“I presume you know, M. Gerdy,” he began, “the matters in connection with which you are troubled with appearing before me?”

“Yes, sir, the murder of that poor old woman at La Jonchere.”

“Precisely,” replied M. Daburon.  Then, calling to mind his promise to old Tabaret, he added, “If justice has summoned you so promptly, it is because we have found your name often mentioned in Widow Lerouge’s papers.”

“I am not surprised at that,” replied the advocate:  “we were greatly interested in that poor woman, who was my nurse; and I know that Madame Gerdy wrote to her frequently.”

“Very well; then you can give me some information about her.”

“I fear, sir, that it will be very incomplete.  I know very little about this poor old Madame Lerouge.  I was taken from her at a very early age; and, since I have been a man, I have thought but little about her, except to send her occasionally a little aid.”

“You never went to visit her?”

“Excuse me.  I have gone there to see her many times, but I remained only a few minutes.  Madame Gerdy, who has often seen her, and to whom she talked of all her affairs, could have enlightened you much better than I.”

“But,” said the magistrate, “I expect shortly to see Madame Gerdy here; she, too, must have received a summons.”

“I know it, sir, but it is impossible for her to appear.  She is ill in bed.”

“Seriously?”

“So seriously that you will be obliged, I think, to give up all hope of her testimony.  She is attacked with a disease which, in the words of my friend, Dr. Herve, never forgives.  It is something like inflammation of the brain, if I am not mistaken.  It may be that her life will be saved, but she will never recover her reason.  If she does not die, she will be insane.”

M. Daburon appeared greatly vexed.  “This is very annoying,” he muttered.  “And you think, my dear sir, that it will be impossible to obtain any information from her?”

“It is useless even to hope for it.  She has completely lost her reason.  She was, when I left her, in such a state of utter prostration that I fear she can not live through the day.”

“And when was she attacked by this illness?”

“Yesterday evening.”

“Suddenly?”

“Yes, sir; at least, apparently so, though I myself think she has been unwell for the last three weeks at least.  Yesterday, however, on rising from dinner, after having eaten but little, she took up a newspaper; and, by a most unfortunate hazard, her eyes fell exactly upon the lines which gave an account of this crime.  She at once uttered a loud cry, fell back in her chair, and thence slipped to the floor, murmuring, ’Oh, the unhappy man, the unhappy man!’”

“The unhappy woman, you mean.”

“No, sir.  She uttered the words I have just repeated.  Evidently the exclamation did not refer to my poor nurse.”