I haven't a doubt that he is living and on his way," Brigitte answered.
"Poor Monsieur Auguste!" cried Brigitte; "I expect he is tramping along the lanes!"
"Oh, Brigitte!..." cried the Countess, with a heart-rending inflection in her voice.
She went down to her own room, Brigitte and the old serving-man half carrying her between them.
"Who is it, Brigitte?" the prosecutor asked kindly, as if he too were in the secret of the household.
Brigitte had been seen in the market-place betimes that morning, and, wonderful to relate, she had bought the one hare to be had.
She smiled at Brigitte's husband, who was standing there on guard; the man's eyes looked stupid with the strain of listening to the faint sounds of the night.
To all these questions, Brigitte, the housekeeper, answered with the same formula: her mistress was keeping her room, and would see no one, not even her own servants.