“Who could have imagined that Monsieur Maxence Gilet was so much beloved?” said Lousteau-Prangin.
“There are twelve hundred people at this moment pouring out of the Roman suburb,” said the lieutenant, “so one of my men has just told me—and shrieking for the assassin’s death.”
“Where is your guest?” asked Monsieur Mouilleron.
“He is gone for a walk in the country, I believe,” said Hochon.
“Call back Gritte,” said the examining judge gravely. “I hoped that Monsieur Bridau might not have left the house. You know, of course, that the crime was committed only a few yards from this house, just at daybreak?”
While Monsieur Hochon went to fetch Gritte, the three functionaries exchanged glances full of meaning.
“I never took to that painter’s face,” said the lieutenant to Monsieur Mouilleron.
“Listen to me,” said the lawyer to Gritte, as she came in. “You saw Monsieur Joseph Bridau go out this morning, I am told?”
“Yes, sir,” replied she, shaking like a leaf.
“At what hour?”
“Directly after I got up; for he was tramping in his room all night, and he was dressed when I came down.”
“Was it daylight?”
“Twilight.”
“And he seemed excited?”
“I should think he did!—He seemed to me quite how-come-you-so.”
“Send one of your men for my clerk,” said Lousteau-Prangin to the lieutenant, “and tell him to bring forms—”
“Good God! don’t be in a hurry,” said Monsieur Hochon. “The young man’s excitement may be accounted for without any premeditated crime. He is starting for Paris today in consequence of a matter in which Gilet and Mademoiselle Flore Brazier chose to doubt his honesty.”
“Yes, the business about the pictures,” said Monsieur Mouilleron. “It was the cause of a vehement quarrel yesterday, and artists are always ready to catch fire under the thatch, as they say.”
“Who in all Issoudun would have any interest in killing Max?” said Lousteau. “Nobody; no jealous husband, no one whatever, for the man has never injured anyone.”
“But what was Monsieur Gilet doing in the streets at half-past four in the morning?” said Monsieur Hochon.
“Look here, Monsieur Hochon, leave us to manage our own business,” replied Mouilleron. “You do not know all. Max saw and knew your painter—”
At this instant a roar started from the bottom of the town, increasing as it rolled up the Grande Narette like the advance of a peal of thunder.
“Here he is!—here he is! They have got him!” These words stood out clearly above the deep bars of a terrific growl from the mob. In fact, poor Joseph Bridau, coming quietly home past the mill at Landrôle to be in time for breakfast, was seen as he reached the Place Misère by everybody at once. Happily for him, two men at arms came running down to rescue him from the mob of the Roman suburb, who had already seized him roughly by the arms, threatening to kill him.
“Make way! Clear out!” said the gendarmes, calling two others to come and walk one in front and one behind Bridau.
“You see, monsieur,” said one of the four who had taken hold of him, “our skin is in danger at this moment as much as yours. Innocent or guilty, we must protect you against the riot caused by the murder of Captain Gilet; these people will not be satisfied with accusing you; they believe you to be the assassin as sure as death. Monsieur Gilet is worshiped by those men—look at them; they would love to execute justice on you themselves. We saw them in 1830 when they thrashed the excise men; it was no joke, I can tell you.”
Joseph Bridau turned as pale as death, and collected all his strength to keep on his feet.
“After all,” said he, “I had nothing to do with it. Come on!”
And he had to bear his cross! He was the object of yells, abuse, threats of death, at every step of the horrible walk from the Place Misère to the Place Saint-Jean. The gendarmes were obliged to draw their swords to intimidate the angry crowd who threw stones at them. The force barely escaped being hurt, and some of the missiles hit Joseph’s legs, shoulders, and hat.
“Here we are,” said one of the men, as they went into Monsieur Hochon’s room; “and it was not an easy job, Lieutenant.”
“Now, the next thing is to disperse this crowd, and I see but one way, gentlemen,” said the officer to the magistrates. “It is to get Monsieur Bridau to the Palais de Justice by making him walk between you. I and all my men will keep close round you. It is impossible to answer for what may happen when you are face to face with six thousand furious creatures.”
“You are right,” said Monsieur Hochon, still quaking for his gold.
“If that is the best way you have at Issoudun of protecting innocence, I must congratulate you!” said Joseph. “I have already been within an ace of being stoned—”
“Do you want to see your host’s house attacked and pillaged?” said the lieutenant. “Could we, with our swords, offer effectual resistance to a surge of men driven on by a posse of angry people who know nothing of the forms of justice?”
“Oh! come on, gentlemen; we will talk it out afterwards,” said Joseph, who had recovered his presence of mind.
“Make way, my friends,” said the lieutenant, “he is arrested; we are going to take him to the Palais de Justice.”
“Respect the law, my good fellows!” said Monsieur Mouilleron.
“Would not you sooner see him guillotined?” said one of the gendarmes to a menacing group.
“Ay, ay!” cried an infuriated bystander. “Guillotine him!”
“He is to be guillotined!” repeated some women.
At the bottom of the Grande Narette they were saying:
“They are taking him off to be guillotined; the knife was found upon him! Oh! the wretch!—That is your Parisian!—Why, he has crime written on his face!”
Though Joseph’s blood seethed
