Croupart’s death did not pass unperceived, but in sum, as he was a rather sorry fellow, no one was overly bothered about him. It was known that he had come to my house, but the prosecutor only interrogated me in the capacity of a witness. The worthy magistrate never thought that I might have been the murderer. One entirely fortuitous circumstance contributed to my reassurance. A cadaver was found in the river, and as it had been in the water for a long time and was greatly disfigured, it was imagined that the bailiff might have drowned himself. There were even some people who thought they recognized him.

I therefore remained alone in the knowledge of my crime…and my remorse. Was it really remorse that I felt? Certainly, I have never trifled with the delicacies of conscience and have always marched through life with my head held high, but the memory of Aristide Croupart did not trouble my nights with hideous nightmares and my mind recovered all its placidity. Did that tranquility come from the treasure I had found—the treasure that would put a end to my preoccupations and worries? It’s possible.

Soon afterwards, Helena and Hector Tremont were married. From then on, fortune smiled on me and I succeeded in everything. How could anyone not have confidence in a man who gave his daughter a dowry of fifty thousand francs—fifty thousand francs in weighty and resonant cash? I had more credit than I wanted, and a few well-conducted deals reestablished my compromised fortunes. Chance reversed its direction and kicked the bad luck out of my house.

My happiness overflowing, I was permitted to send the learned Tiburce Juzans to the Devil whenever he harped on about some scientific theory; but as he was now related by marriage, I took a few precautions and persuaded him that my numerous book-keeping occupations prevented me from listening to him.

“Oh, these businessmen!” the scientist exclaimed, raising his arms toward the heavens.

He landed one straight blow, however, that I could not ward off, and which interested me once again in entomology, more than I would have wished. He asked for my authorization to go back down into the cellar to observe the hatching of a few pupae belonging to some genre of insects or other. How could I refuse? It was necessary to yield to the entomologist’s desire, for my refusal might have had dire consequences.

Spring was enlivening nature and recalling to life everything that had gone to sleep at winter’s approach, so Tiburce Juzans, armed with a powerful magnifying-glass or microscope, went down into the cellar ten times a day and came up full of joy when his observations had permitted him to discover the phases of the metamorphosis he was studying so assiduously.

More than once, the presence of that terrible investigator in my house awakened the memory of Croupart sleeping the eternal slumber in the little cellar into which I had introduced him. It always seemed to me that some unexpected occurrence might put the scientist on the track of my crime. I enquired curiously about the principal causes leading to the prompt destruction of cadavers when they were not buried but enclosed in a hermetically sealed environment.

“They dry out, of course,” Tiburce Juzans replied. “The skin becomes parchment-like, sticks to the bones and, after a certain time, nothing more exists than a more-or-less grimacing mummy. If the cadaver were exposed to the air, of course, or were accidentally to come into contact with the air, it would be quite different.”

“What would happen then?”

“What happened to the pieces of meat deposited in the grounds when I explained the generation of flies to Madame Tremont. In a few days, it would fall prey to maggots.”

“A sepulchral jest,” I said, trying to smile.

“Entomology is not what vain people think,” the scientist went on, laughing in his turn, “and it teaches many things. I’ll wager a hundred to one that you didn’t know that it is often a great help to a medical examiner when, by the simple inspection of a cadaver, he is able to establish the time at which death occurred.”

“Yes,” I replied, keenly impressed. “I didn’t know that.”

“Indeed,” Tiburce Juzans continued. “The problem seems insoluble, and yet it’s remarkably simple. Dr. Brouardel was the first to imagine that the remains of certain insects found on a body exposed to the air to a greater or lesser extent might be a sure indication of the time of death. He communicated his idea to a entomologist, Monsieur P. Megnin,42 and the latter took responsibility for demonstrating the exactitude of that assertion, to the extent that was possible. You’re listening, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” I replied, more intrigued than I wanted to appear.

