The Mystery of Orcival | Page 5

here
while I slip on my coat."
The justice of the peace at Orcival, M. Plantat - "Papa Plantat," as he
was called - was formerly an attorney at Melun. At fifty, Mr. Plantat,
whose career had been one of unbroken prosperity, lost in the same
month, his wife, whom he adored, and his two sons, charming youths,
one eighteen, the other twenty-two years old. These successive losses
crushed a man whom thirty years of happiness left without defence

against misfortune. For a long time his reason was despaired of. Even
the sight of a client, coming to trouble his grief, to recount stupid tales
of self-interest, exasperated him. It was not surprising that he sold out
his professional effects and good-will at half price. He wished to
establish himself at his ease in his grief, with the certainty of not being
disturbed in its indulgence.
But the intensity of his mourning diminished, and the ills of idleness
came. The justiceship of the peace at Orcival was vacant, 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
eager and impatient, the old one sombre and thoughtful. The mayor, at
each step, made some exclamation.
"I can't understand it," muttered he; "a murder in my commune! a
commune where, in the memory of men, no crime has been
committed!"
And be directed a suspicious glance toward the two Bertauds. The road
which led toward the chateau of M. de Tremorel was an unpleasant one,
shut in by walls a dozen feet high. On one side is the park of the
Marchioness de Lanascol; on the other the spacious garden of Saint
Jouan. The going and coming had taken time; it was nearly eight
o'clock when the mayor, the justice, and their guides stopped before the
gate of M. de Tremorel.
The mayor rang. The bell was very large; only a small gravelled court
of five or six yards separated the gate from the house; nevertheless no
one appeared.

The mayor rang more vigorously, then with all his strength; but in vain.
Before the gate of Mme. de Lanascol's chateau, nearly opposite, a
groom was standing, occupied in cleaning and polishing a bridle-bit.
"It's of no use to ring, gentlemen," said this man; there's nobody in the
chateau."
"How! nobody?" asked the mayor, surprised.
"I mean,"