“Come, you also, Claudet, are not you one of the guardians of the seals?”

And they wended their silent way, up the winding staircase of the turret.  The high, dark silhouette of Manette headed the procession; then followed the justice, carefully choosing his foothold on the well-worn stairs, the asthmatic old bailiff, breathing short and hard, the notary, beating his foot impatiently every time that Seurrot stopped to take breath, and finally the principal clerk and Claudet.

Manette, opening noiselessly the door of the deceased’s room, entered, as if it were a church, the somewhat stifling apartment.  Then she threw open the shutters, and the afternoon sun revealed an interior decorated and furnished in the style of the close of the eighteenth century.  An inlaid secretary, with white marble top and copper fittings, stood near the bed, of which the coverings had been removed, showing the mattresses piled up under a down bed covered with blue-and-white check.

As soon as the door was closed, the clerk settled himself at the table with his packet of stamped paper, and began to run over, in a low, rapid voice, the preliminaries of the inventory.  In this confused murmuring some fragments of phrases would occasionally strike the ear:  “Chateau of Vivey—­deceased the eighth of October last—­at the requisition of Marie-Julien de Buxieres, comptroller of direct contributions at Nancy—­styling himself heir to Claude Odouart de Buxieres, his cousin-german by blood—­”

This last phrase elicited from Claudet a sudden movement of surprise.

“The inventory,” explained Maitre Arbillot, “is drawn up at the requisition of the only heir named, to whom we must make application, if necessary, for the property left by the deceased.”

There was a moment of silence, interrupted by a plaintive sigh from Manette Sejournant and afterward by the tearing sound of the sealed bands across the bureau, the drawers and pigeonholes of which were promptly ransacked by the justice and his assistant.

Odouart de Buxieres had not been much of a scribe.  A double Liege almanac, a memorandum-book, in which he had entered the money received from the sale of his wood and the dates of the payments made by his farmers; a daybook, in which he had made careful note of the number of head of game killed each day—­that was all the bureau contained.

“Let us examine another piece of furniture,” murmured the justice.

Manette and Claudet remained unmoved.  They apparently knew the reason why none but insignificant papers had been found in the drawers, for their features expressed neither surprise nor disappointment.