“Monsieur Megnin proceeded methodically, and convinced himself very quickly that the work of the larvae of Diptera of the Sarcophagian group, and even those of some coleopterans, like carrion beetles, is not isolated. These larvae, as I’ve told you before, absorb the liquid humors of bodies, reducing them to a near-skeletal state, then imbibe the fatty acids that are known by the name of corpse-grease. Then they disappear, to be replaced by the larvae of Dermestes, which absorb all the remaining fatty material. There are still the tendons and the skin—in sum, al the organic parts that are perfectly desiccated. Then Anthrenus and Acarians of the genera Tyroglyphus and Glycyphagus arrive, which appear in myriads and leave absolutely nothing but the bones, which they cover with their remains and excreta.”

“Truly, that’s marvelous!” I interjected, to conceal my anxiety.

“Yes, yes, it’s marvelous,” the scientist continued, delighted to hold forth on his favorite theme. “Henceforth, forensic medicine will be drawn partly from entomology, and murderers will be confounded when they think they can escape punishment for their crimes.”

“Has it been proved…?” I stammered.

“Proved? Of course it’s been proved. Our hands are full of proof. Thus, in October 1882, the bound cadaver of a nine-year old boy was found in a room in the Gros-Caillou district. The shells of larvae of Sarcophagus latierus and Lucilia cadaverina—flies that I’ve often mentioned—represented the remains of the workers of the first year. The shells of larvae of Dermestes lardarius and Anthrenus muscorum and the corpses of Tyroglyphus longior and siro represented the residues of the second year. Thus, the death of the child had taken place about two years before.

“On another occasion, the desiccated body of a new-born infant was found at the back of a cupboard. Monsieur Megnin recognized the remains of Sarcophagid Diptera. Dermestes were lacking. A few living Acarians were beginning to establish colonies. The death had taken place about a year before. The guilty parties were subsequently arrested, and the facts announced by science thus justified. Are those results not admirable?”

“Yes...”

“Suppose,” the loquacious scientist continued, “that Croupart…your remember that Croupart suddenly disappeared? Suppose, as I say, that he died peacefully in some remote spot, or that he was murdered, which is quite probable; well, on inspection of the cadaver I could tell you exactly when he died, within a few days.”

Tiburce Juzans left then. One minute more, and I would have fainted like a girl.

Then, to inform myself completely regarding the role of the insects that Tiburce Juzans had named, I studied them, making use of a voluminous treatise on entomology that ornamented my library, and into which I rarely darted a glance. I was fairly well up on the Sarcophaghid and other flies, so I left those aside to get on to the Dermestes. One can readily imagine that I wanted something other than a dry list, and when I learned that Dermestes belong to the order of Coleoptera, the suborder of Pentameres, the family of Clavicornes and the subfamily of Dermestidae, I was by no means satisfied.. I wanted to know about the habits of these devourers of cadavers, in order to know whether Croupart was sheltered from their attacks.

I learned that there are some twenty species spread around all parts of the globe, and that they do not merit their name (from the Greek dermestes, red skin) when they are in perfect condition. They are little creatures two or three lignes 43 long, with antennae with eleven joints, of which the last three firm a sort of perfoliate club; the head is globular, small and inclined, the body oval, convex and, rounded underneath, equipped with sparse hair of various colors. They live in flowers, and only the females see out animal matter in which to lay their eggs. The familiar species include skin beetles and larder beetles.

It is the larvae of the latter—whose name explains their action well enough, and which are found in badly-kept butchers’ shops—that attack animal matter. They have strong mandibles, short legs. They move slowly and make use as they advance, as a lever, of a tube that terminates their body. Long reddish hairs form a crown around their rings and a tuft at their posterior extremity. For four months they never cease to feed, and even devour one another if they are driven by hunger.

Anthrenus belongs to the same subfamily as Dermestes, distinguished from them because they are smaller and because they have solid club-like antennae. The damage done by Anthrenus museorum in museums is well-known and the despair of all naturalist collectors. The larvae penetrate into the exoskeletons of insects and devour everything except the feet and wing-cases. They are very tiny, but make up for their lack of size with a formidable appetite. They shed their skins as they grow, and the last one the shed serves as a shell for pupation.

