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They, speak louder than I do, louder than the law; they cry: 'Mercy, for the poor wandering mind of a while ago! They implore, they pardon, they bless!" He was silent and sat down. Then the judge, turning to Marambot, whose testimony had been excellent for his servant, asked him: "But, monsieur, even admitting that you consider this man insane, that does not explain why you should have kept him.
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.
Suddenly the door opened, and Denis appeared, holding in one hand a candle and in the other a carving knife, his eyes staring, his face contracted as though moved by some deep emotion; he was as pale as a ghost. M. Marambot, astonished, thought that he was sleep-walking, and he was going to get out of bed and assist him when the servant blew out the light and rushed for the bed.
Suddenly the door opened, and Denis appeared, holding in one hand a candle and in the other a carving knife, his eyes staring, his face contracted as though moved by some deep emotion; he was as pale as a ghost. M. Marambot, astonished, thought that he was sleep-walking, and he was going to get out of bed and assist him when the servant blew out the light and rushed for the bed.
Just read those on my desk." With a final effort, he reached for his matches and lit the candle. He was covered with blood. His sheets, his curtains, and even the walls, were spattered with red. Denis, standing in the middle of the room, was also bloody from head to foot. When he saw the blood, M. Marambot thought himself dead, and fell unconscious. At break of day he revived.
Just as formerly, when he would hesitate about taking some larger place of business, he could not make up his mind to any decision. "There is always time," he would say to himself. Denis continued to show himself an admirable servant. M. Marambot was well. He kept him. One morning, just as he was finishing breakfast, he suddenly heard a great noise in the kitchen. He hastened in there.
Then M. Marambot, in a dying voice, gave him the practical piece of advice: "Wash the wounds in a dilute solution of carbolic acid!" Denis answered: "This is what I am doing, monsieur." M. Marambot opened both his eyes. There was no sign of blood either on the bed, on the walls, or on the murderer. The wounded man was stretched out on clean white sheets. The two men looked at each other.
He was an old school friend whom I had not seen for at least twelve years, and who was practicing medicine in Gisors. He had often written, inviting me to come and see him, and I had always promised to do so, without keeping my word. But at last I would take advantage of this opportunity. I asked the first passer-by: "Do you know where Dr. Marambot lives?"
I heard a sound of forks and of glasses and I cried: "Hallo, Marambot!" A door opened and a large man, with whiskers and a cross look on his face, appeared, carrying a dinner napkin in his hand. I certainly should not have recognized him. One would have said he was forty-five at least, and, in a second, all the provincial life which makes one grow heavy, dull and old came before me.
And Marambot, eager and almost eloquent, continued: "What beggars, those English! And what sots, my boy; they are all 'Rosiers, those hypocrites!" Then, after a silence, stretching out his arm towards the tiny river that glistened in the meadows, he said: "Did you know that Henry Monnier was one of the most untiring fishermen on the banks of the Epte?" "No, I did not know it."
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