The doctor answering, “Willingly,” directed his steps toward the door.

M. Lecoq caught him by the arm.

“If you please,” said he, in a tone totally unlike that he had used up to this time, “I would like to call your attention to the wounds on the head, made by a blunt instrument, which I suppose to be a hammer.  I have studied these wounds, and though I am no doctor, they seem to me suspicious.”

“And to me,” M. Plantat quickly added.  “It seemed to me, that in the places struck, there was no emission of blood in the cutaneous vessels.”

“The nature of these wounds,” continued M. Lecoq, “will be a valuable indication, which will fix my opinion.”  And, as he felt keenly the brusque manner of the judge, he added: 

“It is you, Doctor, who hold the match.”

M. Gendron was about to leave the room, when Baptiste, the mayor’s servant—­the man who wouldn’t be scolded—­appeared.  He bowed and said: 

“I have come for Monsieur the Mayor.”

“For me? why?” asked M. Courtois.  “What’s the matter?  They don’t give me a minute’s rest!  Answer that I am busy.”

“It’s on account of madame,” resumed the placid Baptiste; “she isn’t at all well.”  The excellent mayor grew slightly pale.

“My wife!” cried he, alarmed.  “What do you mean?  Explain yourself.”

“The postman arrived just now,” returned Baptiste with a most tranquil air, “and I carried the letters to madame, who was in the drawing-room.  Hardly had I turned on my heels when I heard a shriek, and the noise of someone falling to the floor.”  Baptiste spoke slowly, taking artful pains to prolong his master’s anguish.

“Speak! go on!” cried the mayor, exasperated.  “Speak, won’t you?”

“I naturally opened the drawing-room door again.  What did I see? madame, at full length on the floor.  I called for help; the chambermaid, cook, and others came hastening up, and we carried madame to her bed.  Justine said that it was a letter from Mademoiselle Laurence which overcame my mistress—­”

At each word Baptiste hesitated, reflected; his eyes, giving the lie to his solemn face, betrayed the great satisfaction he felt in relating his master’s misfortunes.

His master was full of consternation.  As it is with all of us, when we know not exactly what ill is about to befall us, he dared not ask any questions.  He stood still, crushed; lamenting, instead of hastening home.  M. Plantat profited by the pause to question the servant, with a look which Baptiste dared not disobey.

“What, a letter from Mademoiselle Laurence?  Isn’t she here, then?”

“No, sir:  she went away a week ago, to pass a month with one of her aunts.”

“And how is madame?”

“Better, sir; only she cries piteously.”

The unfortunate mayor had now somewhat recovered his presence of mind.  He seized Baptiste by the arm.