Carrion beetles, or shield-beetles, thus named because of their large rounded bodies, are Coleopteran, Pentameran insects of the family Clavicornes and the subfamily Silphales. They attack dead mammals and birds lying in woods and field; they do not bury them but penetrate avidly beneath their skins and soon strip their flesh to the bones. One large black species, Silpha littoralis, entertains itself in dead fish thrown up by the waters. Their livery is generally dark, in rapport with their repulsive functions. Their odor is nauseating. The larvae, like the adults, live in the midst of putrefying flesh. They move rapidly and take prompt refuge in cadavers when one tries to seize them.

I knew enough about carrion beetles and abandoned them to start on the study of Acarians, or Acadia. I confess that the scientific name led me astray, but when I found out that it meant mites, ticks and the like I found that I knew more than I thought. Who does not know the cheese-mite, the microscopic insect that one often finds on old bread and dried-up jam? Who has not had to rid a bird-cage of the vermin that pullulates infinitely in the slightest interstices? Well, those are Acarians, imperceptible arachnids that not only attack living creatures but also cadavers, when the Sarcophagids and Dermestidae have finished their repulsive work.

Such were the results of my research, and I declare that I recovered some of my composure when I understood the habits of the terrible insects that Tiburce Juzans had indicated to me as avengers of society and punishers of unknown crime.

Everyone is familiar with Beaumarchais’ speech about slander, delivered by Bazile in the Barbier de Seville:

“Slander, Monsieur? You scarcely know that which you disdain; I’ve seen the most honest of men close to being crushed by it. Do you think that there is no plain wickedness, no horror, no absurd tale that will not be adopted by the idlers of a great city and believed? And here we have people of some skill! First, a slight rumor, skimming the ground like a swallow before a storm; a pianissimo murmur that flies, sowing poisonous seed as it goes; some mouth picks it up and piano, piano, slips it cleverly into your ears. The damage is done; it germinates; its creeps; it travels, and rinforzando, from mouth to mouth, it goes with diabolical speed; then, suddenly, no one knows how, you see the slander rear up, whistle, swell, visibly increase. It launches forth, takes flight, swirls around, envelops, tears up, drags away, bursts and thunders, and becomes, thanks be to Heaven, a general cry, a public crescendo; a universal chorus of hatred and proscription. Who the Devil can resist it?”

I passed through all the anxieties to which slander gives rise. Was there not a host of people offended by the recovery of my business and the profits I was making? Had I not awakened some jealousy by the success of my operations and the unexpected good luck that favored me?

A few imprudent words from Tibur Juzans had sufficed to bring small town gossip down on my head.

Summer had succeeded spring and the heat was tropical. The entomologist was exuberant with joy; larvae and pupae were transforming themselves admirably, and he was assembling in my cellar, he claimed, quantities of observations that he intended to submit to the enlightened appreciation of the members of the Académie des Science. To hear him, he was about to transform entomology. Unfortunately for me, however, he noticed an infinite number of flies racing, fluttering and frolicking in the rays of sunlight passing through the air-vent. He recognized, in particular, Calliphora vomitoria and Sarcophaga vivipara, two species whose larvae are partial to putrefying flesh.

“Word of honor,” he said, “the flies are abundant; one might think that there were a cadaver buried in the cellar.”

This observation, repeated many times over in front of anyone and everyone, was commented on, transformed, examined and turned over and over, to such an extent that it attracted the attention of a whole society of idlers, hypocritical and envious old women. And the rumor spread, and grew, rinforzando, and exploded thunderously!

