Lerouge could scarcely utter another word.  Great drops of sweat stood out upon his brow, then, trickling down his cheeks, lodged in the deep wrinkles of his face.  He panted; but the magistrate’s stern glance harassed him, and urged him on, like the whip which flogs the negro slave overcome with fatigue.

“The little fellow’s wound,” he resumed, “was terrible.  It bled dreadfully, and he might have died; but I didn’t think of that.  I was only troubled about the future, about what might happen afterwards.  I declared that I would write out all that had occurred, and that everyone should sign it.  This was done; we could all four write.  Germain didn’t dare resist; for I spoke with knife in hand.  He wrote his name first, begging me to say nothing about it to the count, swearing that, for his part, he would never breathe a word of it, and pledging the other nurse to a like secrecy.”

“And have you kept this paper?” asked M. Daburon.

“Yes, sir, and as the detective to whom I confessed all, advised me to bring it with me, I went to take it from the place where I always kept it, and I have it here.”

“Give it to me.”

Lerouge took from his coat pocket an old parchment pocket-book, fastened with a leather thong, and withdrew from it a paper yellowed by age and carefully sealed.

“Here it is,” said he.  “The paper hasn’t been opened since that accursed night.”

And, in fact, when the magistrate unfolded it, some dust fell out, which had been used to keep the writing, when wet, from blotting.

It was really a brief description of the scene, described by the old sailor.  The four signatures were there.

“What has become of the witnesses who signed this declaration?” murmured the magistrate, speaking to himself.

Lerouge, who thought the question was put to him, replied, “Germain is dead.  I have been told that he was drowned when out rowing.  Claudine has just been assassinated; but the other nurse still lives.  I even know that she spoke of the affair to her husband, for he hinted as much to me.  His name is Brosette, and she lives in the village of Commarin itself.”

“And what next?” asked the magistrate, after having taken down the name and address.

“The next day, sir, Claudine managed to pacify me, and extorted a promise of secrecy.  The child was scarcely ill at all; but he retained an enormous scar on his arm.”

“Was Madame Gerdy informed of what took place?”

“I do not think so, sir.  But I would rather say that I do not know.”

“What! you do not know?”

“Yes, sir, I swear it.  You see my ignorance comes from what happened afterwards.”

“What happened, then?”

The sailor hesitated.

“That, sir, concerns only myself, and—­”

“My friend,” interrupted the magistrate, “you are an honest man, I believe; in fact, I am sure of it.  But once in your life, influenced by a wicked woman, you did wrong, you became an accomplice in a very guilty action.  Repair that error by speaking truly now.  All that is said here, and which is not directly connected with the crime, will remain secret; even I will forget it immediately.  Fear nothing, therefore; and, if you experience some humiliation, think that it is your punishment for the past.”