“That poor Dionysia is capable of dying of it.  In your place, I would go at once to M. de Chandore, and inform him in the most cautious manner of what has happened.”

“I shall take good care not to do so,” replied M. Seneschal; “and I tell you expressly not to go there yourself.”

For he was by no means a philosopher; and, if he had been his own master, he would have taken the first train, and gone off a hundred miles, so as not to see the grief of the Misses Lavarande and Grandpapa Chandore.  He was exceedingly fond of Dionysia:  he had been hard at work for years to settle and to add to her fortune, as if she had been his own daughter, and now to witness her grief!  He shuddered at the idea.  Besides, he really did not know what to believe, and influenced by M. Galpin’s assurance, misled by public opinion, he had come to ask himself if Jacques might not, after all, have committed the crimes with which he was charged.

Fortunately his duties were on that day so numerous and so troublesome, that he had no time to think.  He had to provide for the recovery and the transportation of the remains of the two unfortunate victims of the fire; he had to receive the mother of one, and the widow and children of the other, and to listen to their complaints, and try to console them by promising the former a small pension, and the latter some help in the education of their children.  Then he had to give directions to have the wounded men brought home; and, after that, he had gone out in search of a house for Count Claudieuse and his wife, which had given him much trouble.  Finally, a large part of the afternoon had been taken up by an angry discussion with Dr. Seignebos.  The doctor, in the name of outraged society, as he called it, and in the name of justice and humanity, demanded the immediate arrest of Cocoleu, that wretch whose unconscious statement formed the basis of the accusation.  He demanded with a furious oath that the epileptic idiot should be sent to the hospital, and kept there so as to be professionally examined by experts.  The mayor had for some time refused to grant the request, which seemed to him unreasonable; but he doctor had talked so loud and insisted so strongly, that at last he had sent two gendarmes to Brechy with orders to bring back Cocoleu.

They had returned several hours later with empty hands.  The idiot had disappeared; and no one in the whole district had been able to give any information as to this whereabouts.

“And you think that is natural?” exclaimed Dr. Seignebos, whose eyes were glaring at the mayor from under his spectacles.  “To me that looks like an absolute proof that a plot has been hatched to ruin M. de Boiscoran.”

“But can’t you be quiet?” M. Seneschal said angrily.  “Do you think Cocoleu is lost?  He will turn up again.”

The doctor had left him without insisting any longer; but before going home, he had dropped in at his club, and there, in the presence of twenty people he had declared that he had positive proof of a plot formed against M. de Boiscoran, whom the Monarchists had never forgiven for having left them; and that the Jesuits were certainly mixed up with the business.