One morning, all public opinion had me under suspicion. People avoided me, turned away as I passed by, and only greeted me with ill-concealed embarrassment. And the strangest, most baroque, most surprising and most extraordinary suppositions spread like wildfire! Soon, it was whispered that my fortune originated from thefts committed after numerous murders, and that if my cellar were dug up, they would find not only Croupart’s cadaver, but those of many strangers to the locality.

I resolved to escape that crescendo, that hateful chorus, by retiring to the country for a while. During a heat-wave, my daughter and her husband were taking refuge in a recently-acquired property about fifteen kilometers from the town. I asked them to provide hospitality for me…and for Tiburce Juzans. Understandably, I did not want to leave behind the incorrigible chatterbox who had unwittingly fed the public malevolence and had bravely declared, without any astonishment, that there was nothing impossible about Croupart’s cadaver being buried in my cellar, since the numerous flies escaping through the air-vent testified to the plausibility of the hypothesis.

In the country, however, things were very different. The scientist ferreted everywhere, searched everything, inspected every clump of grass, every clod of earth, every fissure in the bark of every tree—and about the slightest insect he perceived, there were interminable tirades. Really, I was saturated by entomology, and I honestly think that it was my perpetual contact with Tiburce Juzans that gave rise to my insurmountable aversion to science and scientists.

However, I would be lying if I did not confess that certain “lessons” sometimes interested me. I remember one of them, above all, which made a deep impression on my irritated nerves and occupied me sufficiently to make me forget my troubles, my black thoughts and the slanders whose echo still rang in my ears, for a little while.

The heat was oppressive; no cloud veiled the blue sky; the sun was blazing as if to roast anyone imprudent enough to expose himself to its rays. In order to read a book by André Theuriet, the poet of the fields,44 I sat down in a grove of elms and ash-trees that projected a dense shade on half-scorched ground. The surrounding area was deserted; animals and people alike had abandoned themselves to the enervated languor that unusually high temperature provokes, and were lying down in barns or houses. Only a few swallows were swooping over a cool stream, whose idle waters were streaked by water-insects, which children call whirligig beetles. Nothing could be heard but the shrill cries of field-crickets and the louder stridulations of cicadas. They, of course, were wholehearted in their joy, and making a deafening racket.

Seduced by the coolness to be enjoyed beneath the foliage that was sheltering me, my daughter, her husband and Tiburce Juzans hastened to join me, and installed themselves unceremoniously on the grassy ground. The moment that loquacious entomologist was beside me, it was impossible to read, and I closed my book with a hint of ill humor.

“Ooh, you’re taking it badly,” he said to me. “It doesn’t take much to disturb you and annoy you.”

“You’re not disturbing me,” I hastened to reply. “I wasn’t reading any longer; I was listening to the song of the cicadas.”

“Ah! The cicadas! Hemipteran insects, subsection Homoptera, family Cicadaria, characterized by antenna with six distinct joints, three small smooth eyes, and transparent veined elytrae. The male has a special organ to either side of the base of the abdomen, with the aid of which it produces a loud and monotonous sound. The female has a saw-like auger at the tip of the abdomen, enclosed between two scaly blades; she makes use of it to pierce the wood in which she deposits her eggs. The larvae are white, have six feet and dig into the earth, where they live on plant roots, and...”

“Is there anything drier and more insipid than a list?” I put in, disrespectfully. “Nothing destroys a taste for science like scholars and the pedantic terms they use to lord it over laymen. So, after what you’ve just said, what do I know about cicadas?”

“Eh? Wretch!” cried the scandalized Tiburce Juzans. “With the sacred scarab, bees, ants, ichneumon-flies and a few other insects, cicadas have a historic past filled with glory. The Greeks celebrated them enviously and delighted in their song. Homer compare the wise old Trojan men seated by the Scaean gates to cicadas, because of the smoothness of their eloquence. In Laconia, a monument was built in honor of their musical talent. Who does not remember the contest of Eunomes and Ariston on the cithara? When one of the strings of the former’s instrument broke, a cicada placed itself over it and substituted so well that it helped Eunomes win the victory.”

