“What!” added Gevrol to his companions, “don’t you know Mother Chupin’s drinking-shop there on the right.  Run.”

And, setting the example, he dashed off in the direction indicated.  His men followed, and in less than a minute they reached a hovel of sinister aspect, standing alone, in a tract of waste ground.  It was indeed from this den that the cries had proceeded.  They were now repeated, and were immediately followed by two pistol shots.  The house was hermetically closed, but through the cracks in the window-shutters, gleamed a reddish light like that of a fire.  One of the police agents darted to one of these windows, and raising himself up by clinging to the shutters with his hands, endeavored to peer through the cracks, and to see what was passing within.

Gevrol himself ran to the door.  “Open!” he commanded, striking it heavily.  No response came.  But they could hear plainly enough the sound of a terrible struggle—­of fierce imprecations, hollow groans, and occasionally the sobs of a woman.

“Horrible!” cried the police agent, who was peering through the shutters; “it is horrible!”

This exclamation decided Gevrol.  “Open, in the name of the law!” he cried a third time.

And no one responding, with a blow of the shoulder that was as violent as a blow from a battering-ram, he dashed open the door.  Then the horror-stricken accent of the man who had been peering through the shutters was explained.  The room presented such a spectacle that all the agents, and even Gevrol himself, remained for a moment rooted to the threshold, shuddering with unspeakable horror.

Everything denoted that the house had been the scene of a terrible struggle, of one of those savage conflicts which only too often stain the barriere drinking dens with blood.  The lights had been extinguished at the beginning of the strife, but a blazing fire of pine logs illuminated even the furthest corners of the room.  Tables, glasses, decanters, household utensils, and stools had been overturned, thrown in every direction, trodden upon, shivered into fragments.  Near the fireplace two men lay stretched upon the floor.  They were lying motionless upon their backs, with their arms crossed.  A third was extended in the middle of the room.  A woman crouched upon the lower steps of a staircase leading to the floor above.  She had thrown her apron over her head, and was uttering inarticulate moans.  Finally, facing the police, and with his back turned to an open door leading into an adjoining room, stood a young man, in front of whom a heavy oaken table formed, as it were, a rampart.

He was of medium stature, and wore a full beard.  His clothes, not unlike those of a railway porter, were torn to fragments, and soiled with dust and wine and blood.  This certainly was the murderer.  The expression on his face was terrible.  A mad fury blazed in his eyes, and a convulsive sneer distorted his features.  On his neck and cheek were two wounds which bled profusely.  In his right hand, covered with a handkerchief, he held a pistol, which he aimed at the intruders.