t,
and M. Plantat applied for and obtained it. Once installed in this
office, he suffered less from ennui. This man, who saw his life
drawing to an end, undertook to interest himself in the thousand
diverse cases which came before him. He applied to these all the
forces of a superior intelligence, the resources of a mind admirably
fitted to separate the false from the true among the lies he was
forced to hear. He persisted, besides, in living alone, despite
the urging of M. Courtois; pretending that society fatigued him,
and that an unhappy man is a bore in company.

Misfortune, which modifies characters, for good or bad, had made
him, apparently, a great egotist. He declared that he was only
interested in the affairs of life as a critic tired of its active
scenes. He loved to make a parade of his profound indifference
for everything, swearing that a rain of fire descending upon Paris,
would not even make him turn his head. To move him seemed
impossible. "What's that to me?" was his invariable exclamation.

Such was the man who, a quarter of an hour after Baptiste's
departure, entered the mayor's house.

M. Plantat was tall, thin, and nervous. His physiognomy was not
striking. His hair was short, his restless eyes seemed always to
be seeking something, his very long nose was narrow and sharp.
After his affliction, his mouth, formerly well shaped, became
deformed; his lower lip had sunk, and gave him a deceptive look of
simplicity.

"They tell me," said he, at the threshold, "that Madame de Tremorel
has been murdered."

"These men here, at least, pretend so," answered the mayor, who had
just reappeared.

M. Courtois was no longer the same man. He had had time to make
his toilet a little. His face attempted to express a haughty
coldness. He had been reproaching himself for having been wanting
in dignity, in showing his grief before the Bertauds. "Nothing
ought to agitate a man in my position," said he to himself. And,
being terribly agitated, he forced himself to be calm, cold, and
impassible.

M. Plantat was so naturally.

"This is a very sad event," said he, in a tone which he forced
himself to make perfectly disinterested; "but after all, how does
it concern us? We must, however, hurry and ascertain whether it
is true. I have sent for the brigadier, and he will join us."

"Let us go," said M. Courtois; "I have my scarf in my pocket."

They hastened off. Philippe and his father went first, the young
man