one of the ground-floor windows.

“What’s the matter, you rascals?” asked he, growling.

Jean did not think it best to revenge an insult which his reputation in the village too well justified.

“We want to speak to Monsieur the Mayor,” he answered.  “There is terrible need of it.  Go call him, Monsieur Baptiste; he won’t blame you.”

“I’d like to see anybody blame me,” snapped out Baptiste.

It took ten minutes of talking and explaining to persuade the servant.  Finally, the Bertauds were admitted to a little man, fat and red, very much annoyed at being dragged from his bed so early.  It was M. Courtois.

They had decided that Philippe should speak.

“Monsieur Mayor,” he said, “we have come to announce to you a great misfortune.  A crime has been committed at Monsieur de Tremorel’s.”

M. Courtois was a friend of the count’s; he became whiter than his shirt at this sudden news.

“My God!” stammered he, unable to control his emotion, “what do you say—­a crime!”

“Yes; we have just discovered a body; and as sure as you are here, I believe it to be that of the countess.”

The worthy man raised his arms heavenward, with a wandering air.

“But where, when?”

“Just now, at the foot of the park, as we were going to take up our nets.”

“It is horrible!” exclaimed the good M. Courtois; “what a calamity!  So worthy a lady!  But it is not possible—­you must be mistaken; I should have been informed—­”

“We saw it distinctly, Monsieur Mayor.”

“Such a crime in my village!  Well, you have done wisely to come here.  I will dress at once, and will hasten off—­no, wait.”  He reflected a moment, then called: 

“Baptiste!”

The valet was not far off.  With ear and eye alternately pressed against the key-hole, he heard and looked with all his might.  At the sound of his master’s voice he had only to stretch out his hand and open the door.

“Monsieur called me?”

“Run to the justice of the peace,” said the mayor.  “There is not a moment to lose.  A crime has been committed—­perhaps a murder—­ you must go quickly.  And you,” addressing the poachers, “await me here while I slip on my coat.”

The justice of the peace at Orcival, M. Plantat—­“Papa Plantat,” as he was called—­was formerly an attorney at Melun.  At fifty, Mr. Plantat, whose career had been one of unbroken prosperity, lost in the same month, his wife, whom he adored, and his two sons, charming youths, one eighteen, the other twenty-two years old.  These successive losses crushed a man whom thirty years of happiness left without defence against misfortune.  For a long time his reason was despaired of.  Even the sight of a client, coming to trouble his grief, to recount stupid tales of self-interest, exasperated him.  It was not surprising that he sold out his professional effects and good-will at half price.  He wished to establish himself at his ease in his grief, with the certainty of not being disturbed in its indulgence.