“But come what may, I swear,” said he with a voice, an emphasis, a look that struck horror into Contenson, “to avenge my poor Peyrade!  I will discover the men who are guilty of his death and of his daughter’s ruin.  And as sure as I am myself, as I have yet a few days to live, which I will risk to accomplish that vengeance, every man of them shall die at four o’clock, in good health, by a clean shave on the Place de Greve.”

“And I will help you,” said Contenson with feeling.

Nothing, in fact, is more heart-stirring than the spectacle of passion in a cold, self-contained, and methodical man, in whom, for twenty years, no one has ever detected the smallest impulse of sentiment.  It is like a molten bar of iron which melts everything it touches.  And Contenson was moved to his depths.

“Poor old Canquoelle!” said he, looking at Corentin.  “He has treated me many a time.—­And, I tell you, only your bad sort know how to do such things—­but often has he given me ten francs to go and gamble with . . .”

After this funeral oration, Peyrade’s two avengers went back to Lydie’s room, hearing Katt and the medical officer from the Mairie on the stairs.

“Go and fetch the Chief of Police,” said Corentin.  “The public prosecutor will not find grounds for a prosecution in the case; still, we will report it to the Prefecture; it may, perhaps, be of some use.

“Monsieur,” he went on to the medical officer, “in this room you will see a dead man.  I do not believe that he died from natural causes; you will be good enough to make a post-mortem in the presence of the Chief of the Police, who will come at my request.  Try to discover some traces of poison.  You will, in a few minutes, have the opinion of Monsieur Desplein and Monsieur Bianchon, for whom I have sent to examine the daughter of my best friend; she is in a worse plight than he, though he is dead.”

“I have no need of those gentlemen’s assistance in the exercise of my duty,” said the medical officer.

“Well, well,” thought Corentin.  “Let us have no clashing, monsieur,” he said.  “In a few words I give you my opinion—­Those who have just murdered the father have also ruined the daughter.”

By daylight Lydie had yielded to fatigue; when the great surgeon and the young physician arrived she was asleep.

The doctor, whose duty it was to sign the death certificate, had now opened Peyrade’s body, and was seeking the cause of death.

“While waiting for your patient to awake,” said Corentin to the two famous doctors, “would you join one of your professional brethren in an examination which cannot fail to interest you, and your opinion will be valuable in case of an inquiry.”

“Your relations died of apoplexy,” said the official.  “There are all the symptoms of violent congestion of the brain.”

“Examine him, gentlemen, and see if there is no poison capable of producing similar symptoms.”