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