“Which proves,” I said, somewhat appeased by the short digression, “that the musical taste of the Greeks was sometimes very singular.”

“Be that as it may,” the scientist continued, “they put cicadas in little cages to give themselves the pleasure of listening to them. They even regarded their bodies as a delicacy, and Aristotle tells us that they sometimes chose and chewed, for preference, gravid females. In addition, the cicada was a symbol of nobility among the Athenians. Those who claimed descent from an ancient family wore a golden cicada in their hair. Well, Monsieur Bookkeeper, does the insect begin to interest you?”

“Yes,” I replied, smiling.

“Why did the Locrians strike the image of a cicada on their coins?” asked Hector Tremont.

“Locris and Rhegium,” the entomologist replied, were neighboring towns on the Greek mainland, only separated by a river. Hercules, probably wearied by one of the feats of strength to which he was accustomed, lay down on the ground near Rhegium and tried to sleep—but the cicadas were making so much noise that they prevented the hero from closing his eyes. Hercules began cursing them and obtained an undertaking that they would no longer sing in that vicinity. The cicadas emigrated en masse to the Locrian shore, and charmed the inhabitants. Gratefully, the latter put their image on their money.”

“Is it true,” Hélène asked, “that cicadas don’t take any nourishment?”

“They live on the sap of trees that they prick with their rostrum. The worthy La Fontaine gave them a reputation for lack of foresight that they do not deserve, for, before dying in the autumn, they have no need for winter provisions.45 The ancients imagined that the insects fed on the morning dew, and poetry has accredited that error. There is a charming ode on that subject by Anacreon—you must know it, Hector, being a literate person, and I beg you to recite it for us. It begins thus: “Fortunate cicada, who…which…come on, help me.”

“My word, Uncle I don’t recall a single word of that ode.”

“Perhaps I shall be luckier than you, after a moment’s reflection.”

And our scientist collected himself, his laced on his forehead, for four or five minutes. Then he got up, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and, striking the pose of an old dandy addressing a madrigal to Chloris, he recited in a heartfelt fashion:

“Fortunate cicada, who, in the highest branches of the trees, drinks a little dew, sings like a queen! Your realm is all that you can see in the fields, all that is born in the forests. You are loved by the laborer; no one does you harm, and mortal respect you as the gentle prophet of summer. You are cherished by the Muses, cherished by Phoebus himself, who was given you your harmonious song. Old age does not enfeeble you. O wise little creature, emerged from the bosom of the earth, amorous of song, free of suffering, who has neither blood nor flesh, what do you lack in order to be a god?”

“That’s delightful,” said Hélène.

“I shall get my revenge with the Latins,” her husband added, “and exclaim with Virgil: ‘And the whining cicadas shake the bushes with their song!’”

“The fact is,” Tiburce Juzans went on, “that the Latins only held cicadas in mediocre esteem. They claimed that their song was raucous, deafening and intolerable. Nevertheless, they affirmed that they rejoiced in the gaiety of mortals, and that the more the latter laughed, amused themselves and sang, the livelier, louder and shriller the stridulations of the cicadas became.”

“I’ve heard it said,” Hélène remarked, “that the musical apparatus of cicadas is very curious.”

“Indeed, but only the males sing and the females are mute.” Then the entomologist added, with the courtesy of a screech-owl: “It’s not the same with us; it is, on the contrary, the females who chatter away at random; thus, the Rhodian poet Xenarchus exclaimed: ‘Cicadas are fortunate, for their females are deprived of a voice.’”

“Gods!” I murmured. “That such things are said in polite terms!”

The scientist looked at me askance and said, shrugging his shoulders: “Telum imbelle sine ictu.”46 Then he continued: “I can’t explain the complicated mechanism of the cicada’s musical apparatus to you, but I’ll show you how they do it. Stay here, don’t move, and don’t say a word.”

