not exactly what ill is about to befall us, he dared
not ask any questions. He stood still, crushed; lamenting, instead
of hastening home. M. Plantat profited by the pause to question
the servant, with a look which Baptiste dared not disobey.

"What, a letter from Mademoiselle Laurence? Isn't she here, then?"

"No, sir: she went away a week ago, to pass a month with one of her
aunts."

"And how is madame?"

"Better, sir; only she cries piteously."

The unfortunate mayor had now somewhat recovered his presence of
mind. He seized Baptiste by the arm.

"Come along," cried he, "come along!"

They hastened off.

"Poor man!" said the judge of instruction. "Perhaps his daughter
is dead."

M. Plantat shook his head.

"If it were only that!" muttered he. He added, turning to M.
Domini:

"Do you recall the allusions of Bertaud, monsieur?"

VII

The judge of instruction, the doctor, and M. Plantat exchanged a
significant look. What misfortune had befallen M. Courtois, this
worthy, and despite his faults, excellent person? Decidedly, this
was an ill-omened day!

"If we are to speak of Bertaud's allusions," said M. Lecoq, "I have
heard two very curious stories, though I have been here but a few
hours. It seems that this Mademoiselle Laurence--"

M. Plantat abruptly interrupted the detective.

"Calumnies! odious calumnies! The lower classes, to annoy the rich,
do not hesitate to say all sorts of things against them. Don't you
know it? Is it not always so? The gentry, above all, those of a
provincial town, live in glass houses. The lynx eyes of envy watch
them steadily night and day, spy on them, surprise what they regard
as their most secret actions to arm themselves against them. The
bourgeois goes on, proud and content; his business prospers; he
possesses the esteem and friendship of his own class; all this
while, he is vilified by the lower classes, his name dragged in the
dust, soiled by suppositions the most mischievous. Envy, Monsieur,
respects nothing, no one."

"If Laurence has been slandered," observed Dr. Gendron, smiling,
"she has a good advocate to defend her."

The old justice of the peace (the man of bronze, as M. Courtois
called him) blushed slightly, a little embarrassed.

"There are causes," said he, quietly, "which defend themselves.
Mademoiselle Courtois is one of those young girls who has a right
to all respect. But there are evils which no laws can c