Long rows of books in calf and gilt were ranged on the carved oaken shelves, a movable table near the fireplace contained M. Plantat’s favorite books, the discreet friends of his solitude.  A spacious conservatory, fitted with every accessory and convenience, was his only luxury.  In it flourished one hundred and thirty-seven varieties of briars.

Two servants, the widow Petit, cook and house-keeper, and Louis, gardener, inhabited the house.  If they did not make it a noisy one, it was because Plantat, who talked little, detested also to hear others talk.  Silence was there a despotic law.  It was very hard for Mme. Petit, especially at first.  She was very talkative, so talkative that when she found no one to chat with, she went to confession; to confess was to chat.  She came near leaving the place twenty times; but the thought of an assured pension restrained her.  Gradually she became accustomed to govern her tongue, and to this cloistral silence.  But she revenged herself outside for the privations of the household, and regained among the neighbors the time lost at home.

She was very much wrought up on the day of the murder.  At eleven o’clock, after going out for news, she had prepared monsieur’s dinner; but he did not appear.  She waited one, two hours, five hours, keeping her water boiling for the eggs; no monsieur.  She wanted to send Louis to look for him, but Louis being a poor talker and not curious, asked her to go herself.  The house was besieged by the female neighbors, who, thinking that Mme. Petit ought to be well posted, came for news; no news to give.

Toward five o’clock, giving up all thought of breakfast, she began to prepare for dinner.  But when the village bell struck eight o’clock, monsieur had not made his appearance.  At nine, the good woman was beside herself, and began to scold Louis, who had just come in from watering the garden, and, seated at the kitchen table, was soberly eating a plate of soup.

The bell rung.

“Ah, there’s monsieur, at last.”

No, it was not monsieur, but a little boy, whom M. Plantat had sent from Valfeuillu to apprise Mme. Petit that he would soon return, bringing with him two guests who would dine and sleep at the house.  The worthy woman nearly fainted.  It was the first time that M. Plantat had invited anyone to dinner for five years.  There was some mystery at the bottom of it—­so thought Mme. Petit, and her anger doubled with her curiosity.

“To order a dinner at this hour,” she grumbled.  “Has he got common-sense, then?” But reflecting that time pressed, she continued: 

“Go along, Louis; this is not the moment for two feet to stay in one shoe.  Hurry up, and wring three chickens’ heads; see if there ain’t some ripe grapes in the conservatory; bring on some preserves; fetch some wine from the cellar!” The dinner was well advanced when the bell rung again.  This time Baptiste appeared, in exceeding bad humor, bearing M. Lecoq’s night-gown.