of him, he had
a horror of the solitude of his cell, a dread of sleep.

All Rodez had listened to Bousquier's statements with feverish avidity.
Finally the form of the stranger with the double-barreled gun obtained
distinctness and tangibility. That he had the air of a gentleman
spurred the rage of the people, and the Legitimist party, which was
composed in great part of the rich and the aristocracy, began to
tremble. It was probably among them that a person was first mentioned
whose name ran, first cautiously, then boldly, then accusingly, from
mouth to mouth, and over whose head a thunder-cloud, born of a wreath
of mist, hung arrested, quivering with lightning. It was well known
that Bastide Grammont, the tenant of La Morne, in spite of his
relationship to the lawyer Fualdes, lived in a state of animosity, or
at least of the oppressive dependence of a debtor, with the old man.
Every one knew, or thought he knew, that stormy scenes had often taken
place between uncle and nephew. Was not that enough? Moreover,
Bastide's domineering temperament and harsh nature, the sudden sale of
La Morne, and a well connected chain of little suspicious signs--who
still dared to doubt?

The unwearied architect who was at work somewhere there, in the earth
below or the air above, took care that the circle of ruin should be
complete, and enlisted associates with malicious pleasure in every
street, among high and low. In the forenoon of the nineteenth of March,
Fualdes and Grammont were walking up and down the promenade of Rodez. A
woman who dealt in second-hand things had heard the young fellow say to
the old man: "This evening, then, at eight o'clock." A mason who was
shoveling sand for a new building had heard Monsieur Fualdes exclaim:
"You will keep your word, then?" Whereupon Grammont replied: "Set your
mind at rest, this evening I shall settle my account with you." The
music-teacher Lacombe remembered distinctly how Bastide, with a
wrathful countenance, had called to the old man: "You drive me to
extremity." The idle talk of a chatterbox gained, in the buzz of
hearsay, the same importance as well established observations, and what
had been said before and after was blended and combined with audacious
arbitrariness. Thus, Professor Vignet, one of the heads of the
Royalists, alleged that he had gone into a fruit store about seven in
the evening, shortly before the murder, and met one of his colleagues
there. He related that he had s