by paper not even oiled. All the windows
were without curtains, the fireplaces without mirrors or andirons; the
hearth was garnished with one log of wood and a few little sticks almost
caked with the soot which had fallen down the chimney. There were two
rickety chairs, two thin couches, a few cracked pots and mended plates,
a one-armed armchair, a dilapidated bed, the curtains of which time had
embroidered with a bold hand, a worm-eaten secretary where the miser
kept his seeds, a pile of linen thickened by many darns, and a heap
of ragged garments, which existed only by the will of their master; he
being dead they dropped into shreds, powder, chemical dissolution, in
fact I know not into what form of utter ruin, as soon as the heir or the
officers of the law laid rough hands upon them; they disappeared as if
afraid of being publicly sold.

The population at Limoges was much concerned for these worthy des
Vanneaulx, who had two children; and yet, no sooner did the law lay
hands upon the reputed doer of the crime than the guilty personage
absorbed attention, became a hero, and the des Vanneaulx were relegated
into a corner of the picture.

Toward the end of March Madame Graslin began to feel some of those pains
which precede a first confinement and cannot be concealed. The inquiry
as to the murder was then going on, but the murderer had not as yet been
arrested.

Veronique now received her friends in her bedroom, where they played
whist. For several days past Madame Graslin had not left the house, and
she seemed to be tormented by several of those caprices attributed to
women in her condition. Her mother came to see her almost every day, and
the two women remained for hours in consultation.

It was nine o'clock, and the card tables were still without players, for
every one was talking of the murder. Monsieur de Grandville entered the
room.

"We have arrested the murderer of old Pingret," he said, joyfully.

"Who is it?" was asked on all sides.

"A porcelain workman; a man whose character has always been excellent,
and who was in a fair way to make his fortune. He worked in your
husband's old factory," added Monsieur de Grandville, turning to Madame
Graslin.

"What is his name?" asked Veronique, in a weak voice.

"Jean-Francois Tascheron."

"Unhappy man!" she answered. "Yes, I have often seen him; my poor father
recommended him to my care as some one to be looked after."

"He left the factory before Sauviat'