Then Tiburce Juzans repeated a curious experiment, attempted for the first time by Solier and his friend Boyer, a pharmacist in Aix.47 He picked up a little rod, and stealthily drew closer to an ash-tree whose lowest branch was no higher than a man’s height.

A cicada was singing at the top of its voice on the branch, warmly caressed by the bright sunlight. The scientist stuck out his lips and whistled in a tremulous manner to imitate the strident sound produced by the insect. The latter, we clearly observed, stopped at first, and seemed to be listening attentively. Stimulated, however, perhaps believing that it was being challenged by a fellow, it resumed its song with a new animation.

Tiburce Juzans never lost sight of it, and seemed intent on hypnotizing it, so wide were his eyelids. He was still whistling, executing a few minor variations, which charmed the cicada, for it came down backwards, stopped, and then came down further, repeating the maneuver until it was at the very tip of the ash-branch.

Then the scientist held out his wand and, to our great astonishment, the cicada stepped on to it and slowly continue its descent. It arrived thus at the hand, and we distinctly perceived the rapid movement of its abdomen, which it alternately drew away from and moved closer to the openings of the sonorous cavities.

Nothing was as simultaneously pleasant and curious as that duel of two virtuosos, so different in size and appearance.

The cicada seemed to be intoxicated by its own melody and the one it heard; its sang and sang with a vibration of its wings, a quivering of its entire being that was scarcely perceptible, so rapid was it. Wanting to take the experiment further, Tiburce Juzans, still whistling, brought his hand up to the level of his nose.

The cicada understood what was being asked of it, and bravely established itself on the entomologist’s nasal appendage.

“Bravo! Bravo!” I cried, carried away by surprise.

But the charm was broken. The cicada flew away into the topmost branches of the ash-tree.

“Well,” Tiburce Juzans said to me, “are you satisfied with that lesson, and do you believe that entomology can be an original and amusing science?”

I congratulated the scientist and tickled his self-regard agreeably by comparing him to Orpheus, who also charmed the animals, not whistling, but by singing.

We remained in the country for some three months, and I admit that our studies in the open fields, without reconciling me completely with the science, enabled me to appreciate nature more, while consoling me in my chagrin and soothing the overexcitation of the impressions left by bitter memories.

I had imagined that my prolonged absence would calm that fever of slander that sometimes, if not always, takes possession of the inhabitants of a small town and drives them to exaggerate everything. It was affirmed, however, that my departure proved my guilt. And what did my return prove? Good God, the answer was quite simple: I had come back to deflect suspicion, to deceive Lady Themis. At any rate, public rumor pursued me doggedly, the scandal had built up tremendous momentum and anonymous denunciations were arriving in such quantity at the court that the latter took action, and in order to put an end to it, ordered that my cellar should be searched.

“It’s the only means,” the prosecutor told me, “of demonstrating the absurdity of the accusations made against you. In spite of the scrupulous enquiries made by the examining magistrate, I’m happy to tell you that no serious charge has been raised against you.”

It was on a fine autumn day that three robust fellows arms with spades and pick-axes turned over the soil in my cellar under the vigilant eye of the commissaire of police, two agents, a gendarme and some junior clerk.

Seemingly impassive, I watched the work, which, I hoped, would dissipate all suspicions and render me the rest of which I was so much in need. When the workmen’s tools brushed the wall behind which Croupart lay, and imperceptible torment contracted my features, but they paid no heed to it. They dug and dug, shifting the earth with the urgency of the gravediggers who scandalized Hamlet. On several occasions, they drank a few glasses of wine, and one of them sang an old ballad who sad and languid chorus was appropriate to my situation, and evoked I know not what macabre past.

Finally, the work came to an end. Having dug up a few meters of earth, the spade-workers filled in the last hole and the commissaire of police got ready to leave, offering me his congratulations. I breathed more easily; I was saved!

Suddenly, a shadow fell over the air-vent, and a voice cried: “Oh! Nevertheless, I’m certain that there’s a cadaver in your cellar.”

