“At the sound of the terrible fire-bell, all the inhabitants of the neighboring villages hurry to the spot.  But there is no one to direct their efforts; there are no engines; and they can do nothing.

“But all of a sudden a distant rumbling sound revives hope in their hearts.  They know the fire-engines are coming.  They come; they reach the spot; and whatever men can do is done at once.

“But great God!  What mean those cries of horror which suddenly rise on all sides?  The roof of the house is falling, and buries under its ruins two men, the most zealous and most courageous of all the zealous and courageous men,—­Bolton the drummer, who had just now summoned his neighbors to come to the rescue, and Guillebault, a father with five children.

“High above the crash and the hissing of flames rise their heart-rending cries.  They call for help.  Will they be allowed to perish?  A gendarme rushes forward, and with him a farmer from Brechy.  But their heroism is useless:  the monster keeps its prey.  The two men also are apparently doomed; and only by unheard-of efforts, and at great peril of life, can they be rescued from the furnace.  But they are so grievously wounded, that they will remain infirm for the rest of their lives, compelled to appeal to public charity for their subsistence.”

Then the prosecuting attorney proceeds to paint the whole of the disaster at Valpinson in the sombrest colors, and with all the resources of his well-known eloquence.  He describes the Countess Claudieuse as she kneels by the side of her dying husband, while the crowd is eagerly pressing around the wounded man and struggling with the flames for the charred remains of the unfortunate firemen.  With increasing vehemence, he says next,—­

“And during all this time what becomes of the author of these fearful misdeeds?  When his hatred is gratified, he flees through the wood, and returns to his home.  Remorse, there is none.  As soon as he reaches the house, he eats, drinks, smokes his cigar.  His position in the country is such, and the precautionary measures he had taken appear to him so well chosen, that he thinks he is above suspicion.  He is calm.  He feels so perfectly safe, that he neglects the commonest precautions, and does not even take the trouble of pouring out the water in which he has washed his hands, blackened as they are by the fire he has just kindled.

“He forgets that Providence whose torch on great occasions illumines and guides human justice.

“And how, indeed, could the law ever have expected to find the guilty man in one of the most magnificent chateaux of the country but for a direct intervention of Providence?

“For the incendiary, the assassin, was actually there, at the Chateau Boiscoran.

“And let no one come and tell us that the past life of Jacques de Boiscoran is such as to protect him against the formidable charges that are brought against him.  We know his past life.