As soon as Monsieur Goddet had probed the wound, and ascertained that the knife, turned by a little pocketbook, had happily missed aim, though it had left a frightful gash, he did as all doctors do, and especially country surgeons—he gave himself airs of importance, and “could not answer for the patient’s life.” Then, after dressing the rascally soldier’s wound, he went away. This medical verdict he repeated to la Rabouilleuse, to Jean-Jacques Rouget, to Kouski, and Védie. La Rabouilleuse went back to her dear Max drowned in tears, while Kouski and Védie informed the crowd assembled at the door that the captain was as good as done for. The result of this news was that above two hundred persons collected in groups on the Place Saint-Jean and in the upper and lower Narette.
“I shall not be in bed a month,” said Max to Flore, “and I know who struck the blow. But we will take advantage of it to get rid of the Parisians. I said I fancied I had recognized the painter; so pretend that I am dying, and try to have Joseph Bridau arrested; we will give him a taste of prison for a couple of days. I think I know the mother well enough to feel sure that she will be off to Paris then posthaste with her painter. Then we need no longer fear the volley of priests they talked of firing at our old idiot.”
When Flore Brazier went down, she found the mob quite prepared to receive the impression she wished to make on them; she appeared before them with tears in her eyes, and remarked that the painter, “who for that matter looked bad enough for anything,” had quarreled fiercely with Max the day before about the pictures he had “boned” from Père Rouget. “That brigand—for you have only to look in his face to feel sure—thinks that if Max were out of the way, his uncle would leave him his fortune. As if,” added she, “a brother wasn’t closer than a nephew! Max is Doctor Rouget’s son; the old man owned up as much afore he died.”
“Ay, he thought he could do the trick before he left; he planned it very neatly: he is going today,” said one of the Knights of Idlesse.
“Max has not a single enemy in the town,” observed another.
“Besides, Max recognized the painter,” said la Rabouilleuse.
“Where is that damned Parisian? Let us find him,” cried one and another.
“Find him? Why, he stole out of Monsieur Hochon’s house before daylight.”
One of the Knights at once ran off to find Monsieur Mouilleron. The crowd was still swelling, and voices grew threatening. Excited groups filled the whole of the Grande Narette; others stood in front of the Church of Saint-Jean. A mob filled the Vilatte gate where the lower Narette ends. It was impossible to stir above or below the Place Saint-Jean. It was like the fag-end of a procession. And Messieurs Lousteau-Prangin and Mouilleron, with the Superintendent of Police, the Lieutenant of the Gendarmerie, and his sergeant with two gendarmes, had some difficulty in getting to the spot, which they reached between two hedges of the populace, whose shouts and yells could not fail to prejudice them against the “Parisian,” to whom circumstantial evidence pointed so strongly though he was unjustly accused.
After an interview between Max and the lawyers, Monsieur Mouilleron sent the Superintendent of Police and the sergeant, with one gendarme, to examine what, in the language of police reports, is called the Scene of the Crime. Then Mouilleron and Lousteau-Prangin, escorted by the lieutenant, crossed from Père Rouget’s house to Monsieur Hochon’s, which was guarded at the garden entrance by two gendarmes, while two more were posted at the street-door. The mob was still collecting; the whole town was in a hubbub in the Grand’ Rue.
Gritte had long since flown, breathless with terror, to her master’s room, exclaiming:
“Monsieur, they are going to rob the house.—All the town is in a riot!—Monsieur Maxence Gilet is killed; he is going to die!—And they say that it was Monsieur Joseph that stabbed him!”
Monsieur Hochon hastily dressed and came down; but seeing the furious crowd, he at once retreated within doors and barred the entrance. On questioning Gritte, he ascertained that his guest, after walking about all night in great excitement, had gone out before daylight, and that he had not come in. Much alarmed, he went to his wife’s room; the noise had just roused her, and he told her the horrible report which, true or false, had brought all Issoudun out to the Place Saint-Jean.
“Of course he is innocent!” said Madame Hochon.
“But before his innocence is proved, the mob may force their way in and rob us,” said Monsieur Hochon, who had turned ashy pale. He had gold in his cellars.
“And Agathe?”
“She is sleeping like a marmot.”
“Ah, so much the better!” said Madame Hochon; “I only wish she could sleep on till this matter is cleared up. Such a blow might kill the poor child.”
But Agathe soon woke; she came down half-dressed, for Gritte’s hints and concealments, when she questioned the woman, had sickened her heart and brain. She found Madame Hochon pale, and her eyes full of tears, standing at one of the drawing-room windows with her husband.
“Courage, my child! God sends us all our troubles,” said the old lady. “Joseph is accused—”
“Of what?”
“Of a wicked deed he cannot possibly have done,” said Madame Hochon.
On hearing this speech, and seeing the lieutenant of the watch come in with Messieurs Lousteau-Prangin and Mouilleron, Agathe fainted away.
“Look here,” said Monsieur Hochon to his wife and Gritte, “just carry Madame Bridau away. Women are only a trouble under such circumstances. Go away, both of you, with her, and stay in your room.—Gentlemen, pray be seated,” added the old man. “The mistake to which we owe this visit will, I hope, soon be cleared up.”
“Even if