Have you ever dreamed that you were falling from an immensely high tower and that, in a few seconds, you would be a bruised, bloodied, misshapen parcel of flesh and bone? One wakes up with a start, forehead covered in cold sweat, panting. I experienced that torture; my heart suddenly ceased beating in my breast and an unaccountable weakness annihilated my courage and will-power,

“Is that true, then?” queried the commissaire, observing the collapse of my self-composure.

I did not have the strength to reply.

But Tiburce Juzans had already come down into the cellar and, without taking any notice of the people surrounding me, and without even looking at me, obedient to his passion, to his mania for checking everything when there was a matter of scientific fact at stake, his eyes followed a few insects on the wall, which were entering and emerging from an almost imperceptible crack that extended all the way to the ceiling. Immediately, I recognized Silpha, that devourer of cadavers whose repulsive habits I had studied.

Tiburce Juzans put his finger on the inopportune crack in the wall and cried, triumphantly: “I attest that there is, behind this construction, a cadaver...the cadaver of a human or an animal, I don’t know…but there is definitely a cadaver...”

Losing all consciousness of my situation, and the danger to which I was exposing myself, I clenched my fists and howled, furiously: “Wretch! Shut up!”

And I launched myself toward the scientist, in order to strike him, to bite him, perhaps to kill him. The two police agents and the gendarme interposed themselves and held me firmly. Then, everything whirled around me, and for a few minutes I was subjected to the torments of the damned.

The workmen attacked the wall with a kind of frenzy, and every blow of the pick on the stone resounded in my head as if an invisible harpy were hammering my skull. The plaster crumbled, the stones fell, one by one, and the opening giving access to the little cellar appeared to me, gaping frightfully, like one of the mouths of Hell.

Aristide Croupart appeared to me too; I saw him as insolent, malevolent and hateful as on the day of the murder. I even heard his sardonic laughter, mingled with drunken hiccups...

I closed my eyes to escape the terrible vision, but Croupart was still there, in front of me, menacing and terrible, calling all the vengeance of Heaven down upon my head...

“Bring the light,” ordered the commissaire.

That simple speech was sufficient to bring me back to sad reality.

“It’s true,” I stammered. “It’s true, I killed Croupart, but I struck him without having any intention of killing him. He insulted me horribly, exasperated me by...”

“Good, good,” the commissaire interjected. “You can excuse yourself as you like before the magistrates. As for me, I’m here to make a report and assemble the evidence of the crime.”

I maintained the most profound silence, and the workmen introduced themselves into the excavation that served as the bailiff’s tomb. Tiburce Juzans finally understood the imprudence he had committed, and seemed devastated. A few dolorous exclamations emerged from his mouth, and proved to me that he bitterly regretted his intemperate speech—but when a question was addressed to him by the gendarme, that majestic representative of authority, his sensitivity immediately vanished, and the scientist reappeared, with his habitual loquacity, his intolerable pedantry and his interminable explanations.

“Yes, Monsieur,” I heard him say. “This cadaver confirms the theories of Messieurs Brouardel and Megnin. Take note of the shells left by the Sarcophagid flies, observe the remains of a few Dermestes larvae, remark also a few colonies of Acarids that are beginning to attack the extremities of the hands and the feet. Without fear of being mistaken, we can affirm that the cadaver has been sealed up for about a year...

“Science, Monsieur, even when it is preceded by deductions, never leads one astray; I say that boldly, and I shall say it again if...”

The gendarme, bewildered by that flood of words, did not listen to the rest. I fainted in his arms.

What can I add to the lamentable adventure? Happy are the peoples who have no history, Fénélon says, and when I think about all the events that have rendered my existence so bitter and so painful, I can add, sadly: happy also is the man who has no history!

Nevertheless, I await the jury’s decision summoned to examine my case calmly. My defender never stops repeating: “Your crime was involuntary, and, after all, it was only a bailiff that you killed. If you’re found guilty, you’ll benefit considerably from extenuating circumstances!”