e tone of his son's voice that something unusual had
happened. He threw down his scoop, and, anxiety quickening him, in
three leaps was in the park. He also stood still, horror-struck,
before the spectacle which had terrified Philippe.

On the bank of the river, among the stumps and flags, was stretched
a woman's body. Her long, dishevelled locks lay among the
water-shrubs; her dress--of gray silk--was soiled with mire and
blood. All the upper part of the body lay in shallow water, and
her face had sunk in the mud.

"A murder!" muttered Philippe, whose voice trembled.

"That's certain," responded Jean, in an indifferent tone. "But who
can this woman be? Really one would say, the countess."

"We'll see," said the young man. He stepped toward the body; his
father caught him by the arm.

"What would you do, fool?" said he. "You ought never to touch the
body of a murdered person without legal authority."

"You think so?"

"Certainly. There are penalties for it."

"Then, come along and let's inform the Mayor."

"Why? as if people hereabouts were not against us enough already!
Who knows that they would not accuse us--"

"But, father--"

"If we go and inform Monsieur Courtois, he will ask us how and why
we came to be in Monsieur de Tremorel's park to find this out. What
is it to you, that the countess has been killed? They'll find her
body without you. Come, let's go away."

But Philippe did not budge. Hanging his head, his chin resting
upon his palm, he reflected.

"We must make this known," said he, firmly. "We are not savages;
we will tell Monsieur Courtois that in passing along by the park in
our boat, we perceived the body."

Old Jean resisted at first; then, seeing that his son would, if
need be, go without him, yielded.

They re-crossed the ditch, and leaving their fishing-tackle in the
field, directed their steps hastily toward the mayor's house.

Orcival, situated a mile or more from Corbeil, on the right bank
of the Seine, is one of the most charming villages in the environs
of Paris, despite the infernal etymology of its name. The gay and
thoughtless Parisian, who, on Sunday, wanders about the fields,
more destructive than the rook, has not yet discovered this smiling
country. The distressing odor of the frying from coffee-gardens
does not there stifle the perfume of the honeysuckles. The refrains
of bargemen, the brazen voices of boat-horns, have never awakened
echoes there. Lazily situated on