had written to inquire about Claudine's past life; it
was now Monday, and no reply had arrived.

And yet photography was in existence, and the electric telegraph. They
had at their service a thousand means, formerly unknown; and they made
no use of them.

"Every one," said the magistrate, "believed her a widow. She herself
pretended to be one."

"Yes, for in that way she partly excused her conduct. Besides, it was an
arrangement between ourselves. I had told her that I would have nothing
more to do with her."

"Indeed? Well, you know that she is dead, victim of an odious crime?"

"The detective who brought me here told me of it, sir," replied the
sailor, his face darkening. "She was a wretch!" he added in a hollow
voice.

"How? You, her husband, accuse her?"

"I have but too good reason to do so, sir. Ah, my dead father, who
foresaw it all at the time, warned me! I laughed, when he said, 'Take
care, or she will dishonour us all.' He was right. Through her, I
have been hunted down by the police, just like some skulking thief.
Everywhere that they inquired after me with their warrant, people must
have said 'Ah, ha, he has then committed some crime!' And here I am
before a magistrate! Ah, sir, what a disgrace! The Lerouges have been
honest people, from father to son, ever since the world began.
Inquire of all who have ever had dealings with me, they will tell you,
'Lerouge's word is as good as another man's writing.' Yes, she was a
wicked woman; and I have often told her that she would come to a bad
end."

"You told her that?"

"More than a hundred times, sir."

"Why? Come, my friend, do not be uneasy, your honour is not at stake
here, no one questions it. When did you warn her so wisely?"

"Ah, a long time ago, sir," replied the sailor, "the first time was more
than thirty years back. She had ambition even in her blood; she wished
to mix herself up in the intrigues of the great. It was that that ruined
her. She said that one got money for keeping secrets; and I said that
one got disgraced and that was all. To help the great to hide their
villainies, and to expect happiness from it, is like making your bed of
thorns, in the hope of sleeping well. But she had a will of her own."

"You were her husband, though," objected M. Daburon, "you had the right
to command her obedience."

The sailor shook his head, and heaved a deep sigh.

"Alas, sir! it was I who obeyed."

To proceed by short inquiries with a wit