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M. Marambot would smile without answering and would go out in his little garden, where, his hands behind his back, he would walk about dreaming. All day long, Denis sang the joyful refrains of the folk-songs of the district. He even showed an unusual activity, for he cleaned all the windows of the house, energetically rubbing the glass, and singing at the top of his voice.
It was then ten o'clock in the morning, and I at once decided to go back to Gisors for breakfast. As I was walking along I said to myself: "Gisors, Gisors why, I know someone there! "Who is it? Gisors? Let me see, I have a friend in this town." A name suddenly came to my mind, "Albert Marambot."
He spent days and nights without sleep, never leaving the sick room, preparing drugs, broths, potions, feeling his pulse, anxiously counting the beats, attending him with the skill of a trained nurse and the devotion of a son. He continually asked: "Well, monsieur, how do you feel?" M. Marambot would answer in a weak voice: "A little better, my boy, thank you."
Marambot told me the story of this prisoner, who, with the aid of a nail, covered the walls of his dungeon with sculptures, tracing the reflections of the sun as it glanced through the narrow slit of a loophole.
He fought wildly, waving his arms around in the darkness, kicking and crying: "Denis! Denis! Are you mad? Listen, Denis!" But the latter, gasping for breath, kept up his furious attack always striking, always repulsed, sometimes with a kick, sometimes with a punch, and rushing forward again furiously. M. Marambot was wounded twice more, once in the leg and once in the stomach.
He was none the less dangerous." Marambot, wiping his eyes, answered: "Well, your honor, what can you expect? Nowadays it's so hard to find good servants I could never have found a better one." Denis was acquitted and put in a sanatorium at his master's expense. It had been a stag dinner. These men still came together once in a while without their wives as they had done when they were bachelors.
What awful scheme could he now be carrying out? What was he doing? Well, he was washing him in order to hide the traces of his crime! And he would now bury him in the garden, under ten feet of earth, so that no one could discover him! Or perhaps under the wine cellar! And M. Marambot began to tremble like a leaf. He kept saying to himself: "I am lost, lost!"
M. Marambot, surprised at his zeal, said to him several times, smiling: "My boy, if you work like that there will be nothing left for you to do to-morrow." The following day, at about nine o'clock in the morning, the postman gave Denis four letters for his master, one of them very heavy. M. Marambot immediately shut himself up in his room until late in the afternoon.
M. Marambot would smile without answering and would go out in his little garden, where, his hands behind his back, he would walk about dreaming. All day long, Denis sang the joyful refrains of the folk-songs of the district. He even showed an unusual activity, for he cleaned all the windows of the house, energetically rubbing the glass, and singing at the top of his voice.
The bewildered druggist answered: "Yes but I did not tell on him I haven't said a word I swear it he has served me excellently from that time on " The officer pronounced severely: "I will take down your testimony. The law will take notice of this new action, of which it was ignorant, Monsieur Marambot.
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